A Fireside Nightcap

Evening brought the patter of rain against the glass, and frankly, my joints were screaming for something warmer than the conservatory. I decamped to the low slate flagstone beside the glowing hearth, where someone had carelessly left an ornate brass nutcracker next to an open tumbler of smoky peat malt. The glass rim was towering, but a retired icon knows how to handle domestic apathy. Bracing my heels on the warm stone, I hoisted the heavy brass handles of the nutcracker, using its notched hinge as an improvised crane to tip the rim just so. A rich amber drop detached, pooling onto a smooth river pebble below. Savoring the smoky peat on my fingertip, drinking remains my only sensible defense against this dismal world.