I was a kid and I was deeply enamored by my grandpa’s wine cellar in their quaint little house.
There he stashed age-old bottles of spirits that, he said, were at least over 20 years old at that time if memory serves me right. “If you will, the joy of my life,” he said.
The bottles were gathering a veneer of permanent dust, and, being as naive as I was back in the day, I remember asking when was he going to drink his “beers [as I always referred to any liquor then as beer].”
“When it’s 100 years old,” he said. I had only come to understand later that a spirit is at its finest when it’s at least a hundred years old.
Some best things in life have to mature; some even take a lifetime before we even get to taste them. Then again, my grandpa has long been dead, and the bottles remain stashed in the cellar.
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