Weevy is six years old now, and her conversation gets more interesting even if the subject matter — toys, fairies, ponies, more toys — stays largely the same. When the long-awaited Shopkins Season 6 toys (“Season 6” would seem to connote it’s a TV show, but I’ve never seen anything apart from fairly lame animated shorts on YouTube) were released, Weevy talked a blue streak about how excited she was the entire way home, pausing only to say something that sounded uncannily like my mother: “I’m sorry to be such a chatterbox, but I’m just so excited!”
Awesome attempt at small talk, while on FaceTime with Mommy, who was out of town for work: “So, Mommy… what have you been up to these days?”
But that’s not what I wanted to write about. This is what I wanted to write about.
A tradition in our house is, when we get home from our traditional after-school trip to Sugar & Plumm for macarons and mac and cheese, we get the mail. And almost every day there’s at least one package for Daddy — usually a bottle of some kind of booze. Lately, Weevy has been getting more interested in what’s inside the packages. Not that she wants to drink any of it, but when, say, a whisky bottle comes with an LCD screen in the box that shows an artsy video about the whisky (this really happened last week — thanks, Chivas Regal!), it’s pretty cool even if you’re six years old and you recoil at the smell of Daddy’s breath after he’s done a tasting.
Yesterday, I — she? we? — hit the jackpot. One package contained small sample bottles of Diageo’s Special Reserves, an annual release of rare single malts, handsomely packaged in a box with a fancy hardcover book describing the whiskies. “Ooh, fancy!” Weevy said. “Are they rare?” “They sure are,” I said excitedly. The next package was even better, at least for Weevy, though I liked it just fine myself: a carousel tray which holds six rocks glasses (included) and a bottle of Basil Hayden’s bourbon (also included). Well, that clinched it. It was now playtime. “OK, Daddy? We’re going to have a My Little Pony whisky party. I’ll be Rarity (her favorite pony) and you’ll be Twilight Sparkle. Which one should I pour first? Oooh, this one is 83. That’s expensive, right?”
“It’s actually 38. You’re reading it upside down. And that’s the age of the whisky, not the price. But yeah, that’s a really expensive one.”
“Oooh, what about this one? It’s 73!”
“No, that’s 34. But it’s even more rare than the 38. It goes for $4,000 a bottle.”
“FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS?! OK, let’s try it!” She pretended (thankfully) to pour me a glass of 34 year old Port Ellen, which, if you know your single malts, is a big fucking deal. “Here you go, Twilight. How is it?”
“Mmmm, delicious!” As I’m sure it will be when I try it for real. Sadly, Weevy soon lost interest, and we wound up playing Winx Club fairies going to the moon. Which was also pretty fun, actually. But I won’t soon forget our whisky party, which is more than I can say for most of the real whisky parties I’ve attended.