The love of a fine scotch…

I’m a relative newbie at the world of single malt scotch. My mum used to like scotch but I spent years equating it with paint thinner.

Then I met single malt.

Since then, we’ve had a warm, wonderful, and comforting relationship.

We sit together on a cold evening, and scotch warms my heart and fingertips, curled as they are around him. It kisses my lips, fills my mouth with sensations I’ve never had before, causes my insides to spin about in delightful eddies.

It’s not a perfect relationship. I had a previous fling with the very sensuous Glenmorangie aged in sauterne casks. I’d met him at a conference – introduced by friends, we hit it off immediately. But then he vanished and I can’t find him anymore. Does one ever forget one’s first love?

So I’ve settled for other scotches – some short term flings, like the oaky Jura, which I still long for on a windy day begging for peat fires…some longer term, like my current affair with Macallan.
He’s smooth, soothing, but expensive to keep.

Sometimes I wonder if I should settle for a lesser drink.

But no, never settle, I tell myself. A little of a good scotch equals much more of a lesser vintage, yes?