Ah, whiskey...

On St. Paddy's Day, I look back on my love affair with whiskey, as I sip a Jamison's neat with a beer back.
I forget how I first fell for her, that firey gab water. My father's always drunk it, but he didn't introduce me. Maybe it was hanging out with Kelani and her Maker's. It's just that, for some time now, I've loved the buzz and convivial spirit that a nice whiskey gives.
The Irish whiskeys are so pure and bracing, like a lonely moor. The Scotch a touch hoarier, with highland bite and peaty crunch. In the Canadian blends I find a calm, open smoothness.
I don't care what kind you hand me, Manhattan, Old-Fashioned or neat. Just let the whiskey flow, with good people, good music and eats.

Vermouth

When I misguidedly tried to abstain from drink, I had none in the house. Except, that is, for the vermouth.
I have always looked down on vermouth, and seen it as a culinary spirit, not fit for drink. In the league with marsala and sherry, it sat, dusty on the rack, to occasionally freshen a saute, or deglaze.
I pulled it down. It was a good brand, as expensive as the wines I drink. It recommended itself as a "long drink over ice". I poured it half and half with lemon soda water and a twist, over ice. So nice. Clean. Crisp. Refreshing. A wonderful bridge from afternoon to evening.