Orlando is for cats!

or how to earn your cat's respect

 

 

Photos by Girlchild aka Jennifer Taylor 

 

 

 To the “Mouse” world, Orlando is for mouse lovers! The four-legged-kind, of course, as in Mickey Mouse. However, on a recent visit, I discovered a sub-sub-subculture. The Black Cat Culture. And for evidence, I present Spooky’s Black Cat Café and Milk District Marketplace!

 

 Located in a somewhat surreptitious suburb (but then we know cats are sneaky and subversive!), the café’s physical address is  207 N Primrose Drive. It’s quiet—no thirteen television sets blaring in the background—so you can actually talk. The ambience is casual, and the décor is artsy.Perhaps a more accurate term is “feline familiar.” Feline I’m sure you understand, but “familiar” as in a witch’s familiar, i.e., an animal, as a cat, that embodies a supernatural spirit and aids a witch in performing magic. Books containing potion recipes and spells are openly displayed.

 The libations list is limited to an eclectic range of beer (try the Old Rasputin Russian Stout. Dark, spicy with a warming finish—like drinking coal, but in a good way, I’m told), cider (apple and pumpkin), and wine. The menu is subject to change daily and is decidedly unique. Think flatbread with truffle oil, cheese, basil and sun dried tomato; Tour of India—a selection of curry-type dips for pita bread; pulled pork on waffles; hominy and chili on cornbread; Dragon Egg appetizers (deviled eggs with sriracha, wasabe, and a sweet chili sauce); quiona tamale pie; and meatball subs.

Desserts are out of this world. I met Donna, the dessert diva and she cooks! Literally and figuratively. Carrot cake with dates, red velvet cupcake with cream cheese, caramel chocolate crunch cake—yum!

 Prices are very reasonable. The staff is friendly and nonjudgmental—they even welcome dog lovers, as Girlchild can attest. By the way, there is actually a black cat named Spooky in charge and a resident black dog. The dog, (not being a cat) grovels and lies on his back to be petted.

Spooky’s is not a place for the uptight, far tight er right, but en fin (cats like that word fin, it makes them think of fresh fish), Spooky’s Black Cat Café is a funky place to hang out and enjoy the cool atmosphere with comfy chairs. Furthermore, when you go home and tell your cat you had dinner at Spooky’s, your cat will regard you with new respect.

 

And en fin, once again, I must thank Girlchild who found this charming establishment!

I'm a legend in my own time and I can prove it!

I didn't make the cover, but I have my very
own page!

Far be it to me to argue with Jesus, but He was wrong! Maybe only once, but at least once. In Mark 6:4 (or 4:6, not sure), He said, "Only in his hometown, among his relatives and in his own house is a prophet without honor." He's wrong because I AM a prophet with honor in my hometown.
     As evidence, I present Legendary Locals of Fort Myers. This book was written by Gerri Reaves, published by Arcadia Press, and released  this July and I was delighted to learn that I have my own page (59, to be precise). I knew I was going to be included, but  I didn't know I would receive such lovely treatment--especially since I am in the company of many locally and internationally storied folk.

My First Job

     I've loved Fort Myers and its people all my life and I've always known my Fort Myers was special. Time after time, the people in my hometown have shown me affection, support, and even (gasp!) respect. Shortly after my graduation from Fort Myers High School, I took a job in the bookkeeping Department of the First National Bank. (Getting to work every morning was a tremendous ordeal--I literally had to make my way a couple hundred feet across  First Street because I lived with my father immediately across the street in the Bradford Hotel.)
      I didn't go to college right out of high school even though there was a trust fund because my grandmother and I were feuding. She wanted me to attend Bryn Mawr or Vassar and I was convinced I wouldn't fit in. However, Frank Lodwick, my band director (yes, I played clarinet 10 years in middle school, high school, and college) was concerned and told my father that he and other members of Elks Lodge No. 1288 wanted to raise the money for me to go to college, that I had too good a mind to waste. Dad thanked Mr. Lodwick and explained the situation. That Fall I headed off to Stetson University in Deland.

Pat Nixon's slim but perhaps slightly bowed legs. . .

