We did it, Ray.
It smelled like asparagus, tasted like swampy tea, and burned like vomit at the back of the throat. It was non-alcoholic, because we didn’t have yeast and we certainly didn’t have a fermenter. It didn’t follow the recipe we found online; instead of lemon and orange slices, neat peach cutlets, and about three pounds of sugar, we used bottled lime juice and honey.
But Ray, we drank it in shot glasses, having strained out the wilting buds and detached petals clustered with pollen.
It was disgusting, as I suspect you knew it’d be. I wonder if you ever tried it in your lifetime, or if you merely plucked the practice from backwoods obscurity and wrote it into a story, taking care to keep a safe distance from the steaming brew.
Regardless, Mr. Bradbury, this night was for you.
“My gosh, if you’re going away, we got a million things to talk about! All the things we would’ve talked about next month, the month after! Praying mantises, zeppelins, acrobats, sword swallowers!”