Ah, Tsitsi's chunky wine... That stuff has Harry Potter properties. I do vaguely remember drinking it while sitting around the Staten Island dining room table. As for specifics, no, not really. Who knows: we may have designed a Ford car that very night -- I wouldn't remember. Except there is one much clearer memory: Aunt Marie, sounding very disgusted, stating, "I hate it when they drink that stuff, they get stupid."

Truer words were rarely spoken (notwithstanding that true words are rarely spoken after drinking that stuff). Worth noting because Aunt Marie has seen us drink some hard stuff over the years:

• Galliano (the thick yellow liquid that defies explanation poured from a bottle that defies gravity)
  
• Fortissimo (the whole jug)
  
• Rolling Rock Beer (packaged with a model Plymouth Fury one Thanksgiving to create an ersatz Plymouth Rock)
  
• 30-Year-Old Cherry Liqueur (from a jar taken down from a dusty shelf, with ancient cherries sloshing throughout)
  

Yes, we did some good drinking, back in the day. Only once did I have a second thought -- and it was only a temporary misgiving, entirely unwarranted. It happened sometime in 1988 or 1989. I had arrived with my then-girlfriend who was just starting her career in social work, with a specialty in substance abuse treatment. Uncle Vinny offered us a drink. I said yes. She said no.

"I don’t drink," she said forthrightly.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Vin said.

I saw a sudden glint in her eyes.

“Why is that?” she said, in her best social worker voice.

I held my breath, fearing that Vin had stepped in something here.

Vin responded: “For them, everything’s always the same.”

I never doubted Big Vin again. (Well, except when he was drinking chunky wine and engaging in haphazard automotive engineering.)