A few days ago, I went to a holiday party with some friends. This is actually something that we've done for several years in a row, and we always look forward to it. It's fun to see old friends and catch up, and there's always some delicious grub to be had. Mix in some alcohol and the fact that we've got a few jokers in the bunch, and we always end up having a good time.
However, there is one very interesting turn of events that tends to crop up at these parties that scares me just a little bit. I always refer to it as the moonshine.
You see, one of the friends has some relatives overseas. During one of the early incarnations of this party, she had just returned from a trip to visit these relatives. She figured she'd share some of the spoils from her trip, so she brought along a bottle of "plum wine" to the party. It was something that her relatives had brewed themselves, so we were definitely getting a unique experience. In fact, it was so unique that the wine was in a re-purposed ketchup bottle. Now you know why I call it moonshine.
Still, it was a thoughtful gift and I've always been more than a little adventurous with my food and drink. So when she asked if anyone wanted to try some, I happily volunteered. She poured me a double shot. Now, you may have noticed that I was drinking wine, but I used the word "shot," which is usually reserved for harder liquor. That was not a typo on my part, nor did I accidentally use the wrong word. This stuff would put hair on your chest regardless of gender. Better yet, because I was the first to try, she was generous with the pour and I ended up trying quite a bit of the stuff.
I joked a little bit about how strong the stuff was, but since I still had my sight and I wasn't gagging violently, a few others stepped up to try some of the wine. We all exchanged a few more jokes, and had quite a few more laughs. It was a funny story and it just added to our shared history, so things were good at this point.
Things were still good the following year when the same moonshine appeared, though we were all understandably worried that it may have gone bad during the interval. Because of my guinea pig status the year before, I was nominated to test the drink again, and I reluctantly agreed. It burned. I didn't have any bad reactions to the drink, but I was glad to be done with it.
Fortunately for my eyesight, the moonshine didn't make an appearance the year after. Still, there was talk of it and my friend commented that it was still somewhere in her possession. I think I let out a short yell. Actually, "exclaimed" or "yipped" might be more appropriate. I let loose a mini-rant about how she should throw the drink out, though I had no way of knowing whether I was successful or not. Since I was surrounded by other things to attract my attention (good food, good company), I quickly forgot about it.
This year, however, someone mentioned the moonshine again, and we all relived the stories. I got a little animated in the retelling of all of this, because, hell, I felt like I'd earned the right. I had survived the moonshine, and that stuff had definitely built a little character. Imagine my surprise when, all these years later, my friend remarked that she probably still had that bottle lying around. If I were to take poetic license with this story, this would be the point at which I shuddered. Instead, though, I repeated my tirade about getting rid of the moonshine from years past, for what I'd like to think were good reasons. As before, though, I have no way of knowing how successful I was in convincing my friend.
I suppose we'll find out next year.
However, there is one very interesting turn of events that tends to crop up at these parties that scares me just a little bit. I always refer to it as the moonshine.
You see, one of the friends has some relatives overseas. During one of the early incarnations of this party, she had just returned from a trip to visit these relatives. She figured she'd share some of the spoils from her trip, so she brought along a bottle of "plum wine" to the party. It was something that her relatives had brewed themselves, so we were definitely getting a unique experience. In fact, it was so unique that the wine was in a re-purposed ketchup bottle. Now you know why I call it moonshine.
Still, it was a thoughtful gift and I've always been more than a little adventurous with my food and drink. So when she asked if anyone wanted to try some, I happily volunteered. She poured me a double shot. Now, you may have noticed that I was drinking wine, but I used the word "shot," which is usually reserved for harder liquor. That was not a typo on my part, nor did I accidentally use the wrong word. This stuff would put hair on your chest regardless of gender. Better yet, because I was the first to try, she was generous with the pour and I ended up trying quite a bit of the stuff.
I joked a little bit about how strong the stuff was, but since I still had my sight and I wasn't gagging violently, a few others stepped up to try some of the wine. We all exchanged a few more jokes, and had quite a few more laughs. It was a funny story and it just added to our shared history, so things were good at this point.
Things were still good the following year when the same moonshine appeared, though we were all understandably worried that it may have gone bad during the interval. Because of my guinea pig status the year before, I was nominated to test the drink again, and I reluctantly agreed. It burned. I didn't have any bad reactions to the drink, but I was glad to be done with it.
Fortunately for my eyesight, the moonshine didn't make an appearance the year after. Still, there was talk of it and my friend commented that it was still somewhere in her possession. I think I let out a short yell. Actually, "exclaimed" or "yipped" might be more appropriate. I let loose a mini-rant about how she should throw the drink out, though I had no way of knowing whether I was successful or not. Since I was surrounded by other things to attract my attention (good food, good company), I quickly forgot about it.
This year, however, someone mentioned the moonshine again, and we all relived the stories. I got a little animated in the retelling of all of this, because, hell, I felt like I'd earned the right. I had survived the moonshine, and that stuff had definitely built a little character. Imagine my surprise when, all these years later, my friend remarked that she probably still had that bottle lying around. If I were to take poetic license with this story, this would be the point at which I shuddered. Instead, though, I repeated my tirade about getting rid of the moonshine from years past, for what I'd like to think were good reasons. As before, though, I have no way of knowing how successful I was in convincing my friend.
I suppose we'll find out next year.
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