Father Drinks Best

It’s Father’s Day weekend.  That means Miss Sybarite and I are making the trek to Southern California.  It’s quite a hike for just a short weekend trip.  But, in the process we are going to see her parents again and they have yet to crack the bottle of late harvest Riesling from De Tierra Vineyards that I brought them last time.  That is worth a trip down the state!

Despite delicious dessert wine on the menu, the real reason we are heading south is to see our dads.  You all probably read my post a few weeks ago about Mother’s Day, and I figured a post dedicated to the other half of my dear parents was in order.
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My dad is, I think, partially responsible for my transformation into The Sybarite.  Growing up I always remember him enjoying good wine and whisky.  In fact, my grandmother, for a number of years, gave him a bottle of Chivas Regal every year at Christmas.  One year, I was a wee Sybartite of no more than 9, my dad happened to be enjoying said scotch during the family christmas mayhem.  I am fairly certain it was the only way he coped with the in-laws.  I saw it there and took a big swig of what I thought was soda or maybe tea.  Nope.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.  My whole body warmed and my face turned a shade of red generally reserved for poisonous berries.  I had no idea what was happening…but I kind of liked it.  How could a drink with ice in it make me so warm?  My 9-year-old brain new there was witchcraft afoot.

It was many years before I touched the stuff again.  I’d have a sip of his wine or beer here and there growing up but whisky and I had come to a treaty that required we never interact for the period of one decade.  But now, enjoying a new whisky with my old man is a great part of visiting home.  Sitting out in the yard on the lawn that was my mortal enemy every weekend as a child, the sun on our shoulders sipping on whatever new whisky that one of us wants to show the other is always a highlight.

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Dad, being the old man that he is, always has a story to tell me.  These days he has been giving me the history of Southern California wine in installments every time I call.  “Ya they planted that vineyard there Cucamonga around 1912, till they got wiped out by that disease up there.”  It’s fun.  It’s more fun when he goes off on a story and then finishes it with, “…I don’t remember the point I was trying to make but, anyway.”  He has always had good story telling ability regardless of where it leads.

My dad and I see the world in very different ways, but we generally agree on our drinks.  Although, he is more of a scotch drinker than I am.  Maybe scotch is an acquired taste, but a drink with my old man is always good to the last drop.

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