I keep wondering why I like Negronis.

This may seem a frivolous inquiry in this frightening hour. But isn’t one preference a clue to any? De gustibus non disputandum est, proverbialized the old Romans, but just as there’s no disputing tastes, there’s no fathoming them either. Why do I dislike bananas, for example. Or do I dislike them really, or has their flavor been defiled by some submerged memory? What’s wrong with the poor banana? Everybody likes bananas, even babies! I’m not allergic, just averse. Same goes for gum-chewers. My loathing for the Nameless One, I maintain, has more basis.

Some tastes aren’t tastes but chemical reactions. Henry’s avidity for various leaves and grasses, say, or Jane’s antipathy to cilantro. Some metabolisms misread cilantro as soap, something to do with the “OR6A2 gene, which codes for an olfactory receptor sensitive to aldehydes” (bless AIistair). Henry knows without reading labels which herbs promote health.

Negronis, as I make them, combine two parts each of gin and Campari with one part of Vermouth. Mine is my first and usually last drink of the day, which I take with dinner. I fill an ice-packed beer glass with the potion. This is a lot of Negroni, I admit, but hey, I’ve been a good lad all day and it’s so delicious and you only live once.

Alcoholic content contributes to my Negroni’s appeal, but there are innumerable drinks and only one Negroni. The juniper, bitter orange, rhubarb, gentian, and wormwood flavorings (wormwood!) no doubt ingratiate, as do the aromatics and intense sweetness, but ingredients rarely explain infatuation.

A Negroni means something to me. It means Italy, which I love. It means my evenings with Jane watching some silly cop show, which I love. It means the alleviation of responsibility which comes at day’s end, the commencement of my ten-hour vacation from the tyranny of expectations, my own especially. I am free, ahh, to just be, no need to become.

Alcohol is unjustly maligned by both physicians and finger-waggers. To overdo is to undo oneself, of course, but short of that, what a blessing this reprieve from me! “The sway of alcohol over mankind,” observed sage William James, “is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour. Sobriety diminishes, discriminates, and says no; drunkenness expands, unites and says yes.” Spiritous beverages, smiled Ben Franklin, are “proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

Taste, potency, memory contribute to my Negroni’s appeal. Intensifying these is the solace of routine. I am someone who loves regularity, doing the same things in the same order in the same way. The world in my mind is chaotic, doubts, notions, fears ricocheting like trapped bats, so let my external circumstances be calm, predictable, serene. I derive comfort from how I unload the dishwasher each morning, for example. Routine transforms chore into ritual.

My Negroni is my daily reward, reprieve, relaxation, reminder of my marital luck. A sip or two and my thoughts quiet and my heart is calm. No phones or emails, no bullets or bulletins for a while. “Take no thought for the morrow,” Jesus murmurs: “for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

Henry eyes me quizzically. Why am I so wrought all the time? He needs no drink to flop!

It’s easier, I try to explain, being a dog. Being human is hard if you do it right.