The Bowmore is My Muse...

He said: When we argue I drink Bowmore. Or at least I do tonight. Like the waters off Bowmore, relationships can be tempestuous in the deep, dark, sloshing back and forth raging sea sort of way as oppose to the violent beating against the rock sort of way. Just sayin'.

In his writings, Michael Jackson frequently dismissed the notion of having a favorite malt; instead stressing "there is the right malt for the time and place - the mood and moment."

The last time I had a Bowmore was a couple of months ago on a crisp winter night. My better half and I were out walking our two dogs on a snow-covered trail. As a surprise I smuggled two nosing glasses and a couple of miniatures in my coat, ready to spring them at the right moment (I firmly believe whisky tastes better outside). We ended up at a stone lookout with views of an inner city lake. You could see your breath with every exhale. I produced the glasses and then the miniatures; she had the 18 year old, I the 12. I remember how the malt slowing worked its way into the corners of my body, smoky, like a mid-winter bonfire; I remember the cold glass against my bottom lip but most importantly I remember the surprised gasp of delight and the warm kiss. The BTU's of that lip-lock alone made the whisky redundant, but without the whisky surprise...well I think you see where I'm going; chicken or the egg.

The argument, like most is irrelevant. Although this time it is a little different as it centres around whisky, a topic we rarely quibble over. I guess you could argue that it really isn't about whisky but rather about the logistics, details and politics that surround the stuff of whisky; but who wants to argue any more? We are not talking earth-shattering stuff here.  Differing opinions on publicly calling the local provincially owned liquor corporation a bunch of morons; sensitivities over feeling left out of email threads to authors more famous than us, insecurities, overall...nonsense.

The tempest analogies suit my mood well and this fortifying Islay is always a favorite but something seems off. The living room is cool, it's late and there was a wisp of springtime flurries earlier (poor-man's fertilizer as my grandfather the farmer used to call it). The dram is the same as that cold winter's eve and three of the four members of the hiking party are here. This time the warming smoky elixir doesn't work its magic. I'm still cold. Given Michael Jackson's anecdote above I don't think it's the malt failing to live up to its full potential. The key is to not have these things last long enough to necessitate soliciting suggestions for most morose malt of the year.