As football season winds down… Whisky Widow vs. Football Widow

First, he had every Sunday from the end of August through January. The 1:00 game, 4:00 game, and 7:00 game. Then he got every Monday night as well.  Now, Saturday games and Thursday night games are mixed in here and there. And please don’t forget training camp at the end of the summer and the Combines in the spring. Then, there are two days in April for the NFL draft.  And another day in September for the Fantasy Football draft – which itself requires countless hours of researching player statistics to prepare for that ridiculous, phony league where he and his little group of buddies play pretend and dream about being a real football coach when they grow up.

There are the endless phone calls shared between him and his brother bargaining, begging, wheeling and dealing players and complaining about this team or that one – it’s like one continuous conversation where they only take breaks to pee and eat. If the phone rings between September and January, I just hand it to my husband without even looking to see who it is.

Here, honey, I’m sure it’s your brother.

Did I mention that he also has Jets’ season tickets? That involves tailgating. And the preparation for the tailgating – the pre-game ritual that is launched an entire day before the game. It begins with food shopping, but he only gets what he needs for the upcoming man festivities. Never mind picking up milk or bread so I don’t have to run out tomorrow in the freezing cold with the baby while he’s gone.

Next, there is the cooking that goes into the wee hours of the morning. Not only do I hear pots clanging at 3:00 a.m., but I hear each and every pot in the house. You see, this cooking also requires him to use every single cooking utensil that we own, and then, it is mandated by Tailgate Law to leave them all in the sink for me to clean up in the morning. And if I leave them for him to clean up when he gets home, silly me, they sit there until he needs the damn pots to make his chicken quesadillas for the game the following weekend. (Honestly, I only did that once, and it wasn’t pretty.)

So the game itself, which is technically only 3 hours long, now turns into a friggin’ all day affair. They have to get to the stadium at the crack of dawn to beat the rush and find parking (even if it’s a 4:00 game – because they have to park in the same friggin’ spot every time – because if they don’t tailgate in the exact same location each week, the entire universe will spin wildly out of control… and the Jets will lose. But, if you ask me, what else is new? Let’s, be realistic and not blame it on the mishap in the tailgating traditions). After arriving shortly after sun-up, they make breakfast. Then they have to eat again before the game. And, they have to hang out after the game and make a snack while waiting for all those suckers sitting in traffic who are hurrying home because their wives know when the game ends – his words, not mine.

This whole ceremony where he and those other masochistic fools pay homage to the gods of the pig skin befuddles me. They stand there in all sorts of weather, be it rain, howling winds or even snow, cooking on their little propane grills with frostbitten fingers, never admitting how cold they really are. And they will do this religiously, for every home game, whether the Jets are winning or losing. There is actually something sickly ritualistic about their wacky traditions – the faithful fans gathering every other weekend, offering their sacrifices of ribs and wings, praying that the temperamental football gods will put another notch in the win column for the J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, Jets.

And, while my husband is out in the bone-chilling cold, I am home performing my own rituals, like changing diapers, playing hide-n-seek, and relishing nap-time. But honestly, even after all of this complaining and nagging (yes, I understand that that is exactly what this story is, one big bitch-fest), I have to say that since I’ve become a whisky widow, being a football widow, in comparison, actually isn’t all that bad.

You see, at least come February, I know that I have a few months’ reprieve until football season gets into full swing again.

Whisky, on the other hand, doesn’t have a season.

The Whisky Widow’s View of a “Whisky Tasting”

Let’s end the week with The Whisky Widow’s view of a “whisky tasting”…. Happy Friday!


The UPS truck pulls up outside my house. The driver, John, gets out and makes his way to the front porch, cautiously carrying our newest addition.

“Hey [Whisky Widow]! Here’s another one for ya… See ya soon!” You see, we’re on a first name basis now.

I smile, cradling the new bundle of my husband’s joy and say with a wink, “With any luck, not ‘til next week!” He knowingly chuckles, climbs into that huge brown beast I’ve come to think of as my husband’s personal whisky transport service, and drives away. I roll my eyes and yell to my husband that he’s got a delivery.

Now let me explain here, that at any other time I yell to my husband for any other reason, he either can’t hear me, is too busy to respond, is on the phone, or let’s face it, just plain ignores me. But when he hears this particular announcement, he comes running from whatever far corner of the house, basement, office or yard in which he was hiding to welcome his new baby.

