Andrew, my good friend, and I have shared two bottles of scotch over the years, and now it is time for a third.
The first one was an 18 year old Macallan single malt, it was a graduation present shared between Andrew, myself, and a strange bong disguised as a man named Pike. We drank it to nothing with a sort of half-ceremony and reckless abandon of people jumping into a strangers back yard pool in the middle of the night. It was (and I quote the wine maker I give the very last bit to), "Fucking Smooth".
The second was 25 year old Macallan single malt, a splurge to celebrate a long overdue reunion. We had to hunt this one down. It took time and patience to find it, and restraint not to mainline it when we finally got it back home. It was amazing, like pouring happy fire down my undeserving gullet. I can't be sure, but I remember the 18 year old as being smoother (who knows what gets colored by memory).
Today, a new chapter of scotchy goodness must be written. My friend and I are separated by half a country and the budget is considerably choked back, none the less, our friendship has been measured by food, booze, and strange occurrences, and this next drink must carry that forward.
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