This is the whiskey that turns a non-whiskey drinker into a friendly, sloppy, whiskey-filled birthday girl mess.
It is delicious.
You’ll think it’s good enough to drink by the half glass. Don’t bother with what your mother taught you…that whole “Stick with one kind of liquor” nonsense. What does she know? You are twenty-eight now. Total grown-up. You can make decisions. When your girlfriend asks you to have a Skinny Girl Margarita with her, you do it. It’s your freaking’ birthday, right? So what if you switch from tequila to vodka? That should be fine. You are twenty-eight. You know what you are doing. Not your first rodeo. So what if you’re not a big drinker? You just want to play Dance Central and show off some moves.
How do I know all this? I might have been this birthday girl (yup).
Flash forward to the next morning.
Headache. The rays of bright late-morning light beaming into your twenty-eight year old eyeballs, scorching them open. Nope, close your lids. That hurts. Do you have a massive head injury? You check for bleeding. Nope, all clear. That is ALL headache. You think to yourself that your mom has some wise advice. She knows what she’s talking about. You will not tell her this.
You manage to guzzle down a bottle of water and a couple of Advil. It helps. The whole rest of the day you feel like you got hit by a party bus. You ate too much cake. You drank everything. You danced like it was a disco. You hugged most of your friends for a suspicious amount of time and told them all just how TOPS you think they all are. You made some inside jokes that you no longer remember.
This is the year that it becomes glaringly clear that you cannot “party” like it’s 1999. Why did you think you could? Your hobbies are baking scones, and crocheting hats and maybe some light canning. You go to bed at 9:30 pm pretty much daily. You play eight Words With Friends games at a time with your Grandmother. You are about five years away from shaking your fist at hooligans when they try to walk on your lawn.
This is what twenty-eight looks like. Real.
Now, I don’t think twenty eight is old. I really don’t. But, this is the first birthday in a long string of birthdays that has hit me like a stampede of polar bear paws. Time is passing quickly. How did I get to be two years shy of thirty?
Time. Is. Flying. I am thinking about creating a “things to do by the time I am thirty” bucket list. Wring the most out of my twenties. Maybe I will even add a “Don’t mix whiskey and tequila” note at the bottom of it. It is a good note.
I assure you that when consumed properly and not like a hollow-legged sailor, this whiskey beverage is fantastic. Respect it, and it will treat you like a lady (or gentleman) right on back. It is smooth and sweet and needs no fancy mixers. It is a cocktail all by itself.
Do not drink with vodka, tequila or rum. I don’t care how “skinny” those margaritas claim to be. It will be a bad choice tomorrow.You will get a headache. Listen to your mother, no matter how old you are. She knows things.
This entire bottle went very quickly and was a huge hit among my friends. I think it would make a really great Christmas gift! I’ve been asked how I performed this magical whiskey makeover, so, let me tell you!
1 bottle of whiskey
6 cinnamon sticks
Wash your apples well. Cut them up and put them into your clean airtight container.
Pour in your whiskey.
Add your cinnamon sticks.
Allow it to sit for two weeks in a cool, dark place.
Once it’s done, strain it.
Although you are tempted, I would recommend not eating the apples. It looks like they’re going to be tasty. They are not. The sweet apple flavor now lives in the whiskey, leaving the apples tasting of rubbing alcohol (we tried them to take the guess work out of it for you).
Now you can bottle it up!
Funnel it into a bottle of your choosing. I found this appropriately festive, apple-covered bottle at my local Ross.
It’s really that easy.
Bottle it up and share it with some great friends! WARNING: might induce hugging, dancing, and general need to celebrate.
Cheers, to YOU and you and YOU and you. xo
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