Maybe I’m hearkening back to my decidedly Celtic roots, but I love scotch and whisky.
Not to drink, mind you, unless it’s Irish whiskey (there is a difference between whisky and whiskey, I’ve been informed), and only then in coffee with liberal amounts of sugar and cream, and only once a year, if that.
No, I don’t want to drink the stuff. I want to fantasize about it, and read about it, and imagine owning a distillery somewhere along the wind-swept Scottish coast. I picture amber-gold liquid trailing down the sides of the glass, and I imagine the scent of oak barrels, peat, sea spray and caramel that will tinge the flavor of my scotch.
Not that I really have any idea what peat smells like, but I imagine that the aroma is earthy, with maybe a hint of grass. I like to think it doesn’t smell like manure, anyway.
I suppose all of this could be solved by my actually trying scotch.
But you see, I’ve built up this elaborate fantasy about scotch the way some women fantasize about their wedding days. And all the women I knew who fantasized about their wedding days wound up disappointed and stressed out when the event actually arrived. (Not me. I was, perhaps, the most laid back bride ever. I ate french fries in my wedding dress). For me, that fantasy is scotch. I’m a little afraid that if I do try it, I will lose the delightful fantasy of what I think scotch will taste like in exchange for the harsh reality of what it actually tastes like.
It’s like hooking up with a man you think is like Gerard Butler, all sex and great abs and a charming accent, and only to find that he farts and snores and carries a man purse. Scotch could very well be this drink of the gods in my head that actually tastes a bit like horse urine.
I wouldn’t know.
I don’t want to know.
I have my happy little fantasy, and I think I’ll keep it that way.