It's like non-alcoholic beer...

          My aunt and uncle's house in New Jersey is an hour and a half from my parents' in Connecticut. We make the trip annually in order to spend Christmas Eve with my cousins. (My four cousins under age eight are all ridiculously adorable little tow-heads, but I digress). This year, we had to stop not once, but twice on the way. Once, because my mother does not understand the concept of dehydrating a bit before you get in the car. It never fails that after 30 minutes on the road she will say: "Does anyone else have to go to the bathroom?" She must always have at least one cup of decaf coffee coursing through her veins so we must make a stop before we even reach the New York border.

          The second stop has to do with this same necessity. We have to stop at a Dunkin' Donuts so my mom can get her hazelnut decaf coffee because otherwise she cannot eat. My aunt and uncle aren't big on coffee and certainly not sans caffeine. My mother truly cannot take one bite of an entree without her cup of decaf. At our favorite local restaurant, they start brewing when she walks in the door and they bring out an entire pot with her meal. She literally will not start eating until the decaf coffee is in her possession- I have seen it happen many times. She also needs at least three cupfuls with her meal. My dad usually suggests that the wait-staff get it hooked up to her intravenously.

          On our second stop, since we are already 40 minutes late, I decline needing anything in D& D and declare, (clearly the only one with any sense), that I am staying right there in the car. My dad leaves the car running and it is at the moment they are gone from my sightline that I see it: the lighted sign from the liquor store next door declaring the availability of that rare and fantastic brew which I had almost forgotten was attainable that day. It is a beer coveted by anyone who went to college in Allentown, Pennsylvania and subsequently had the sense to leave Allentown, Pennsylvania, only to discover that it was no longer available north of Jersey. It is Yuengling, the product of America's oldest brewery, and it is right at my fingertips. It is no small thing to return to one's friends in Boston with a case or two of the lager.

          I hem and haw for only a moment before I decide that I will be quick and that they won't even miss me. I grab the keys and my wallet and head for next door. After no more than 3 minutes, I return to find my puzzled parents looking in the windows of the car, which I had of course locked. As it turns out, my mother was worried about my disappearance, while my father was worried that I had left the keys in the ignition and locked the doors, because I am apparently 5 years old. All their fears were assuaged when they saw both the keys and the case of Yuengling in my hand. It wasn't until Christmas day that I learned that a family friend had driven 40 minutes to Brewster, NY to purchase three cases of Yuengling varieties for myself and my friends.

Best. Christmas. Ever.