We've had an orphan handle of spiced rum (a jaunty pirate with a devilish grin posing on the label) for literal years - we don't know where it came from or who it belonged to, and since nobody in this house particularly likes spiced rum, there it stayed, an orange-brown specter haunting our bar cart like an unwelcome guest.
But tonight, thanks to Katie's internet acumen and some pineapple juice, we're cracking it open - literally. The cap nearly requires a pair of pliers to get it off the bottle.
Somehow, though, in the marriage of fruit juices (orange, pineapple, lime) and syrups (grenadine), this low-rent liquor is turned into something tropical, something reminiscent of beaches and little umbrellas, a scent of vanilla on a warm summer breeze, a reminder that summer, the outdoors, something other than this apartment exists, and we drink the memory with gusto.
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