THEN there was the time I was assigned by my editor at the News-Press, Bill Spear, to cover the visit to Fort Myers of our first lady, Patricia Nixon. When I described her as having "slim, perhaps slightly bowed legs," Mr. Spear insisted on looking at the photographs before confirming and releasing my story, and agreed I was being charitable. But neither of us had counted on the uproar. Mrs. Nixon was charming, but the local Republicans flooded the paper with complaints--opined one, ". . .your reporter had a bowl of cream on her  desk while she typed with her claws" and another  demanded . . . "if Nixon wins, she should stand on the stage of the covention center wearing a bikini!" Spear defended me down the line, even expressing concern lest my mother be upset. She wasn't. (He's also in Legendary Locals and I'm honored to be in the same book with him.)

No crime, but lots of talk

FOLLOWING a yearlong stint as public information officer for the Lee County Sheriff's Department,  I was assignment editor/police and court reporter for WBBH-TV station when the local paper reported on the front page that I was being investigated by the county sheriff's department. No charges were ever filed and the crime was never disclosed--because there wasn't one (that's a story for another time), but I immediately went to the station manager and offered to resign. Management wouldn't hear of it, but felt it might be wise to move me into an area where I wouldn't be quite so visible. I would do community service (that sounded like a jail term and still does), and I agreed. However, later that week a petition was delivered to the manager's office bearing around a thousand signatures of Fort Myers residents demanding I be kept on the news. And another friend, Police Chief Morgan House defended me as well. He knew the real story.
   Sometime later in 1985, Mayor Art Hamel appointed me to serve as co-chair of the Fort Myers' Centennial Celebration committee. What a wonderful experience! For one solid year, we  had a ball. We celebrated the history of Fort Myers plus we raised enough to money to buy the Pullman car on display at the Southwest Florida Historical Museum.
     As is the case with any person of strong convictions, I had and have my enemies, but also I've been fortunate to count some of the town leaders as friends including former Mayors David Shapard, Oscar Corbin, and Art Hamel along with City Councilman Richard Bashaw. I am incredibly grateful to each and every one of them.
     And finally, I want to express my gratitude to Dr. Gerri Reaves, the author. I am  proud to be included in your fine book, Gerri. thank you, thank you, thank you!

The Measure of a Father"s Love

My father and Butch, our chihuahua


The Measure of a Father’s Love

A recent article about how having a daughter changes a man's life inspired this article. I'm not sure how my birth changed my father, but his love and guidance certainly altered, in positive ways, the many paths of my life.

            How do you measure the love of a father for a daughter? In the case of my dad, B. M. Foster, that love was beyond measure. Throughout our short time together, he was the one who dried my tears, made my school lunches, corrected me when I was wrong (often), and scolded me when I was foolish, but never laid a hand on me in anger. In fact, we shared a secret about that. When I was 10, he came home from work one day and was confronted by my outraged mother with a list of my misdeeds—and there were many. My father nodded, commiserated with her, then took me into the bathroom where I proceeded to cry while he slapped the wall with a rolled-up towel.

             Good parenting? Probably not.

But I always knew I was safe and secure and loved and that was very important to the daughter of two alcoholics.

            Mother and Dad divorced two years later—a relief to everyone—and although Mother had legal custody, she remarried almost immediately and the family agreed it would be better if I lived with Dad. I didn’t mind. Mother was very unpredictable. Dad used to say he stayed with her because he never knew what surprises the monthly full moon would bring. But he also loved her till the day he died and never remarried.

         (We didn’t have a car. Mother’s side had the money, the limo with a chauffeur, and the live-in housekeeper, and gardener.Dad's adopted father, Jack Foster) had owned and operated the only brickyard in DuBois, Pa., but the money had vanished during the Great Depression.)   Then one night as Dad walked his regular five miles home from work, he was badly beaten and robbed. He spent months in the VA hospital in St. Petersburg, Florida. Every week he wrote me a long letter, assuring me he was fine, and enclosing a dollar for me to spend any way I wanted. I don’t know where he got it because money was always tight and salaries in Florida were, and are, some of the lowest in the nation.

          In his letters from the hospital, he finally told me he’d lost his left eye. But Dad was never one to feel sorry for himself. He nicknamed his glass eye Pete and joked about it. I’m sure he did that so I wouldn’t worry. However, when he returned, he became almost reclusive and took the night shift at the hotel where we now lived. People in town noticed because most everyone loved Dad. And why not?  He was funny, kind, and nonjudgmental.  Long before the Civil Rights movement, he treated the African Americans who worked at the hotel with respect and affection. There were only two Jewish families in Fort Myers at the time, and he respected them and their religion and taught me to do the same. But after Pete, when he got off work in the morning instead of sitting out front of the hotel on one of  the benches and talking with friends who worked in the businesses lining First Street, he went to the Elks Club and, in the grand ballroom on the second floor, played the piano for hours. He’d once had two dance bands in Pennsylvania.

