Doing my best Hemingway imitation (minus the firearms), I am feeling whisky-ish tonight. The Wee Lass is in bed and asleep, The Spouse is catching up on ER via TiVo, and I have a few minutes to kill before I (drum roll, please) FOLD THE LAUNDRY.
Wooo. I am living of the f***in' edge. Still, such domestic obligations give me the opportunity to indulge in one of my vices as an adult. Ten minutes to go on the ol' Kenmore is just enough time to sip a glass of Scotland's finest while twirling around in my desk chair.
Ah, the life of the artiste.
I have on my desk two bottles, one empty and one just over half-full. No, they didn't get that way today. It was a concentrated effort of weeks. It would have been today if I hadn't been out pumpkin and apple picking with the Pearl O' my Heart. Plus grocery shopping.
The empty bottle is (was?) Macallan 12 year old single malt. The other bottle is 15 year old Macallan. One I got for Christmas, the other I got for Father's Day. I am, as you probably said to yourself, a fortunate man. If I get a bottle of 16 year old Lagavulin this year, I will have hit the Trifecta!
Single malt scotch was the stuff I hated as a younger man, could not conceive of why anyone would want to put it in their mouth. Rum or bourbon or Irish whiskey was the hard tipple of choice, on the rare occasions I strayed from beer. But somewhere along the line, I grew up (I think) and started wondering just what in the hell happened to me. 'Once in a lifetime...' indeed. The next thing I knew, I found myself sitting at the bar at the White Horse Tavern in Newport, Rhode Island, a glass of Laphraoig in my hand, and the bartender watching me with a grin, expecting me to spit out the amber liquid at any second. I very nearly did. Somewhere in that mouthful of whisky, though, I unknowingly transformed into an adult. It took a few more years for me to realize it.
So sitting here, listening to the buttons scrape the dryer basket, I wiggle my toes and spin the chair. One last swallow of The Macallan makes it way to my gullet, the fumes rise up into my nose. I don't cough anymore, or at least, not very often. The chair slowly spins to a halt. The dizziness continues from the influx of Scotland's gift to civilization in my veins. Considering that Scotch originated in a country with a reputation for dark, misty winters, I understand the appeal. I think I know why it is made and why the Scots would drink it.
I won't be shearing sheep or scything oats tonight, for sure; but with a wee dram in my belly, folding laundry really isn't bad at all.
Father's Day, 2008.