The Gift: Delivered

My co-worker came to my desk today and presented his token of thankfulness for having delivered him to the automotive repair shop, ferried him to work, and returned him to the point of origin. Woodford Reserve bourbon.

There is something classy about the sloping shoulders of the clear glass bottle. The liquid catches the light and makes it dance, a prelude to the jubilation expressed in anticipation by one's taste buds. With a quick twist and a satisfying pop, the cork pulls free of the bottle, releasing the lovely aroma of fine bourbon.

With a slow-motion tilt, the better to savor the moment to come, the bourbon splashes into the glass, a shimmering cascade dodging the ice crystals as it pools into a treasure trove beneath the surface of the ice. Ahhh. Mmmm.

At Mr. Chuck's prompting, I shared this special moment with my wife. Her opinion, couched in four words and six syllables, elicited a heartfelt three-word, three-syllable response:

Joan: It tastes like Listerine.

Dave: More for me.

Long live the historic tradition of turning grain and limestone water into nectar. This is agribusiness at its finest.