My Father's Daughter

I am so not a Scotch drinker. I have never suffered one moment's temptation to learn to appreciate the spirit. I'm a wino, pure and simple. Several years ago I posted a portfolio of over 200 wine reviews on a pay-per-click web site. I co-created what came to be known as Wine Write Offs: a group of reviewers would sample identical wines and upload their perceptions as simultaneously as possible. It was great fun, this cyber tasting panel.

A Single Malt Scotch Sip Off was inevitable. I was the only woman who participated with a group of six men. A girl could not have asked for a more supportive first-time single malt experience. The men were very practiced and knowledgeable in all things Scotch. They were all frequent imbibers with decades of practice to call upon. Me? I did it for my father.

My father had been dead for four years. There are times in which I think of him and miss his annoyingly practical advice more than others. This period was one such passage. Should you ask me to reel off a list of the things he cherished most, I would quickly reply: "Golf; deep sea fishing (albacore!); writing his own monthly column for Riviera Country Club's magazine; being a West Los Angeles realtor; Brentwood Presbyterian Church; Don Rickles; and Scotch Whisky. (Runners up include: artichokes; Glen Miller and His Orchestra; Bob Newhart; my brother's little league years; and that first big job I landed fresh out of college with Blue Cross of California.)

I believed that perhaps by dipping my writer's toe into the heady Highland waters for this group review I could invoke and petition, in some sacramental manner, the good graces and gentle guidance of my father, who art in heaven. But where to start? How does one who knows nothing about the designated adult beverage orient herself? Ask people you trust for advice. After consulting two of the most seasoned Scotchophiles on the web site it seemed clear that I should procure a bottle of The Glenlivet, and the older the better -- as in past the 12 year mark.

A gal pal suggested that I visit a bar and sample a glass of Glenlivet rather than committing to an entire bottle in the near-certain event that I hated it. My exact words: "I would rather flush the $55 down my toilet than sit alone in a smoky, Pagosa bar on a Saturday afternoon, a glass of neat Scotch in front of me." Gave "invitation for disaster" a whole new meaning.

I found the Glenlivet 12 but lo and behold, the 18 was in stock. Trying desperately to maximize any chance in hell that I could taste the Scotch without eliciting the gag reflex, I forked over the big bucks, all the while thinking how many Best Buy bottles of wine that same $55 could buy.

The liquor store owner looked stunned as he took my cash. I feared he might alert the local press to the breaking news: Town Wino Buys Scotch. Film at 11:00. I offered: "Oh, another little Taste Off on that web site I do all those wine reviews for", and he agreed that the Glenlivet 18 was about as smooth as they come.

Taking the distiller's advice: "Don't be hurried", I took the evaluating very, very slowly. In the wine glass the color was just exquisite to my eye; a burnt honey, a golden amber. It was a most warm and lush looking liquid. In the nose? My father. I simply smelled my father. I was a young girl again and I heard the clink clink clink of his Scotch rocks glass as he descended the stairs after dressing for a dinner out with my mother. He golfed every Thursday and Saturday. He came home after his 18 holes and ritualistically readied himself for their date over Scotch rocks. Never on a Tuesday. Never a gin and tonic. Until I was a woman I did not know it was possible for a man to barbecue without a glass of scotch rocks in hand.

Because I can not smell Scotch without thinking of my father it took a long while to get past the misting eyes, the lump in throat. I rather liked the way the alcohol tickled the little nose hairs on the upward rise and every time I swirled and sniffed I perceived a different set of aromas. Those that leaped out at me the loudest were light floral notes, orange blossom, honey, and faint hints of chocolate. The more I explored, the more I found other aromas -- vanilla, resin, and a delicate spiciness reminiscent of toffee and cloves.

Having "not hurried" for about two hours, the moment of the first sip had arrived. There was no turning back and no more pathetic stalling. I sipped tentatively. I broke out in laughter. I was stunned -- I liked it! Taking the tiniest of tastes, I was struck by what a totally different sensory adventure it was from wine. The dominant in-mouth flavors were those of honey, lemon peel, and toffee vanilla. The warmth of the whisky was shocking yet soothing. My top lip was quivering in the heat and the back of my throat, down into my upper chest, radiating. But it was a mellow and rich, almost hypnotic warmth; not a burning flame to recoil from. Ahhhhhh....so this is what you single malt freaks seek in these bottles?

The nose deepened profoundly once the liquid had touched the palate. With each sip I felt that my mouth and nose were co-joined in some harmonious pas de deux of synergy and synthesis. Once the sense of taste and sensation engaged that of eye and nose, the circuit was complete. Add to that the caressing heat on the lips, in the mouth, and down the throat -- where had I been?

After just a few swallows my head was a buzzin'. It was a very different buzz from wine -- a gentle and smooth buzz -- a mental and muscle relaxer extraordinaire. Both brain and body uttered a huge sigh of relief, free of the needless tensions I burden them with daily. I wondered if I had found the secret to my annoying bouts of insomnia. While I would not be inclined to forsake my beloved wine grape for Scotch Whisky, I was able to fully appreciate and understand, from the other side of the glass, those who have a devotion and dedication to the "Water of Life".

Today, just after the ten-year anniversary of my father's passing and the approach of Father's Day, I am still writing about wine and I am again passing through a period in which I sorely miss his steadying advice. I have a photo of him here, just next to my computer -- his back to the Pacific Ocean, seated barefoot on a beach house ledge, waiting for the grill to heat. The late afternoon sun lights him from behind, and in his left hand -- Scotch rocks.