When I was the ripe old age of seven, I had the unfortunate--or fortunate, depending on your morals and ethics towards childhood drinking--experience of tasting rye whisky. It was nobody’s fault but mine; as a curious child I found myself sticking my nose and fingers into a variety of foods and beverages, few of which were actually mine to violate. Nonetheless, this amber, seemingly innocent-looking drink sat in a glass on our living room table, and in my state of know-it-all childhood, it was clear that this drink was meant for me.

No reservations, time to chug. Mmm...apple juice!

No, not apple juice. Not even close.

When my dad heard my cries of pain and disgust from the rather large swig of rye I’d just taken, he came into the room, laughed, and proceeded to drain the rest of the drink. From that moment, I made a rule that I would never touch the stuff again.

Old Fashioned image via Shutterstock