When I first fell in love with whiskey, it was while I was falling in love with a man.
The two seemed, at the time, inseparable. They were both adult and refined, but slightly caustic. They provided a burn down to your core, and it was at once satisfying and that left you reeling. Both drink and person seemed intensely masculine. There was a sense of history to them, a connection to artists and poets and the stuff of bardic legends. He knew about literature and music, and we drank whiskey while discussing these things. In winter he wore thick woolen sweaters that matched the peaty undertone of good scotch. In summer he wore cotton button downs like crisp mint juleps. When he was full of sentiment, he’d sigh and croon, his voice cracking like a pour of warm rye over cold ice.
The two seemed, at the time, inseparable. They were both adult and refined, but slightly caustic. They provided a burn down to your core, and it was at once satisfying and that left you reeling. Both drink and person seemed intensely masculine. There was a sense of history to them, a connection to artists and poets and the stuff of bardic legends. He knew about literature and music, and we drank whiskey while discussing these things. In winter he wore thick woolen sweaters that matched the peaty undertone of good scotch. In summer he wore cotton button downs like crisp mint juleps. When he was full of sentiment, he’d sigh and croon, his voice cracking like a pour of warm rye over cold ice.
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