Wyckse Wodka

As you probably know, I live in Amsterdam, but my roots are in the south. If you didn't know that, you'll find out when I open my mouth and the soft tones flow out. I am a born and raised Maastricht native, and I will probably never get rid of that soft G. When I ran into an old acquaintance at a wrong 80’s gym party last week, my Maastricht heart started beating faster spontaneously. Not because of the gentleman himself, but because of the bottle that was pressed into my hands. Now, I am a grandma when it comes to alcohol, and that evening I was doing quite well on the spa red. But the bottle that stood prominently on the bar caught my attention. The way too handsome label reminded me of an old medicine bottle, one of those specimens that used to sit under the dust among the stuffed ferrets in the cabinet during biology class. However, the bottle was filled with Maastricht vodka, made from real fancy and beautiful eerappele, reminding me again that there is still a considerable amount of Maastricht chauvinistic blood flowing in me. Completely sober, I returned to Amsterdam, my new home, with the fancy bottle. One thing I do know: you can take the girl out of Maastricht, but you can't take Maastricht out of the girl.

Is the five already in the clock?