This New Year’s Eve, writer Lindsay Fleming remembers her father-in-law’s wit and wisdom, his whiskey sours and his elegant exit. My father-in-law was famous for his whiskey sours. When your drink ran dry, he’d be quick to notice and urge a refill. If you hesitated, he’d settle it with the reminder, “No bird ever flew on one wing.” When he died, copies of his recipe were posted by magnet on the refrigerator at the family beach house. A backup was filed underneath the highball glasses in the art deco bar on the screened-in porch. He was a sunny drinker—not prone to the dark, brooding currents common to my own father into his cups. Holiday dinners grew more convivial under the influence of several whiskey sours. As the mood grew festive, someone would inevitably produce a sloppy turn of speech, prompting a refrain from the collective memory, delivered by one or the other… Read More
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