Tommy Reflects on the Past Week

As I sat down to relax after a long day of robotic surgery, I turned on my iPod and Bose only to hear Willie Nelson singing Whiskey River which reminded me of our magical time on the Spey River in the Highlands of Northern Scotland. Naturally I poured a Macallan which sits on the bank of the Spey across from Craigellichie and thoroughly enjoyed this thirty year old single malt. As I was transforming into total tranquility I altruistically thought to myself, "everybody should be able to enjoy this experience before they die." But if everybody did, there would be less for me so I decided to write about the ten drams to enjoy before you croak, i.e., the single malt whisky bucket list. In so doing, people can read about my experience instead of consuming the product thereby leaving more for people like you and me!

Dram number one, in no special order,The Macallan Thirty year old single malt. This costs over a thousand dollars per 750 mls. Don't worry, most of the others are cheaper! Thirty years in an oak barrel leaves this whisky with a serious woody. I mean seriously woody. There is a predominance of fruit and floral tastes with caramel, nuts and sweetness. Resinous and sulfurous undertones add respectfully to the background experience. A very fine whisky. Wish you were here.

Sláinte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy sees the light.

Last night, as the sun slipped into the water, sans the green flash, Jill and I noticed the faintest of a faint light down by the water's edge slowly and meticulously making it's way to our cottage steps. What was it? A wayward firefly? Perhaps a mirage? Something extraterrestrial? At first we thought we were seeing things, but as the light was almost upon us we could make out the forms of four people slowly progressing towards our cottage in the pitch dark illuminated by what appeared to be a small birthday cake candle. Low and behold, it was the very frugal Jimmy Lang and his family. Jimmy, an old friend and medical school classmate of mine, recently pulled a fast one on his aging and infirm parents and acquired the family cottage in Grand Haven, for a song. We decide to celebrate with a "Tour of Scotland," starting with a ten year old Glenkinchie, smooth, mellow, a sweet nectar even a baby would love. Next a ten year old Glen Morangie, sweet, fruity, with a taste of pink cotton candy. The nose was like grandma's purse on Sunday morning as she doled out penny candy to the children feigning interest in seeing grandma but really only greedily interested in getting as much candy as as they could get their grubby little hands on. Staying in the Highlands we had the Macallan twelve year old exclusively matured in select sherry oak casks from Jerez, Spain. What a magnificent color! By no means the mahogany color of a Ben Nevis, but spectacular in its own right. Rich and complex fruit, floral, sugary candy and black licorice. OK, enough of the girly drams. Jim and I were ready to move to the Islays. A fifteen year old Laphroaig with all it's powerful phenol and formaldehyde brought us back to our senses and reminded us of our days dissecting our cadaver as first year medical students. Were the tears in our eyes due to reminiscing or the caustic fumes billowing out of the Glen Cairne whisky glasses? Finally we had an eighteen year old Coal Ila with all it's peatiness. Speaking of peat, Jimmy's son Pete introduced us to his girlfriend . We all sighed a sigh of relief. He's not gay! In the wee morning hours the Langs left to go back to their cottage that I have appropriately named "The Windsong," (It sounds better than "The Land Grab" or "The Blitzkrieg,") illuminated by a fifteen million candle power rescue beacon I keep handy by the bedside. I finished the evening with a long swim into very deep water straight out into the lake in 82 degree water temperature illuminated only by the stars. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy sees the Green Flash.

Have you ever seen the Green Flash? I was asked the same question by my neighbor a retired physician and experienced ocean mariner as we were sitting on his deck sipping whisky and watching the sun set into Lake Michigan. I didn't know what he was talking about so he explained that under certain atmospheric conditions a green flash occurs for a brief moment just after the top of the sun slips beneath the water on the horizon. He had a feeling that the conditions where right. Sure enough, as the sky was turning a brilliant orange, perhaps showing support for the Dutch as they prepared for the finals of the World Cup, the sun sunk into the water and shortly thereafter we saw the green flash like a light bulb exploding inside a giant green Heineken bottle! It was spectacular but not as impressive as the 18 year old Glenlivet we were drinking. You probably recall the Glenlivet is only matured in oak barrels. The 18 year old is incredibly fruity with strong floral aromas. In addition, there is an abundance of caramel and nutty sweetness. A truly magnificent dram. I wouldn't go looking for one off the left coast of California. I've been told they don't occur in Cummunist states. But you might see a pink-o flash!!! Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Bumping uglies on the Gulf Coast during the Oil Spill of 2010.