          It was important to Dad that I get a good education and learn to think for myself, and one of the first things he did when we moved into the hotel was to take me to the public library where I obtained a card. A few weeks later, I attempted to check out James M. Cain's God’s Little Acre and Bram Stoker’s Dracula. I was 12 and the librarian refused to give me the books, saying I was too young. I went home and told Dad. I wasn’t complaining, I was respectful to authority, but we shared everything. The next day, Dad took me back to the library, asked to see the librarian and politely explained that he had confidence in me and my intelligence. He told her he did not limit what I could read or the movies I saw, and he would appreciate it if the librarian understood that I was to check out and read any book I chose. Shaking her head in what I’m sure was apprehension, she agreed and the world of books was mine.

          As I entered high school, I shared my one secret—I didn’t want to be a nurse, librarian, secretary, or sales girl. I didn’t want to marry and have children—families hurt too much. I wanted to be a writer.

          Dad didn’t say much, he just began saving money. Then one afternoon several months later, I came home from school and, thinking he was asleep which he usually was, I took the money and went to the movies. (Dad always left his billfold on the dresser so I could take what I needed and I never violated that trust.) I was sitting in the movie when Dad came in and insisted I leave with him. He couldn’t wait. He took me to Parker’s Bookstore where he proudly presented me with my first typewriter, a portable with a snazzy carrying case. I took it to college with me the next year.

          At college in my spare time, I wrote articles and short stories and sent them home. Dad read them and mailed them for me, then sending me the rejection letters and always including notes chastising the short-sighted editors who would one day clamor for my work.  When I sold my first poem, he sent a fake news item he’d written describing the gala in which he and Butch, our Chihuahua, and Butch’s friends celebrated my success as a writer. In truth, Butch feasted on a prime cut of roast beef and Dad toasted me in absentia with a soft drink. He’d joined AA and given up drinking after I refused to come home one holiday because he always got drunk at Christmas and Thanksgiving. I cherish a photo of Dad at my college graduation. He’s standing in front of my sorority house at the University of Florida with his hands on his hips, looking as cocky and proud as if someone had just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

           I was with Dad when he died and he gave me one last gift. An hour or so before he passed, he smiled, murmured he loved me, kissed my hand, then lapsed unconscious. It was the longest and saddest night of my life. Just before dawn, he sat up in the hospital bed, stretched a hand to someone only he could see, smiled happily, and fell back on the pillow. He was gone. But in that last gesture, he taught me not to fear death.

          Wherever he is, I love him—beyond measure—as he loved me.

—     30 —

Tampa is for lovers

My friend Elissa and I were sauntering down a street in Ybor City when I inadvertently bumped a bench and, voila, I met the man of my dreams. He doesn't worry about my weight--or his. He's an excellent listener. I don't have to cook for him or clean or do his laundry. Our attraction was instantaneous and so strong I insisted Elissa take our photo together.

Alas, he wouldn't relocate to Delray Beach so I must now pine for my lost love in silence. But next year, if we go to the Mensa RG in Tampa, perhaps I'll meet him again for a torrid weekend!

Tampa truly is for lovers!

The Writing Biz

When asked about writing as a career, I always give the same advice: If you can do anything else and be happy, do it! That counsel comes from the heart. Having said that, I have known since I was six years old and in the second grade that I wanted to be a writer. Never wanted to be anything else. Not once. Nonetheless, it has not been an easy path.
I don't regret it because being a writer has granted me access to people, countries, worlds the average person must only read about, not experience. I have met the powerful, the unscrupulous, the filthy rich and the desperately poor, the genuinely pious and the televangelists who offer your salvation with their right hands while their left hands are firmly ensconced in your wallet. I have met politicians, murderers, psychics, both honest and corrupt law enforcement officers and attorneys, and show business celebs.
Would I change one moment of it?
Absolutely not.
And I have learned a heck of a lot along the journey
One things's for sure: The first person the writer must learn to deal with is himself or herself because writing is a nebulous profession at best. There is no one right way to write. There are no surefire rules for success or universal standards that define success and the resulting uncertainty can drive one a tad loony. One commonly accepted measuring stick is the sales figure. If a book sells x number of copies, it's a success. If it doesn't, that automatically means it's a dud.
Perhaps, perhaps not. Millions of well-written books have been published. And the number is growing with the explosion of epubs. However, few have been commercial or dollar-driven successes. Does that mean the books are failures? Only if the writer writes strictly for money.
But whether the book is deemed a failure or a success as measured by sales figures, the writer must believe in his or her talent. The writer must overcome the insecurities that accompany the sensitivity necessary to be a good writer, the sensitivity required to understand and create characters the readers will care about or find interesting.
(Writing 101: Characters are based on human beings. Writers must first understand the foibles and flaws, strengths and weaknesses, and basic motivations of the humans around them before they can create convincingly real characters.)
Next time, let's talk about rejection, dejection, and resurrection!

