I still managed to win, like I always do, even after that riot of a round where I got the letters mixed up and in a fit of giggles answered “fish” for all twelve categories. You both still swear to this day that I was drunk but it would take a lot more than one glass of sangria to knock me over, boys.
The commercial breaks were spaced apart with just the right amount of time that I could set the stove by their beginning and produce the most perfectly baked cookies which sat on the couch between us, cold milk glass balancing on the cushion. We had a knack for predicting who would sing their way into the next round, hardly ever wrong.
But that was best in the old apartment, never since.