'What is all this about?' I ask as I walk in the door, shaking snow from my hair and eyelashes.
'It's happy hour!' Bon Iver says. He is wearing a corduroy vest and shaking up something awfully nice-smelling. 'I made the simple syrup,' he says proudly, and fills my glass with something green and ginny, and then he pulls a hot sheet of tater tots out of the oven.
It is the best happy hour ever.