Photo credit: VeldaZ / Foter / CC BY-NC-SA

Last night at the dinner table my five- and three-year-old daughters asked me an important question:

“Daddy, may I have a drink of your drink please?”

As was the case last night as most nights, I was drinking a Dr. Pepper, and as was the case with my answer last night as most nights, I said:

“Okay, but only a sip.”

I am a fifth generation Texan. Being a Texan, a Dr. Pepper addiction, it seems to me, is my God-given birthright. And truth be told, I am addicted to the stuff. That’s not hyperbole… I really am addicted. When I lived in Seattle for a time, my friends there made dawg-fun of me for not drinking coffee, being as it is that Seattle is the Mecca to which caffeine addicts the world over pour out three cups daily. Not me. I can’t stand the stuff. Tastes like burnt – I dunno – burnt something.

Dr. Pepper? That’s different. I love my caffeine cold and sweet, hopefully over some Sonic pellet ice, and in the “Route” 44 ounce variety, please. Dr. Pepper is 23 flavors of home-grown, Waco Texas, happiness in a cup, and I love it. No, really. I *love* it.

And you know what happens to me when I don’t get my morning Dr. Pepper?