Agreement with the Enemy - Alcohol (20.)

One day, he brought home a canister of pure alcohol. It stood in the pantry and was basically just in the way. I like to try all sorts of things. So when I was home alone, I decided to try making homemade rum. Well, not exactly rum, more like a rum liqueur.

I made caramel, added the alcohol, a little rum essence, and diluted it with boiled water to the right volume. It was quite good, not too strong. Just a little treat. I put it in the fridge and then, like an idiot, I bragged about it. I shouldn't have done that. I listened to an hour-long lecture on “Do you realize how much a liter of pure alcohol costs?”

I don't think a dog would have taken a crust of bread from me at that moment. I should have been ashamed to the core. But I couldn't. I just liked the taste. So I sat there, feeling like I was being tortured, quietly waiting for him to finally stop grumbling. I admit I was quite moved. I hadn't expected such a reaction. I think I even shed a tear.

The next day, feeling very wronged, I went to work and left the bottle in the fridge to its fate. Around ten o'clock, my phone rang. “Hani, what did you put in it? It's SO good!” I held the phone in disbelief for a moment, then blurted out the technological process of production. I didn't expect an apology. It never came.

However, one change did occur in our lives. We never had so many visitors, and encouraged by the interest, I embarked on a series of other successful processing experiments. Malibu, strawberry and raspberry liqueurs, and many others. They were all a huge hit, and I was forgiven. The reproach for the reckless destruction of alcohol was forgotten, and I found myself at the peak of fleeting fame.

One of my friends even begged for a bottle to take home after tasting it. For his wife, he said. But the journey was long and he was very thirsty, so he fell asleep at the bus stop from exhaustion and didn't get home until the next morning. Empty-handed, of course.

With another friend in the endless line of visitors, they tasted and tasted until my friend's head spun and he almost broke the stair railing with his glasses as he was leaving. He survived, but the frames did not. And because he was half blind and couldn't see a thing, we glued them back together over the electric stove. He looked impressive. He had a neat lump in the middle of his forehead, but he could see. And that was what mattered.

I was in the limelight until the supplies ran out, which didn't take long. Our life returned to its usual routine, somewhere between love and hate. Nothing lasts forever. Especially an alcoholic's gratitude.

 

18. I'm sorry—I know you didn't mean it. I'm sure you just wanted to praise my immense skill, and without the “scolding,” I wouldn't have been able to savor my moment of glory. So thank you very much, and I promise I'll be more careful next time.