Our son came in today and asked if “some time we can get some dry ice to play with.”

After taking a deep breath (he caught me in the middle of dinner prep.) I reminded him that frozen carbon dioxide is not a toy, and he will not be ‘playing’ with it.  Of course, I then ruined the whole Proper Parent image by suggesting we get some and make root beer.

My parents were root beer conneseuirs.  In my childhood memories, they drove miles out of their way to get real A&W, from the tap, the way it should be.  I can remember at nine or ten perfecting a snobbish tilt to my nose when some other rood beer was offered, or, heaven forbid, someone showed up with a store brand.

But the best root beer, so good it left A&W out to fizz flat, was the homemade variety.  I remember the thrill of watching my parents risk life and limb bringing home that most dangerous and wonderful of substances, dry ice.  Keeping my vigilant watch on the gap in the cooler lid for the first signs of spreading fog.  Cupping my hands to hold the billowing clouds of white, then letting it trail a cool finger across my cheek.

And finally, the root beer was pronounced ready.

We got out our tallest glasses and filled them to the brim, silently daring each other to drink more, more.  None of us were big soda drinkers, so I doubt we even used it all up, but in those first moments when my nose was assaulted by the heady scent of sassafras, I thought I was drinking the stuff that midnight is made of.