![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Oct. 4th, 2010 08:37 pm"Look what I found," Mark remarks, holding a bottle of Hex aloft.
"Ooh," says I, "the last one, too. Share?"
"Of course." He hands it to me, cold and as yet untouched.
"Danke." And I sip. Yeah. That's not quite a polite and forgettable flavour. I dig it.
"What's that?" the boyo asks.
"Beer," we answer him together.
"Like root beer?"
"Not quite. Beer beer. Hops and grains and alcohol."
"Can I try?"
Mark and I look at eachother. I shrug and go in search of a narrow, clear glass so the boyo can see the medical-sample colour of it.
It's roughly 10:45pm, New Year's Eve, and my father's boss has sent him home for the holiday with a bottle of something vaguely kin to Champagne. My father, being himself, brought it into the house. My mother being the Southern Baptist preacher's daughter she is, recoiled from it as if it were a live snake. Honestly, I think she'd've been more hospitable to the snake. I'm still barely taller than the kitchen counters, which puts me at eye level with the narrow, clear glasses and their sparkling, fruit-and-decay scented contents. And the bottle, which was beautiful by itself, green and cold and sweeping from wide to narrow.
"What's that?" I ask.
And my mother spits out, "Champagne."
Oh, I think. This is part of the ritual we've never observed. I wonder whether the year will be any more right if we do. I make a note to watch and see. (Later analysis shows no, no positive change.)
"What's it taste like?" I ask.
Papa chuckles and offers me his glass. "What d'you think it tastes like?"
I sniff. "Apple juice. Kinda."
"Oh GOD," exhales mother, turning away from bottle and glasses and us. "She thinks it smells like apple juice, Tom. What if she drinks it like it's apple juice?!"
"Small chance," he answers. "Take a sip, kid."
I do. And my nose was right: fruit and decay. The fizz is nice, but not nice enough to cover that horrible taste. "Ih." I hand him back the glass.
"There. See?"
Mother sighs.
I was...I think 19? before any further alcohol crossed my lips. It comes to mind, still.
When I get back to the living room, Dae is sharing his guidance counselor's litany on alcohol with us. "She says it's a drug," he says, looking at us apprehensively.
"She's right," I say, setting the glass down.
"There are lots of drugs," Mark continues, pouring just enough beer into the glass to cover the bottom. "Cough medicine? That's a drug."
"Caffeine," I add, looking for one he's seen more often with less stringent controls, "in Mama's sodas, in coffee, tea, chocolate? Drug."
"The key is in how you use them. Using them carefully and not abusing them," Mark continues.
"Do you know 'abuse'?" I ask.
Dae, wide-eyed, shakes his head.
I nod. "Abuse: use incorrectly, cause harm. Abuse the cough meds, you can get sick. Badly sick. Abuse alcohol, you can get hurt or hurt other people. Sometimes both. Dosage is the thing, and awareness."
"Little bits," Mark picks up, wiggling the one beer he and I will later split between us, "carefully consumed, not such a bad thing. IF you go slow and pay attention."
"So," I say, handing Dae the glass. "Still want to taste?"
Dae sniffs the glass, blinks at it. Nods.
"That much won't hurt you, then, and if you don't like it, you don't ever have to taste it again."
He takes a tiny sip, and I can see the progression in his head: ooh fizz, then the flavour like bread and something soured, then omgwtf. His face puckers and he spits his sip back into the glass.
"Fair enough, boo," I laugh. "Fair enough. Now you know."
"Ooh," says I, "the last one, too. Share?"
"Of course." He hands it to me, cold and as yet untouched.
"Danke." And I sip. Yeah. That's not quite a polite and forgettable flavour. I dig it.
"What's that?" the boyo asks.
"Beer," we answer him together.
"Like root beer?"
"Not quite. Beer beer. Hops and grains and alcohol."
"Can I try?"
Mark and I look at eachother. I shrug and go in search of a narrow, clear glass so the boyo can see the medical-sample colour of it.
It's roughly 10:45pm, New Year's Eve, and my father's boss has sent him home for the holiday with a bottle of something vaguely kin to Champagne. My father, being himself, brought it into the house. My mother being the Southern Baptist preacher's daughter she is, recoiled from it as if it were a live snake. Honestly, I think she'd've been more hospitable to the snake. I'm still barely taller than the kitchen counters, which puts me at eye level with the narrow, clear glasses and their sparkling, fruit-and-decay scented contents. And the bottle, which was beautiful by itself, green and cold and sweeping from wide to narrow.
"What's that?" I ask.
And my mother spits out, "Champagne."
Oh, I think. This is part of the ritual we've never observed. I wonder whether the year will be any more right if we do. I make a note to watch and see. (Later analysis shows no, no positive change.)
"What's it taste like?" I ask.
Papa chuckles and offers me his glass. "What d'you think it tastes like?"
I sniff. "Apple juice. Kinda."
"Oh GOD," exhales mother, turning away from bottle and glasses and us. "She thinks it smells like apple juice, Tom. What if she drinks it like it's apple juice?!"
"Small chance," he answers. "Take a sip, kid."
I do. And my nose was right: fruit and decay. The fizz is nice, but not nice enough to cover that horrible taste. "Ih." I hand him back the glass.
"There. See?"
Mother sighs.
I was...I think 19? before any further alcohol crossed my lips. It comes to mind, still.
When I get back to the living room, Dae is sharing his guidance counselor's litany on alcohol with us. "She says it's a drug," he says, looking at us apprehensively.
"She's right," I say, setting the glass down.
"There are lots of drugs," Mark continues, pouring just enough beer into the glass to cover the bottom. "Cough medicine? That's a drug."
"Caffeine," I add, looking for one he's seen more often with less stringent controls, "in Mama's sodas, in coffee, tea, chocolate? Drug."
"The key is in how you use them. Using them carefully and not abusing them," Mark continues.
"Do you know 'abuse'?" I ask.
Dae, wide-eyed, shakes his head.
I nod. "Abuse: use incorrectly, cause harm. Abuse the cough meds, you can get sick. Badly sick. Abuse alcohol, you can get hurt or hurt other people. Sometimes both. Dosage is the thing, and awareness."
"Little bits," Mark picks up, wiggling the one beer he and I will later split between us, "carefully consumed, not such a bad thing. IF you go slow and pay attention."
"So," I say, handing Dae the glass. "Still want to taste?"
Dae sniffs the glass, blinks at it. Nods.
"That much won't hurt you, then, and if you don't like it, you don't ever have to taste it again."
He takes a tiny sip, and I can see the progression in his head: ooh fizz, then the flavour like bread and something soured, then omgwtf. His face puckers and he spits his sip back into the glass.
"Fair enough, boo," I laugh. "Fair enough. Now you know."
