sweetie?”
“Not coffee. Ick! That other stuff that ’s yellow and looks like pee-pee.”
“Gracie!”
“ You say pee-pee.”
“Well, when I’m talking about potty time I might. But I don’t say it about somebody’s beverage.”
Gracie giggled. Her mother, who was busy loading clothes in the washer, suggested without looking up, “I believe, dear, you’re talking about beer.”
“Oh!” squealed Gracie. “That ’s right. Beer . That stuff that ’s always on TV.” She deepened her voice. “ ‘Better tasting!’
‘Less filling!’ ‘Better tasting!’ ‘Less filling!’ ” She giggled again. “Is it kinda like Pepsi for silly old men?”
Mrs. Perkel smiled, but it was such a weak, wimpy smile a kitten could have knocked it halfway to Milwaukee.
She paused in her work to stare out of the laundry room 10
b is for beer
window. The clouds themselves looked like a big pile of dirty laundry. That was not unusual because, you see, the Perkel family lived in Seattle.
Do you know about drizzle, that thin, soft rain that could be mistaken for a mean case of witch measles? Seattle is the world headquarters of drizzle, and in autumn it leaves a damp gray rash on everything, as though the city were a baby that had been left too long in a wet diaper and then rolled in newspaper. When there is also a biting wind, as there was this day, Seattle people sometimes feel like they’re trapped in a bad Chinese restaurant; one of those drafty, cheaply lit places where the waiters are gruff, the noodles soggy, the walls a little too green, and although there ’s a mysterious poem inside every fortune cookie, tea is invariably spilt on your best sweater. Mrs. Perkel must have been feeling that way, for she sighed at the limp pork dumplings (or were they wadded Pampers?) in the sky and said to Gracie, “If you want to know about beer you should go ask your father.”
Never mind that she was wearing fluffy fuzzy bunny slippers, Gracie still tiptoed into the den. Her daddy was watching football on their new flat plasma screen, and if the University of Washington was losing again, he ’d be in 11
t om r obbins
a grumpy mood. Uh-oh. She overheard a naughty word. UW
was losing. Gracie was relieved, however, when she noticed that Uncle Moe had dropped by to watch the game and, of course, to mooch a few beers from her dad.
Uncle Moe didn’t take sports very seriously. He called himself a philosopher, if you know what that is. He ’d graduated from about a dozen colleges, seldom ever seemed to work, and had traveled just about every place a person could go without getting his head chopped off. Mrs. Perkel said he was a “nut job,”
but Gracie liked him. It didn’t bother her that he had a face like a sinkful of last night ’s dinner dishes or that his mustache resembled a dead sparrow.
Timidly, Gracie tapped Mr. Perkel on the elbow. Her voice was shy and squeaky when she asked, “Daddy, can I please taste your beer?”
“No way,” her father snorted over his shoulder. His eyes never left the screen. “Beer’s for grown-ups.”
Gracie turned toward Uncle Moe, who grinned and beckoned her over, as she had suspected he might. Uncle Moe extended his can—and just like that, behind her daddy’s back, little Gracie Perkel took her first sip of beer.
12
b is for beer
“Ick!” She made a face. “It ’s bitter .”
“The better to quench your thirst, my dear.”
“What makes it bitter, Uncle Moe?”
“Well, it ’s made from hops.”
Gracie made another face. “You mean them jumpy bugs that…?”
“No, pumpkin, beer isn’t extracted from grasshoppers. Nor hop toads, either. A hop is some funky vegetable that even vegans won’t eat. Farmers dry the flowers of this plant and call them
‘hops.’ I should mention that only the female hop plants are used in making beer, which may be why men are so attracted to it. It ’s a mating instinct.”
“Moe!”
The uncle ignored Gracie
“Not coffee. Ick! That other stuff that ’s yellow and looks like pee-pee.”
“Gracie!”
“ You say pee-pee.”
“Well, when I’m talking about potty time I might. But I don’t say it about somebody’s beverage.”
Gracie giggled. Her mother, who was busy loading clothes in the washer, suggested without looking up, “I believe, dear, you’re talking about beer.”
“Oh!” squealed Gracie. “That ’s right. Beer . That stuff that ’s always on TV.” She deepened her voice. “ ‘Better tasting!’
‘Less filling!’ ‘Better tasting!’ ‘Less filling!’ ” She giggled again. “Is it kinda like Pepsi for silly old men?”
Mrs. Perkel smiled, but it was such a weak, wimpy smile a kitten could have knocked it halfway to Milwaukee.
She paused in her work to stare out of the laundry room 10
b is for beer
window. The clouds themselves looked like a big pile of dirty laundry. That was not unusual because, you see, the Perkel family lived in Seattle.
Do you know about drizzle, that thin, soft rain that could be mistaken for a mean case of witch measles? Seattle is the world headquarters of drizzle, and in autumn it leaves a damp gray rash on everything, as though the city were a baby that had been left too long in a wet diaper and then rolled in newspaper. When there is also a biting wind, as there was this day, Seattle people sometimes feel like they’re trapped in a bad Chinese restaurant; one of those drafty, cheaply lit places where the waiters are gruff, the noodles soggy, the walls a little too green, and although there ’s a mysterious poem inside every fortune cookie, tea is invariably spilt on your best sweater. Mrs. Perkel must have been feeling that way, for she sighed at the limp pork dumplings (or were they wadded Pampers?) in the sky and said to Gracie, “If you want to know about beer you should go ask your father.”
Never mind that she was wearing fluffy fuzzy bunny slippers, Gracie still tiptoed into the den. Her daddy was watching football on their new flat plasma screen, and if the University of Washington was losing again, he ’d be in 11
t om r obbins
a grumpy mood. Uh-oh. She overheard a naughty word. UW
was losing. Gracie was relieved, however, when she noticed that Uncle Moe had dropped by to watch the game and, of course, to mooch a few beers from her dad.
Uncle Moe didn’t take sports very seriously. He called himself a philosopher, if you know what that is. He ’d graduated from about a dozen colleges, seldom ever seemed to work, and had traveled just about every place a person could go without getting his head chopped off. Mrs. Perkel said he was a “nut job,”
but Gracie liked him. It didn’t bother her that he had a face like a sinkful of last night ’s dinner dishes or that his mustache resembled a dead sparrow.
Timidly, Gracie tapped Mr. Perkel on the elbow. Her voice was shy and squeaky when she asked, “Daddy, can I please taste your beer?”
“No way,” her father snorted over his shoulder. His eyes never left the screen. “Beer’s for grown-ups.”
Gracie turned toward Uncle Moe, who grinned and beckoned her over, as she had suspected he might. Uncle Moe extended his can—and just like that, behind her daddy’s back, little Gracie Perkel took her first sip of beer.
12
b is for beer
“Ick!” She made a face. “It ’s bitter .”
“The better to quench your thirst, my dear.”
“What makes it bitter, Uncle Moe?”
“Well, it ’s made from hops.”
Gracie made another face. “You mean them jumpy bugs that…?”
“No, pumpkin, beer isn’t extracted from grasshoppers. Nor hop toads, either. A hop is some funky vegetable that even vegans won’t eat. Farmers dry the flowers of this plant and call them
‘hops.’ I should mention that only the female hop plants are used in making beer, which may be why men are so attracted to it. It ’s a mating instinct.”
“Moe!”
The uncle ignored Gracie
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