image from The Richest
When first we met I was young, too young to know better, too young to care. I loved the ritual involved, the burn, the salt and lime taste. You were cheap but I held my own, you didn’t make me sick.
When next we met I was a little older, a little more worldly and had learned some about you. The ritual still held the same fascination and you were soon my shot of choice. Others feared you but not me.
When next we met it was my birthday, a friend gave me a large bottle of ‘the good stuff’. You were shared with the crowd, consumed in one glorious evening. You were always welcome.
When next we met I was older, wiser, and enjoyed you sparingly. My tastes more refined but still festive. You still never made me suffer the way you did others, I loved you for that.
When later we met I cooked with you. Your flavor adding so much to grilled chicken and mixed into drinks I loved. I joked that after all these years you were still part of my festivities. My old friend.
The last time we met I was in your birthplace, Jalisco, Mexico. I toured factories and watched you being made. I learned about the process, the grading and about your proud history. I found some marvelous versions to sip, that no lime or salt is needed for the good stuff. I began to think of myself as a connoisseur rather than simply an enthusiast. We have come full circle my friend, from novice to master. Thank you for your wonderful (if fuzzy) memories.