What self respecting college kid is going to drive Daddy's car down to the Alabama Gulf Coast next spring to get drunk, smoke weed, watch wet T shirt contests and bump uglies with the locals.....soaked in oil? The answer, NO ONE!!!!!!! It's not a good time to be in the service industry along the Gulf Shore now or in the future on Day 68 of O'Bama's Chernobly! The dark cloud of sooty smoke has lifted over my head since I moved North to the Highlands for my tasting. Tonight I'm enjoying a 1.15 Glenfarclas, light, flowery, and fruity. A great breakfast dram. Wish you were here. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tommy wonders, Why don't we turn Herr Docktor Maximilien Aue loose on Brad Thor's terrorist?

Dear Dave, As the first sip of a nicely chilled 54.7 Aberlour from a sherry cask traverses my esophagus and rapidly diffused through my gastric mucus into my blood stream, thoughts of the days eight hour robotic cystectomy, radical prostatectomy, bilateral lymph node dissection and ileal conduit rapidly dissipate and I couldn't help but think that Herr Docktor Maximilien Aue seems to be a recurring theme in your emails. He appears to have a profound effect on you. Almost like a recurring bad nightmare. Perhaps the thought of him having his way with Brad Thor's nasty goat herders would be as soothing as the Aberlour is to me after a big day of surgery. By the way, you must try this Aberlour, a Speyside, Highlands. Very sweet and delicious chilled to a little cooler than I usually drink my whisky. Slainte, Tommy (very much missing the Islays) Maaltman

Chernobly, Obama, and the Carnival.

It's day 55 of O'Bama's Chernobyl, i.e., The Gulf (of Mexico) War. I am so distraught that I have made a major decision in my life. While this debacle continues I will no longer drink my beloved Islays. The taste of the Ocean, sea salts and their characteristic essences of creosote, tar, gasoline, kerosene, and oil remind me too much of how this disaster is being managed. Seriously, who drills for oil in over 5000 feet of hurricane churned water? Oh, we do because federal regulations prohibit drilling in shallow uninhabited lands we own. I realize as a U.S. Senator and CCO (Chief Community Organizer,) O'Bama is not responsible, but as my favorite rapper Fifty Cent would say, "***** please." Don't feel bad for me. I simply am moving north to the Highlands for all my whisky tasting for the time being. In fact as I write , I am enjoying a 9.2 Glen Grant cask strength single malt with a sweet floral and fruity nose, sugary presence and after taste of pink cotton candy. The kind I enjoyed as a kid served by a skinny sun damaged carney with a stingy long greasy mullet and black dirt under his fingernails. I sure am glad restaurant owners now have signs in their bathrooms saying, Restaurant Workers Are Required To Wash Their Hands After Going To The Bathroom. Perhaps with these delightful expressions of the Highland Whiskies I will be more able to clearly determine whose neck to put my boot to and whose ass to kick. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman

Tar balls and a Presidential fly over in Air Force One

Week two and Jill is making slow but steady progress. Less pain, less numbness, and more range of motion. Which reminds me of the answer one of my favorite old patients used to say every time I asked him about his wife. "Oh, she's as ornery as ever!" I'm celebrating with a 1.153, Bowmore (Islay) with a distinctive sea salt taste of brine and an undercurrent of petroleum products. Come to think of it , most of my Islay's have a strong petroleum taste, almost as if someone sprinkled tar balls into my pristine whisky. I'm going to ask President Obama for a fly over in Air Force One at tax payers expense of course to check out the situation. Slainte, Tommy Maaltman