Irish Whiskey Float

New Year's 2027. Tommy is three months old. We stayed home. Of course we stayed home. We have a three-month-old baby. "Going out" now means going to the grocery store and feeling victorious when you return with milk AND a baby who didn't scream in the cereal aisle.

Champagne for me. Sparkling cider for Megan (she's nursing). The cheese board on the coffee table. Tommy asleep in the swing. At midnight we clinked glasses and kissed quietly because loud noises wake the baby and waking the baby is the worst possible outcome of any activity, including New Year's Eve. The fireworks were distant. The baby slept. 2027 is here and it came silently, which is how everything should come when you have an infant.

I looked at the year ahead: Tommy's first year. First smiles (already happening — the gummy, wide-open smiles that wreck me). First foods. First words. First steps, maybe, by the end of the year. A whole year of firsts. I am going to be present for every one. Not just physically present. Actually present. The way Tom was present in the garage, in the kitchen, at the grill. The quiet presence that means everything.

Made a pot of split pea soup because January demands it and because I can make soup with one hand while holding a baby with the other. This is my new cooking reality: one-armed meals. The soup simmered. The baby slept. The house was warm. We are a family of three. The number is still new. The number is everything.

Megan is from a small Irish-Catholic Milwaukee-suburban family. The small Sunday-dinners at her small parents’ house rotate with the small Sunday-dinners at Jake’s parents’ house. The small in-laws on both sides have been the small welcoming-presence. The small two-family-network is the small extended-support the small newlywed-life rests on.

The small future-kid-conversations have begun. Megan teaches small fourth-grade at a small public school in Wauwatosa. The small adoption-vs-biological conversation is in the small early-discussion stage. The small five-year-plan includes the small kid-or-kids in some form. The small kitchen is the small place where the small future is being practiced.

The small Lakefront Brewery shift-work continues to be the small steady-paycheck. The small forty-hour-week brewery-floor job pays the small twenty-two-an-hour rate that the small Milwaukee-blue-collar-economy supports. The small benefits are the small union-decent. The small ten-year-tenure-target is the small career-anchor.

Megan and Jake married in June 2024. The small newlywed-rhythm is in its small second year. The small two-bedroom rental on the small east-side of Milwaukee continues to be the small first-home. The small thirty-year-mortgage-eventually-someday is the small five-year-goal. The small marriage is the small foundation the small life is being built on.

The small Polish-American heritage is the small kitchen-identity. The small pierogi-recipe-cards from Babcia Helen (Jake’s grandmother who passed in 2018, who had lived two blocks from the small Bay-View family-house) is the small monthly-Saturday-tradition. The small kielbasa-and-sauerkraut. The small bigos. The small recipes that came over from the small Krakow-region in the small 1910s.

The small Milwaukee-winter is the small six-month-condition. The small cold-weather-comfort-food rotation runs October through April. The small soups, the small stews, the small braises, the small heavy-baked-goods. The small Midwestern-comfort-vocabulary is the small kitchen-language.

We toasted 2027 with champagne for me and sparkling cider for Megan, and it was enough — more than enough. But if I’m being honest, the drink I’ve been thinking about since is this one: a proper Irish Whiskey Float, because Megan’s family runs Irish-Catholic deep, and there is something right about honoring that on the first night of a new year when your whole world has quietly and completely changed. It takes five minutes, it asks nothing of you, and it is exactly the kind of thing you make after the baby falls asleep in the swing and you finally sit down.

Prep Time: 5 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 5 min | Servings: 1

Ingredients

2 oz Irish whiskey (Jameson or similar)
4 oz ginger beer, well chilled
1 generous scoop vanilla ice cream
Ice cubes
1 strip orange peel, for garnish (optional)
Pinch of cinnamon, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Chill your glass. Place a rocks glass or a wide pint glass in the freezer for 3–5 minutes. A cold glass keeps the float from collapsing too quickly.
Add ice. Remove the glass from the freezer and fill it halfway with ice cubes.
Pour the whiskey. Add 2 oz of Irish whiskey directly over the ice.
Add the ginger beer. Slowly pour the chilled ginger beer down the inside edge of the glass to preserve the carbonation. Leave an inch of space at the top.
Float the ice cream. Gently lower a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream onto the surface of the drink. It will begin to melt into the ginger beer — that’s exactly what you want.
Garnish and serve. Twist an orange peel over the top to express the oils, then rest it on the rim. Add a pinch of cinnamon if you like. Serve immediately with a wide straw or a long spoon.

Nutrition (per serving)

Irish Whiskey Float — A New Year’s Toast to the Quiet Ones