Note: I’m going with the “whisky” spelling instead of “whiskey”. One less letter. Easier?
Being a Baptist deacon’s wife has its perks. It also has a couple of drawbacks, one of which is not being seen in liquor stores. I was raised a teetotaler, lived a teetotaler and expected to always be one. Forever. To date, beer has not crossed these lily-white lips. Nasty stuff! I did taste wine at my brother’s once and that was when we were both in our 30’s. Nasty Stuff!!!! Alcoholic beverages were just not a part of our life.
Then I stumbled upon a new recipe in my Southern Living Classics book. Understand that Southern Living is The Bible for any chicken fryin’ pecan pie bakin’ domesticated homemaker who lives south of the Mason-Dixon line. The magazine is the first thing we ask for when we marry. The cookbook is cherished and inhabits the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets where is it is just a breath and grab away from any bona fide Southern Cook.
I catch Big Boss as he enters the back door with, “I have an emergency!” He’s thinking, “Pregnant? Ran out of milk? A kid is missing?” None of the above, I say frantically. “I need whisky! WHERE am I going to find whisky?” At this point he’s pretty sure I’ve left the farm, mentally that is. “I don’t know!” and he might as well have said, “And I don’t care.” But he valued his life. Men are fixers and it was time for the fixin’ thing to kick it. So he suggested I call Mr. Drinker friend. GREAT idea!! I ran to the phone, got the party in question and they HAD some! YAY!!!!! I told then I’d be right over. The Mr. Drinker friend met me at the door laughing. Yep, he had blackmail material on me now. And forevermore. I muttered, “Whatever.” as I latched onto to the quart jar of “good stuff” as he referred to it.
His good stuff worked great in the Whisky Sauce. We loved that sauce ladled over our hot bread pudding!!! Our hunters adored it and asked for seconds and recipes and thirds and leftover. I had a hit on my hands!
The down side was: I had to continually hit Mr. Drinker friend up for booze. I was humiliated. He loved it. He gloated. He asked for bread pudding. I was the butt of many a joke. This had to stop. Somehow, someway, I had to gather up my courage and hit the liquor store myself. Yes, I had to put on the Big Girl Panties and get on with it.
How to do it though….did I go in disguise? Did I get someone to get it for me? Would they card me? (Yeah, right!) Could I actually walk into a liquor store and purchase it myself?!!! Would the Lord strike me dead? Would the church de-church me? Oh, the anguish and anxiety.
Finally, I headed for the big city 40 miles away. By myself. I got my groceries. I hit Wally World. Hard. I drove around town a couple of times. I threw my hands up and finally prayed, Lord if I’m supposed to do this, please show me a parking space a couple of blocks away from the liquor store?!! And He did.
I parked waaaaay down the street, put the hood up on my coat, actually looked around to make sure nobody was watching me and practically ran into the store. Nice store clerk looked up and asked if he could help me? Could he HELP me? Oh please HELP ME!!! I want to get out of here as fast as humanly possible!! I told him what I was making and he said, “Oooooo, you need this then.” and he plopped a fifth of Southern Comfort into my shaking, virgin, Baptist hands. I stuffed my cash into his hands…no VISA here as I didn’t want a paper trail…and got the heck out of town. Super fast. Thankfully the kind clerk had put the fifth into a paper sack. I was safe. I was sure I was safe. Only G-d and I knew.
I smuggled the paper sack into the house after dark and put it waaaaay at back of a lower cabinet and hoped and prayed that the whisky sale could not be detected on my Baptist deacon’s wife face. Big Boss came in. Nothing. He suspected nothing. But I couldn’t keep my crime quiet. I confessed where I’d been and what I had done. He shrugged and went to bed. Really? The calm before the storm.
The next day, my phone rang. Having put the whisky bottle out of sight, out of mind, I chirped a lovely “hello” and it was….Mr. Drinker friend and I use the term “friend” loosely. “Hey, I hear you went to town yesterday.” Yep. “And I hear you went to such and such liquor store.” Busted. So busted. “HOW did you find THAT piece of information out?!” I screamed. “Heh, heh, I have my ways dontchaknow?” I was speechless. I begged him not to tell anyone. How much bread pudding did I have to make him to keep him quiet? “awwww”, he said, “just picturing you sneaking around buying your whiskey is pay enough!!” I was not biting. HOW did you find out? “My brother saw you and called right away. We’re thinking the headline in the local paper should read, ‘Baptist Deacon’s Wife Seen Stalking Local Liquor Stores’ “. You wouldn’t. He would have. Except that he finally admitted that I had been outed by my sweet Big Boss. Seriously outed. The two of them thought the whole things was just hilarious. Whatever. All I knew was that I had sweated bullets over this whole thing and probably lost 10 years off my life expectancy.
That was my first trip to buy my booze. Now, I just go through the drive-up window. It’s easy. They even put it into a paper bag to keep things somewhat discreet. I am so smooth, I charge it now. The paper trail seems inconsequential. I’ve stepped out of the closet. The liquor kind that is. And lightening hasn’t struck me dead. Yet. 🙂
And you DO understand that the whisky is FOR COOKING ONLY?!!! Honestly.