“That looks frozen to me. Does it look frozen to you?”
Josh holds up a bottle of premature New Year’s champagne, one that we’d taken out of the fridge because sometimes you just need some bubbly, and sort of points it at me.
“I mean, it’s got alcohol in it, it’s not supposed to freeze, right?”
“It can’t be frozen,” I say, agreeing with him while eyeing the foil-wrapped bottle.
“Let’s just open it.”
Side by side, we stand united against the bottle of slushy champagne. He peels the foil, I twist the wire. He holds the frosty green base of the glass, I aim the cork away from our faces. The cork strains against the wire and millimeters its way out of the bottle………
nope. No POP, crack, or any other indication that the cork had finally broken loose, but suddenly a slushfoam fountain covered the green tile counter. Piles and mountains of snowy booziness greeted us with drippy delight over every inch of counterspace.
This, my friends, is what heaven must be like.