Bourbon

-My drink of choice is that dark amber, Kentucky whiskey. Not to be confused with that Tennessee swill named Jack, bourbon may only be called that if made in Kentucky – similar to the fact that only that sparking wine may be called champagne that hails from the namesake region of France. While no one will confuse Kentucky for France, bourbon is a nectar enjoyed straight, on the rocks, with ginger ale or coke, sometimes even in a glass.
-I like my bourbon with Coke, actually Pepsi. I like the extra sugar associated with Pepsi, as opposed to Coke, and I like that blend of sweetness with the smoky grain of the bourbon. I like that smooth burn as the bourbon heads south and helps me to relax. I like the smell which makes me think of college and friends and some of the favorite bars in the collage of my life in which my familiarity means I do not need to order but merely whisk a Cheshire smile to the barkeep to ensure my glass is poured.
- I own about 30 different brands of bourbon. I like them all. They come in names most of us know like “Makers Mark” or “Bakers” or Bookers”, but also in names like “Rocky Cock” or “Ten CC”, “Big Chief” and Pappy Van Winkle”. Their tastes are as different as their names or bottle shapes and sizes. Like a wine, they are blended (the mash) and set in casks which add a huskiness or lightness, depending on how handled, and have noticeably different aromas and tastes. Some bite and some wash like velvet down your throat, leaving a trace burn of warmth.
-I have had my own battles with vodkas or tequilas but found that they were just that: battles. They work in grander drinks like margaritas (not that this is a “grand” drink, per se) or screwdrivers and martinis, but these take too much work. Bourbon metered over ice with a splash of my favorite soft drink, in its simplicity, is the best. It conjures the definition of “good ole boy”, which might be a stretch for me some days but I can assure you is a place I like to find at day’s end or on the weekends. It is porch and ceiling fan, a dog at your feet and the drone of a baseball game echoing from inside the house. It is the barbeque smoking up the neighborhood, which you must tend but only long enough to ensure the ice in your glass never melts enough to water down your mix. It is an old pair of cowboy boots with soles that have split and blue jeans your wife would wish you would get rid of: holey and frayed. It is comfort.