Whisky Toast Quotes

I KNEW IT WAS OVER when tonight you couldn't make the phone ring when you used to make the sun rise when trees used to throw themselves in front of you to be paper for love letters that was how i knew i had to do it swaddle the kids we never had against january's cold slice bundle them in winter clothes they never needed so i could drop them off at my mom's even though she lives on the other side of the country and at this late west coast hour is assuredly east coast sleeping peacefully her house was lit like a candle the way homes should be warm and golden and home and the kids ran in and jumped at the bichon frise named lucky that she never had they hugged the dog it wriggled and the kids were happy yours and mine the ones we never had and my mom was grand maternal, which is to say, with style that only comes when you've seen enough to know grace like when to pretend it's christmas or a birthday so she lit her voice with tiny lights and pretended she didn't see me crying as i drove away to the hotel connected to the bar where i ordered the cheapest whisky they had just because it shares your first name because they don't make a whisky called baby and i only thought what i got was what i ordered i toasted the hangover inevitable as sun that used to rise in your name i toasted the carnivals we never went to and the things you never won for me the ferris wheels we never kissed on and all the dreams between us that sat there like balloons on a carney's board waiting to explode with passion but slowly deflated hung slave under the pin- prick of a tack hung heads down like lovers when it doesn't work, like me at last call after too many cheap too many sweet too much whisky makes me sick, like the smell of cheap, like the smell of the dead like the cheap, dead flowers you never sent that i never threw out of the window of a car i never really owned

And, oh yes, I did see Nessie! But that was much later on after a late evening that involved several pints and more than my share of Scapa Flow whisky. Nice girl. Pretty face. Longish neck. Not much in the leg department.

After all, Christmastide is the time of year for warming brandies, for assertive burgundies and meaty Medoc wines, and for gladsome whiskies. And an Islay malt: well, this is the octave of St Andrew, and you will doubtless recall that he is not only the patron saint of Alba, of Scotland, but was also a fisherman. How better to toast my favorite apostle (he being all the things I personally am not, starting with humble and self-effacing) than with the sea-salty dram of an Islay whisky?

You drink whisky, hon?” he asked Mollie. “Uh, not really.” “Well, you do now.” He poured a splash of amber liquid into two crystal glasses and brought one to her before holding up his own glass. “What are we toasting to?” he asked. “To men being shits,” Riley said. He gave his wife a look. “I’m not drinking my own whisky to that.

Islay whisky starts as hot as the devil's whisper... but then the flavors come through, and it might taste of cinnamon, or peat, or honeycomb fresh from the hive. It could taste of a long ago walk on a winter's eve... or a kiss you once stole from your sweetheart in the hayloft. Whisky is yesterday's rain, distilled with barley into a vapor that rises like a will-o'-the-wisp, then set to bide its time in casks of good oak." His voice had turned as soft as a curl of smoke. "Someday we'll have a whisky, you and I. We'll toast health to our friends and peace to our foes... and we'll drink to the loves lost to time's perishing, as well as those yet to come.

You... you were telling me about your diet?" "Well, mostly I was raised on milk, potatoes, dulse, fish-" "I beg your pardon, did you say 'dulse'? What is that, exactly?" "A kind of seaweed," MacRae said. "As a lad, it was my job to go out at low tide before supper and cut handfuls of it from the rocks on shore." He opened a cupboard to view a small store of cooking supplies and utensils. "It goes in soup, or you can eat it raw." He glanced at her over his shoulder, amusement touching his lips as he saw her expression. "Seaweed is the secret to good health?" Merritt asked dubiously. "No, milady, that would be whisky. My men and I take a wee dram every day." Seeing her perplexed expression, her continued, "Whisky is the water of life. It warms the blood, keeps the spirits calm, and the heart strong." "I wish I liked whisky, but I'm afraid it's not to my taste." MacRae looked appalled. "Was it Scotch whisky?" "I'm not sure," she said. "Whatever it was, it set my tongue on fire." "It was no' Scotch, then, but rotgut. Islay whisky starts as hot as the devil's whisper... but then the flavors come through, and it might taste of cinnamon, or peat, or honeycomb fresh from the hive. It could taste of a long-ago walk on a winter's eve... or a kiss you once stole from your sweetheart in the hayloft. Whisky is yesterday's rain, distilled with barley into a vapor that rises like a will-o'-the-wisp, then set to bide its time in casks of good oak." His voice had turned as soft as a curl of smoke. "Someday we'll have a whisky, you and I. We'll toast health to our friends and peace to our foes... and we'll drink to the loves lost to time's perishing, as well as those yet to come.

The proper drinking of Scotch Whisky is more than indulgence: it is a toast to civilization, a tribute to the continuity of culture, a manifesto of man’s determination to use the resources of nature to refresh mind and body and enjoy to the full the senses with which he has been endowed.” David Daiches

While drinking from a bottle of the oldest reserve whisky my family distilled, I toasted to the Manwarring empire. As I did for each of my many wins.

out her clothes – old canvas trousers and a rough shirt – and carried them into the bathroom. She showered quickly, hoping she wouldn’t wake anyone in the house, dressed and padded downstairs, softly like a burglar, a shoe in each hand. She made coffee and toast and sat at the table. Normally she might have walked out and bought a newspaper and read it with her breakfast. She might have listened to the radio. This morning she just drank her coffee and took one bite of the toast, which tasted like old leather, and stared into space. She had two mugs of coffee and threw the toast in the bin. She thought of the people sleeping in the house and then she thought of Whisky in his hutch out in the garden. The hammer. She went out into the garden where a light drizzle was falling and picked a handful of dandelion leaves from the lawn, which was in bad need of mowing. She opened the door of the hutch and threw them in. Whisky emerged from the inside of the hutch and began to munch on them. She reached past him and retrieved the hammer from under the straw. She walked back into the kitchen and laid it on the table. What should she do? Her immediate thought was to dispose of it. Surely that would be easy. She could put it into a litter bin or throw it into some bushes in a park or into a canal. It felt wrong, of course, but she had done so much destruction of evidence. Why not just do a little more? But this was the actual object that was used to kill Saul. Maybe, just maybe, it might be needed. After all, the murderer was still out there. She stared at it. Mabel had taken it. And Mabel had kept it. Why?