Now that our daughter has Diabetes, “knowledge jousting” has taken on a slightly different form, and I am continually being proven the lesser knight.

“A cup of milk,” I contended, “has twelve grams of carbs.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said looking barely bested. “A medium-sized banana has twenty.”

“Ouch,” I cringed, but managed to stay on my feet. “Well, a cup of Apple Jacks has twenty-five.”

“Two tablespoons of peanut butter has eight,” she volleyed effortlessly.

“A cup of macaroni and cheese,” I returned, “has forty-seven.”

“Silly man,” she gave through a treacherous smile. “You will never win. A half cup of peaches has twenty-five.”

“A whole can of chicken noodle soup has twenty,” I said nervously.

“Yes,” she carried with a steady voice, “a tablespoon of strawberry jam has thirteen and a tortilla wrap has thirty.”

“A… a hot dog bun has… has twenty,” I said reservedly. I was beginning to lose pace.

She was unwavering. “A Nutri-Grain bar has twenty four.”

“A tablespoon of ketchup has four…” I tried with uncertainty, but she interrupted.

“A single ounce of an apple has four grams,” she said and kicked me to the ground. “And a small orange has eleven.” She relentlessly pummeled, “There are fourteen carbs in one ounce of gingerbread. Ranch dressing has two carbs in two tablespoons. Half a cup of applesauce has twenty-nine. Twenty-two oyster crackers make eleven grams. Twenty-seven regular sized french-fries equals twenty-five. Twelve of the jumbo fries are nineteen…”

She was in a vicious frenzy, wildly striking and striking. And there, with the loss of my defenses and nearing the end of my nutrition facts mortality, my mind began to swirl with hallucinations and false truths.

“The vacuum cleaner is forty-seven,” I called out randomly as she struck. “And the TV, it has twelve!”

“Foolish man,” she stood above me in triumph. “Accept your fate in the dust.”

“I won’t!” I wheezed. “I heard that vinyl siding is very low carb, around five or so a sheet. And our Christmas tree is a little more than sixty.” I gasped and struggled to lift my hand to point, “That… that candle. That’s fourteen carbs… but only because it’s scented.”

She laughed with disgust at the pitiful man before her. “Your coffee has no carbs. Your whisky has no carbs. You have nothing. You are finished.”

She was right. Indeed, I had come to my end. Oh yeah, and whisky has no carbs. That’s the glimmering resurrection in my failed combat. At least I know that if I ever develop Diabetes, I won’t have to give up whisky.

But I can give or take the Sazerac Straight Rye. This one is so sweet, I’ll bet it actually has carbs. In fact, I’ll bet my daughter’s blood sugar level would start to rise just by smelling it. There are at least ten grams of cinnamon apples in the nose. My wife, the superior Diabetes warrior, would know for sure.

Of course Evelyn is too young to have a sip, but I’m guessing that if she did, she’d get a good twenty or so grams from the honey and sweet rye carried over in the palate.

And the medium finish, well, now you’d better get out the glucometer and do a blood check. There’s a sweet and somewhat spicy inheritance from the cinnamon and honey. And the apples have become mild Granny Smiths on the roof of the mouth.

My thoughts: The Sazerac Straight Rye isn’t bad, but it’s also not super, either. And my guess is that just about any of us would need an insulin correction—naturally or artificially—after a sip from this sweet-creamed elixir.