Writers Network of South Florida Gala

Saturday night was a wonderful celebration of writers and writing in South Florida and the culmination of the season for the Writers Network of South Florida. The main purpose of the party was to celebrate and acknowledge the winners of the 14th Annual Writers' Network Writing Contest. The venue was comfortable, the food and liquid libations were delicious, and the company outstanding. As a member, I was very proud. Enjoy with us visually the fun, the pleasure, and the pride we felt for our organization and our winners!

Congratulations to this year's winners! (Gentle hint: Perhaps next year, you'll be one of our winners! Oops, I should mention that you'll need to enter--and it's never too early begin writing and revising, searching for just the precise word, the clever idea!)

The cake reflects the 14 years the Writers Network
of South Florida has been holding a contest to honor South
Florida authors.

A happy president--all is going well!

Vinny Muttarelli (left) and Don Grimme, veteran actors present
the winning play, "Our Boys" by Peter Hawkins.



Deb Sharp is  in the foreground, as well she should be. Deb took on the task
of organizing the Gala, a major job, which she pulled off beautifully.

The young adult winners include Daniel
Rousseau, Jodi Tuchin, and Mariolga Locklin.

The short story winners are (from left) Claire Ibarra, Mark
Levy, and Laura P. McCarthy.

The second heroine of the evening is Joanne Endorf,
the contest chairman. Another excellent job!

And the winning poets are (from left) Judy Shaffer
and Beth S. K. Morris

The winning playwrightsare  (from left) Brian Reeves, Peter
Hawkins, and Don Scheer.

101 Tips Revisited

I mentioned earlier this month that I would begin including tips on writing. In fact, I'm actually creating the second edition of 101 Tips on Writing and Selling Your First Novel, a book I wrote and first published in 2003. I'm beginning with the preface, but in the weeks ahead, we will deal with the actual craft of writing and I look forward to your comments. . .

101 Tips on Writing and Selling Your First Novel

Second Edition

PREFACE

You've heard it. We’ve all heard it. We’re at a cocktail party . . . or a church social . . . or a scouting outing when someone says nonchalantly, “I could write a novel. And I’m going to. Just as soon as I have a little extra time.” No one says, “I’ve always wanted to be a brain surgeon and I’m going to operate. Just as soon as I have a little time.”

Of course, there’s a tremendous difference. Our novels do not relate to actual life and death issues. Furthermore, writers don’t bury our mistakes—although sometimes we’d like to! I would want to dig a hole and die before letting anyone read my first novel. (Although it did come in handy; I’ll explain later. ) There are also similarities. Each profession contains elements of both craft and art. Luck plays a major role, too.

RED ALERT: If you’re expecting any form of academic treatise, stop! Put this book down. Return it to the shelf. If you’re looking for practical information, carry on. You see, craft can be learned and in these pages, you will find a modicum of inspiration, lots of encouragement, and an abundance of useful information. It’s a very personal book because it contains all the things I’ve learned the hard way—by trial and error, by making mistakes, by speaking at writers' conferences in Florida, Georgia, Illinois, Nevada, Texas, Canada, and finally, from teaching adult education classes for 20+ years. It’s the book I wish I’d had when I started out.   

 

BONUS TIP: No extra charge! A sense of humor is absolutely essential  if you’re going to survive in this crazy business—and it is a business. If you don’t have one, begin cultivating it now. 

Many times you won’t know whether to laugh or cry. You'll be over the moon when you make a sale. At other times, you’ll feel like throwing the computer out the window and giving up. However, in the long run, tears and anger and feelings of personal rejection are not only nonproductive, but a waste of your most precious commodity—time.

