Today was a slog- I drove from my beloved City of Y______ to my mom’s place in Northern Virginia for Easter. My sister and her family live nearby, and my eldest nephew is on his last Spring Break before he graduates from college and gets commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant in the Air Force, following in the footsteps of both of his parents.
The drive down wasn’t too bad, once I made it past the horrible traffic on the George Washington Bridge. I had planned to hit the road around 5AM in order to beat the traffic, but whiskey shots happened last night. Put more precisely, something called ‘picklebacks’ happened- shots of whiskey chased with shots of pickle brine (a crazy 22 year old introduced us old folks to them). The pickle juice is supposed to cut the whiskey burn... and it did, though I like the burn, and whiskey tastes better than pickle brine.
I ended up sleeping until ten and hitting the road by eleven. I think the pickle brine was the deciding factor in my tardy start.
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That stuff'll kill you. If God meant us to drink pickle brine, we'd have been born in glass jars.
It's also disrespectful to whiskey, or at least to good whiskey, which like fine cognac should be sniffed and sipped slowly, in an appropriate pass, preferably at the end of a good meal. And you should drink nothing besides the good stuff.
Also, what's this coy business about the "City of Y______?" It's effing Yonkers, for the love of Mike. I had cousins who grew up there, on Birch Road. Other parts of Yonkers have great river views. Have a nice dinner, pull up a view, and sip some fine old whiskey. You'll be just fine.
Yours very crankily,
The New York Crank
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