Like a kid at Christmas, he immediately tears open the package, tossing paper and packing materials, not to mention Styrofoam peanuts that take days to pick up, all over the kitchen. The shredded cardboard box then lies lifeless and empty on the floor while he marvels at its former contents. (I think the last time he greeted me like that was when we first moved in together and were reveling in our newfound privacy… um, 8 years ago.)

Caressing its smooth, flawless skin, he already envisions… the tasting. His pupils dilate, lips part, breath catches, and a tiny bead of sweat forms on his brow. His cheeks flush and he seems to get lost for moment in the glow of this new gift from the Gods. Then he remembers himself, shakes his head as if to clear his mind and says to no one in particular, because, please understand, I ceased to exist the moment that he took the box from my hands, “Oh, I just remembered… I have to make a phone call. See you in a bit.”

He turns, and in a flash, he’s halfway to his bar, already stoked for… the tasting.

Amazingly, my husband can spend the better part of 30 minutes, or longer, with just one whisky. And as you know, there are very specific, key elements to tasting a whisky – nose, body and finish. (Ask me, when was the last time he spent 30 minutes with my very specific elements?)

Honestly, listen to these adjectives that he uses to describe whisky and tell me if you still believe that he is indeed talking about whisky…

Nose – vibrant, fresh and clean, sticky sweet, deep with hidden spices

Body – light and tingly, thick and smooth, full, velvety, creamy and hot

Finish – long and dry, warming with some bite, lingering, soothing, sweet and rich

For Christ’s sake, am I crazy? What would it take for me to get this kind of attention? And what does it say about my marriage that I wish I was a bottle of damn whisky?

Truth be told, it says the same thing that my latest gift from Scotland says.

A gift bag from the Spirited Soaps Company. Packed in a cute little jute bag are bath and body products – lotions, creams and soaps – all scented with, you guessed it, whisky.

Now, instead of my usual citrus and lavender, I can smell like Bowmore body lotion and hand cream, or Laphroiag and Ardbeg soap. An olfactory feast for the whisky lover, I’m sure. For me, not so much.

No, my husband does not actually want me to BE a bottle of whisky. That would be silly. But he obviously wouldn’t mind if I smelled and tasted like one. And I guess that answers my other question too. What would it take for me to get the same kind of attention that he lavishes upon his whisky tastings? Clearly, I just have to smell and taste like whisky. But hey, it could be worse I guess. It beats dressing up like a clichéd French maid, or dealing with some other kinky fetish, like bondage or S&M. But then again… handcuffs and a blindfold are a little exciting… I mean, might be fun…..

Join The Whisky Widow at the Whisky Guild’s upcoming 2013 tasting events:

New Jersey – March 7, 2013 – Madison Hotel, Morristown, NJ

Washington DC Whisky Cruise – April 10, 2013 – Spirit of Washington DC Cruise Ship

Boston Whisky Cruise – May 18, 2013 – Spirit of Boston Cruise Ship

New York Whisky Cruise (Whisky on the Hudson) – August 29, 2013 – Spirit of New York Cruise Ship

Join us as we gather to sample, celebrate and showcase the world’s finest whiskies. Distillers, brand ambassadors, and masters of whisky will be in attendance to guide you through sampling their spirits. With your ticket purchase, you will receive admittance to the event, a world-renown Glencairn tasting glass, gourmet buffet dinner and the opportunity to attend special Master Classes hosted by the most gifted people in the whisky industry.

Call 877-3-WHISKY ext. 107 for further information on the events and to purchase tickets.

Our old friend The Whisky Widow writes…

I sadly remember the night that the affair began. I was anxiously awaiting my husband’s call to tell me what time he and his father would be arriving on the train. I had reluctantly agreed to pick them up after some whisky tasting event. I had to be at work early the next morning, and damn, it was getting late. The phone rang and I heard his father’s voice on the other end. My initial thought was that my husband didn’t want me to hear how intoxicated he was and made his father call me. I already had visions of a ride home steeped in the fumes of whisky and cigars while they recounted the entire evening to me – whisky by whisky…. by whisky.

So, I was completely unprepared when I heard his father say, “Honey, I think your husband has fallen in love with a 32-year-old.” My heart pounded. What do you mean, a 32-year-old?

And so it began. His passion for that spirited nymph was ignited, and there was nothing I could do about it. That was 8 years ago, and it’s been an uphill battle ever since. He and this audacious 32-year-old had a bond that I could not break.