So learn to laugh at the rejections, at the slights...this is a tough business. You’ll find an abundance of people who’ll tell you your talent is not “significant” or that you’ll never make it as a writer. Just paste a smile on your face. Thank them—nicely. Then get back to your work...which is writing and and editing and constantly learning to write more effectively and efficiently. Success is the best revenge.

Keep writing.
       Always.
         That’s what successful, professional writers do, you know.
                 We write.
                     Day in, day out, we write.
                          Headaches, backaches, heartaches, stomach aches, we write.

The good news is that you’re never completely alone. You’ll find you gravitate to other authors who will cheer you on and agree with you that the editor/agent is a no-talent idiot who would probably have rejected William Shakespeare. And by all means, keep us posted. When you sell that splendid first novel, drop us a note so we can cheer with you!

Prudy Taylor Board

Delray Beach, Florida

May 2012

Love at first sight

Most women have experienced the fabled love at first sight. You see him—the golden boy—and time is suspended while you drink in his physical beauty, his strong even sturdy physique, the golden sheen of his hair, and his eyes…oh. . .those eyes light brown with golden flecks. You rush to touch him, to hold him, and in that moment, even though you know better, even though you know he’s selfish, mischievous, disrespectful, and has no respect for material objects, in that moment you are completely besotted.

It happened to me most recently on December 14, 2011. In the parking lot of a McDonald’s in Boca Raton. When a co-worker from Taylor and Francis introduced us, he clung to me, looked up at me with those golden eyes and I could swear he smiled. His whiskers twitched and I am sure he was purring to himself, “Landed me a good one this time! Sucker!”

I was told his name was Pumpkin, but somewhat indignantly, I responded, “He is neither a fruit nor a vegetable to be brought out only in the Fall. He is a handsome redhead and henceforth he shall be known as Handsome Harry because he reminds me of Prince Harry of the House of Windsor..

And thus he became a member of the family.

And yes, he is a cat.
And yes, he is both handsome and beautiful.
And yes, I am still besotted.

But oh, what I have had to give up since Harry came to live with the family. Tidbit and Phannie Love accept him. Sophie and New Year’s Evita (another story) adore him.

I can no longer relax in my recliner in the living room to watch television. As soon as I turn the TV on, Harry jumps up on the stand, weaves his way through the minefield of objects I have placed there to dissuade him, and watches TV. His head swivels from one side to the other as the characters on the screen move. That’s bad enough, but soon he’s bored so he stretches up to the top of the TV where he scratches. The only way I can watch TV is to put him in the bathroom—where he’ll tear up the toilet paper and drag everything out of the cabinet beneath the basin.

I can no longer take a bath without Harry watching and sometimes falling into the tub. In addition, because Harry finds me so fascinating, he is now joined by Sophie and Evie. Having your every move in such an intimate setting observed and judged is extremely discomfiting. Furthermore, I can no longer simply brush my teeth because running water fascinates him. He jumps up on the counter. I put him down. He jumps back up. I repeat the motion. So does he. Finally, I brush my teeth and put on my makeup maneuvering around his gorgeous orange tiger head.

Then there’s the issue of my jewelry. I used to have an earring tree from which I could see and easily select the earrings to go with whatever I was wearing to work. No longer. The earring tree is hidden in a drawer along with my necklaces and rings.

And visitors to my home who needs must use the “facilities,” are told where I hide the toilet paper. And if they wash their hands or rinse a cup in the kitchen, they are told where I hide the paper towels.

It’s been ages since I’ve eaten sitting down, but to be fair that’s not entirely Harry’s fault. The cats automatically assume that anything I’m doing is more interesting than typical feline pastimes and what I’m eating is tastier than their cuisine.

Is it worth it?

Yes. Handsome Harry saunters into the living room, puts his paws on my thigh, and looks up at me with incredible love and acceptance. He is gentle. Regardless of how fiercely we play, he never scratches me, never draws blood. At night, he takes his section of the bed out of the center, but he’s gracious and lets me have room. Then he nestles next to me and purrs. Okay, so occasionally he wakes me up to play with my toes at 3 or 4 a.m. I can always go back to sleep. And he is so funny, so awkward sometimes, that he makes me smile and laugh.

Sometimes love at first sight is genuine. Handsome Harry is proof.

