This was the bottle that turned a tipsy evening into a drunken one and caused me to sleep badly. However, it felt like the right thing to do at the time, and led to my mother reminiscing about growing up in 1950s Nebraska. How about this for an opening line to the Great American Novel: "The only child I remember dying was the one that my cousin shot"? I'm already hooked.
We had meringues and soft fruit from the new garden to soak up the alcohol, but it did an inefficient job. I can't even remember how this bottle tasted. Rather good, probably.
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