Good Taste

Baby had tried her parents’ cranberry-juice, club-soda combination in the vicinity of a dozen times before tonight. The look on her face had ranged from that of someone who had just eaten a lime to someone who had just been grievously insulted. But she kept asking for sips from our cups. Tonight, from her daddy’s glass, she drank the tiniest bit of the eye-catching substance and then rolled her eyes with satisfaction and stuck her tongue out with joy. Then she asked for (and received) more ten or twelve times, tapping her teeth on the glass in anticipation, taking the biggest swallow she could, and then walking around and singing some kind of Polynesian victory chant. She has good taste.