Now my grandma, she was a teetotaler. She wouldn’t tolerate liquor anywhere around her. This forced my poor Irish paw-paw to keep his pint of whiskey hid out in the barn. On cold mornings Grandma would be at the stove stirring a pan of gravy. The smell of baking biscuits came from the oven. The sound of my paw-paw stomping snow and mud from his boots meant that we would be eating breakfast soon, before the sun had broken over the Kentucky hills. Paw-paw would come in the kitchen door bringing the cold air and sweet hay smells with him. Walking to the stove he would pour himself a cup of steaming coffee. As he sat down at the table, he would pull his pint from his coat pocket. With a glance at Grandma’s back he would add a generous splash of liquor into his coffee cup. Then he would stir the mixture with his spoon. With a conspiratorial wink he would hand me the spoon to lick. Without turning her head Grandma would grumble, “You gonna make a drinker out of that gal yet.” Paw-paw would chuckle as he returned the pint safely to his pocket. I still like my whiskey fed to me from a spoon.