When Robbie was here over Thanksgiving, he found a bottle of birch beer at a corner store near my house.  “Hey!” he called to me, holding it up.  “Look!  I’ve never had birch beer!”  His eyebrows did the hubba-hubba dance.

It wasn’t until a couple months later, long after he had left and abandoned the forgotten bottle of soda, that I, eager for something to soothe a stomach afflicted by flu, drank it down.  And that I realized why he had been so excited about it in the first place.

BIRCH beer.  Yeah, I get it now.