To add to my misery, the 32-year-old had friends. Flirty blonds, with silky smooth, sun-kissed skin that smelled of salt water and ocean air. Fiery auburn beauties with full, cherry red lips that glistened with a kiss of sherry. Dark, mysterious lovers with long legs and smoky, velvety voices that spoke to him in languages I could not understand. I just can’t compete with such marvelous variety.

The ultimate betrayal is that he brought them into my home. Sure, he tried to hide them from me. First, they were hidden under his desk in his home office. Then the bedroom closet. Then he didn’t care if I knew. He used to sneak them into the house. Now he parades them in front of me like trophies from a battle that we never fought, daring me to raise my voice in protest against this insanity. But I remain silent.

Eventually, he made a home for them in our basement. And he has no shame. He proudly shows them off, introducing them to family and friends. When we have people over, all the men congregate and stare, awe-struck, at his spectacularly sinful collection.  My sisters-in-law and friends blame me. They think that I should never have let this happen. I’ve let it go too far.

But what they don’t know is that I have a secret.

As long my husband thinks he’s getting away with this debauchery, he’ll never guess that I too have been seduced by a few of his special prizes. Yes, these tantalizing temptresses have lured even me into their lair – more often than I care to admit. I am powerless against their charms. I cannot ignore the lip-smacking sweetness of cherry and maple syrup, the crisp fresh citrus, the earthy hints of grass and campfire, and the lingering finish of well worn leather – 80’s bomber jacket-style. These sexy spirits have consumed me whole.

So I’ll let my husband have his little romances. I’ll pick him up from the train station after he’s had one too many. I’ll even look the other way when he adds another naughty nymph to his little black book. Because I know that every time he parades a new addition through the kitchen, it’s just another delicious dram that I’ve yet to savor on the sly.


January 3, 2013


KAVALAN whisky, from King Car Distillery in Yilan, Taiwan, will be available in the U.S. beginning April 1, 2013.

International Beverage Company proudly announces that they will now be importing the first Taiwanese whisky to be made available in the United States. The entire range of the acclaimed Kavalan whisky will hit the U.S. marketplace beginning April 1, 2013.

King Car Kavalan Distillery, the first and only whisky distillery in Taiwan, has already established its reputation for being innovative and quality conscious. Within just six years of its establishment, King Car Distillery has had the attentions of leading whisky experts, taking home award after award in spirits competitions worldwide.ian chang - kavalan

In November 2011, Kavalan Solist Fino Sherry Cask was crowned ‘New World Whisky of the Year’ in Jim Murray’s 2012 Whisky Bible. Matured in Spanish Fino casks, the cask strength single malt scored 97 points out of 100.

Kavalan’s master blender, Ian Chang said, “This Solist Fino is unique malt that can only be matured under the sub-tropical climate of Taiwan with that amazing colour, flavor and complexity”. “It is truly a malt to represent the unique spirit of Taiwan!”

Also in 2011, the International Wine & Spirits Competition (IWSC) awarded the King Car Kavalan Distillery a host of awards: The distillery itself was named ‘Asia Pacific Spirits Producer of the Year’, Kavalan Solist ex-Bourbon cask took ‘Gold’ and Kavalan Single Malt Whisky took ‘Gold Best in Class’ awards.

In March 2012, the Kavalan Solist Fino Single Malt was crowned ‘Best New World Single Malt Whisky’ by the World Whisky Awards.

At the 2012 IWSC, King Car Conductor was awarded a ‘Gold Outstanding’ medal along with a product trophy. Its vivid amber color with truffles, nuts, cocoa, green apple and fruity notes, followed by a hint of flora and honey, has perfect balance.

Perhaps most notably, in 2010, Kavalan took top honors in a blind taste test against three Scottish whiskies and one English whisky. “It’s tropical fruits. Tropical fruit jam,” said Charles MacLean, chairman of the judge panel.kavalan bottle

Taiwan’s unique natural resources, especially its water drawn from the springs in the Snowy Mountain and Central Mountains, impart a smooth and creamy mouth feel to its whisky. Named for the earliest tribe that inhabited Yilan, Taiwan, Kavalan represents sincerity, honesty, and the spirit of step-by-step cultivation.


International Beverage Company’s mission is to represent products of super premium quality, both in taste and packaging; with interesting points of difference; elements that make our products a great value for our consumers.

“Building our brands by being the most valued and respected artisanal spirits company from sale to sip.”