Many years ago, my brother in law decided to clean out his liquor cabinet.   He wasn’t a heavy drinker but he liked a good Scotch    Apparently a good Scotch is supposed to taste like “peat.”   I dunno, tasted more like feet to me!

At any rate.   I digress.

He pulled out several bottles of various stuff that he no longer wanted.   My mom wasn’t a drinker and I’m not big on the heavy stuff, so most of it was rejected.  

Then he pulled out the bottle of Irish Mist.

We’re Irish – in spite of my sister’s claims to be Scottish – she’s the only one in my family who isn’t Irish (we humor her.)   (With this one, it’s best to pick your battles)    At that time, I was seriously into anything Irish so I had to taste this heavenly stuff.    It’s a honey liquor, and it’s smoooooooth.    He poured me a shot, and handed it over with a smile.   “Sip that,” he said, “It’s strong.”  So of course, me being me, I knocked that baby back in one swallow.  

He stared at me.   I handed the glass back and said, “that’s good, we’ll take that one home!”   “Also, pour me another.”   He did.  I knocked that one back, too.   I took a breath and said, “One more won’t hurt, “ and held out the glass.

“You’re driving!”  said my sister.  “Well.”  Said my mother.   “Nope she isn’t.”   😊   “Give her the shot”

They were in disbelief that I was standing

I have no idea why it didn’t hit me, but I do love me some Irish Mist to this day.   It still doesn’t really affect me, but I no longer attempt to do more than one shot – I’ve grown a bit older and my tolerance has kind of diminished with the passing years.   (Mostly because I hardly ever drink hard liquor, I suppose) (Because most of it tastes like gasoline)

On the random evenings when I feel having a shot of Irish Mist, I think of my brother in law, who died suddenly almost 5 years ago.    He was a nice guy, and I miss him.   After his funeral, we met back at my nephew’s house and my sister poured everyone a shot of some super expensive Scotch that is not pronounced like it’s spelled – Laphroaig is the name and it’s said “La-froy-ick” or something like that – to toast the man we all loved.    We raised our glasses, said, “to D” and knocked it back. 

And every one of us coughed.  

Yup, it still tasted like feet. 

 And I know in my heart that he was laughing in the Heaven he chose not to believe in. 

Yes, I miss him.  And yes, I had a shot of Irish Mist tonight, and thought of him, and smiled.   Thanks for giving me that bottle so long ago, and thanks for being one of the good guys.