Scottish assumptions

Never assume! This has been a very hard lesson for me to learn.

A couple of weeks ago, I was awarded a small but attractive prize for delivering the “Immortal Memory” speech at a Robert Burns Night. I could go on and on about the fun we had at this party that our friend Donna hosted, not to mention how much I learned about Burns in preparing the speech, which I should have known before. But that’s not the point.

The prize is the point just now.

My prize was a small tankard to which were affixed a bottle of Celtic beer and a tiny bottle of amber liquor which was labeled “Red Stag.” Since this had been a Scottish evening from start to finish (kilts were nearly involved, but I am glad to report that this particular goal was out of reach for me), it stood to reason that the alcohol would be Celtic as well, that is to say, that it would be Scotch whiskey. After all, I did bring a part of a bottle of Johnny Walker Black to the party to share, and this particular spirit was much in evidence during this party.

For two or three weeks now, this prize, with another to match it, has been occupying a prominent place on the table to the right of our front door. From said place of prominence the small bottle of liquor has been beckoning me for days and days, but I awaited a propitious moment.

Today came that moment. Finally, after 30 or 36 inches of snow (depending on your source), after a day of sun, a day of rain and a day of fog, the city snowplows ground their way into our neighborhood. After an exciting interval in which one of the dump trucks became nearly permanently involved with a snowbank and had to be pulled out with a cable that might have hauled the Queen Mary off a sandbank, the street was finally cleared.

Then we had to shovel our way from the sidewalk at the end of our driveway to the pavement through snow which had experienced a day of brilliant sun, a day of rain and a third of fog. It took a substantial stint of work, but we were aided by the neighbor from across the street (we helped shovel him out after our drive was finished and it became quite a fine neighborhood help-fest by the time all was done.

Hence, by the time the sun fell below the yardarm, I was more than ready for that Scotch, which I decided was now utterly and unarguably fitted to be consumed.

I poured Lois a sherry, broke the seal on my liquor and emptied it into my glass. We lifted our glasses, clinked and sipped.

Black Cherry. That’s what it was. Black Cherry Bourbon, to be more exact.

I’ve nothing against Black Cherry and noting against Bourbon. But when, in the expectation of tasting the ancient flavor of peaty Scotch whiskey, one tastes Black Cherry Bourbon, one has a right to be surprised. Somewhat!

Did I drink it? Of course. Gift horse and all that. But the other wee bottle is indeed labeled Scotch, and it is calling to me with a mighty voice to which I feel obliged to listen. Burns would approve, I feel.

Before that, however, once again it must be driven into my brain: Never Assume.