In my house, we dip into the family’s stash of Pappy Van Winkle—the bottle is stored away from the bar in a location that, for reasons you’ll likely understand, is known only to Mrs. Banks—on the following days: my birthday, Fathers’ Day, Christmas Eve, and Thanksgiving Day assuming no family has come to visit. We mix the whiskey with just a drop of water or club soda and serve it in rocks glasses over the clear, oversized ice cubes I make in the freezer out in the garage and have become a bit obsessed with. Then we proceed to solve the world’s problems while watching football or golf. It really is a treat. My son appreciates Pappy for its sheer smoothness. I like that, too, and also the fact that it’s 107 proof. The reason I’m so parsimonious with the stuff, though—and it really is just Pappy Van Winkle that brings out the tightwad in me–is of course that it’s ridiculously hard to find in the first place, and not the sort of thing one wants to share on a lark. And now, egad!, comes the sad news that the situation is about to get even worse.