Whiskey Sour

“I’m buying this to collect it,” Barb says as she tucks a bottle of Talisker whiskey into her bag.

Right, I think, like I collect wine.

Rain drizzles while we shop in Scotland’s Talisker distillery before our tour. Barb oohs and ahhs over 11 -year-old whiskey, 15-year-old whiskey, and distillers’ editions.

“Everyone on the tour head over here,” motions Thad, a 30ish man with some kind of not-Scottish accent.

Liz, Barb, and I gather round him.

“You ladies get right in front,” Thad says to Barb and me. He motions us forward. I think it must be because of my lack of height.

“You watch them, now,” Thad says to Liz, the youngest of our group. “Those steps can be slippery.”

I survey the rest of the group. Barb and I are the oldest. Wait a minute! Thad thinks Liz is our caregiver!

“Come along, Granny,” Thad says to Barb. I’m older than Barb. If he thinks she’s a granny, he must think I am at death’s door.

Two days ago, I kayaked five miles in the ocean. Today, this young whippersnapper is calling me a granny! 

“I can take him,” I whisper to Barb as I slap my fist into my palm. She motions for me to calm down. Liz laughs so hard she’s about to fall down the dreaded stairs.

I have no idea what Thad is saying, I only hear the roar of fury. One shove and I could send him into a vat of some mushy stuff.

“I am a grandmother,” Barb whispers, “but I’m certainly not his grandmother.”

Thad turns to Liz. “I know how it is,” he says. “I have a mother of my own.”

Liz turns away, shaking with laughter. Thad’s mother is about to be notified of his death by granny.

After the tasting room, Thad tells Barb, “You need to sit down.” I wonder if he sees the steam pouring out our ears.

“Just for you,” he offers a special sample of scotch to Barb. “I could tell you have a good nose for it.”

Barb swoons as she inhales. Thad beams at us. I almost forgive him.