This is the ring you’d find on the finger of a distiller deep in the heart of the Appalachians, with dirty jeans and thick, calloused hands. He opens the valve on the swan-necked copper still and watches as the amber liquid flows out of the tube and collects in the open oak barrel. He seals the barrel and racks it high on the shelf, where it will remain for a decade or more, gathering dust on the outside, but on the inside, pure and smooth.