A Requiem for Pearl

A Requiem for my feline friend Pearl Rudolph

I lost a friend this past Saturday, a gorgeous black cat named Pearl Rudolph. She “owned” a good friend of mine to whom her loss was even greater than mine. Pearl’s life was coming to an end and while that helped assuage, it didn’t approach the sense of loss.

            I have lost cats, too. My last three Homer Sue (she was such an ugly kitten I knew she’d be a “homer” and only later discovered she was a “she,” hence the Sue) died at 19. Black Pearl and Oliver both died at 17. They had been with me during the most difficult years of my life—losing a husband, reentering the work place after 15 years, and rebuilding a life in a brand new town. Suffice it to say, the years 2010 and 2011 contained some very sad moments. As luck would have it, I now live with five rescue cats so I am no longer sad although the memory of a pet never dies.

            Sometime ago, I wrote a poem to commemorate the passing of Humdinger, another cherished catfriend, and I offer it here in Pearl’s memory and dedicate it all those who have loved and lost a loyal feline companion.

That Other World

Beyond the woes and sadnesses of this world lies another

Where old cats taste again the joys of kittenhood,

Where joints are supple and keen ears hear the secrets of the wind,

Where teeth are sharp and noses scent out the aromas of the night.

In this world, as real as ours,

Kittens and old cats scamper side by side, tails held high,

Merrily chasing, but never catching the foolish mice and dainty butterflies.

Ere long we’ll all meet again in that other world, Beloved Pearl,

And we shall stroke your shiny coat and rub your ears,

And you shall purr and we shall laugh for we will be

Friends together once again.

The Search for Robert Louis Stevenson's Single Malt

Perhaps 10 years ago, I attended Love Is Murder, a mystery writers conference in Chicago. One of the bonus events they offered was a Single Malt Scotch tasting. A dashing Scotsman wearing a kilt led us into a small room with perhaps a half-dozen tables. On each table  was a paper placemat. In the center of the placemat was a map of Scotland with squares around the margins. In each square was the name, description, and the distillery or area of Scotland where that particular single malt was produced.  As the evening progressed, we tasted each of the eight single malts, following each taste with a swig of distilled, room-temperature water to cleanse our palates.

The evening was delightful. I enjoyed the history and the malts, some more than others, of course, but the highlight of the evening was hearing the Scotsman call out, “Is there a woman here named. . .” and he paused and looked again and said, “Prudence?” I wish I could tell you that we immediately knew we were soulmates and that he whisked me off to his castle in Scotland in his private jet. However, although he was a genuine Scot and a great guy, he worked for the whisky distributor so had no castles. What he did have was a bottle of 18-year-old Talisker which, he informed me, I had won—even though I didn’t realize I’d even entered a contest.

At home, I sipped the Talisker as I had learned at the tasting. I used a tulip glass, which is shaped like a tulip to force the bouquet into your nostrils; I swished it around to prepare the glass before adding just a drop or two of room-temperature water to release the flavor; and sipped. Connoisseurs have described the flavor as peaty with a slight fishy overtone. I just know it had a splendid taste and immediately became my beverage of choice.

Research revealed that Talisker was writer Robert Louis Stevenson’s favorite whisky. In his poem. "The Scotsman's Return From Abroad," Stevenson mentioned "The king o' drinks, as I conceive it, Talisker, Islay, or Glenlivet." (I have since tried Glenlivet and Islay, but Talisker remains my favorite.) In the movie Charlie Wilson's War, the CIA agent gives U.S. Rep. Wilson a bottle of Talisker, which is bugged and allows him to listen to the Congressman's conversations. In "Assegai" by Wilbur Smith, General Penrod Ballantyne's favorite whisky is Talisker. My expertise as a Scotch taster was further validated when 18-year-old Talisker won "Best Single Malt In The World 2007" at the World Whiskies Awards.

As the years passed, I continued my research and learned that Talisker is produced on the shores of the Isle of Skye by the Talisker Distillery in Carbost, Scotland. Then, in a juxtaposition of fortuitous circumstances, I discovered that my friend Juli Townsend was moving to Scotland because her husband had taken a post at Edinburgh University. A few months later, friend Maria and I were on our way to Europe with a visit to the Talisker Distillery on the agenda.

I was the only Talisker aficionado, but my friends Juli and Maria indulged my whimsy and journeyed with me. The tour was informative and fun. The distillery was founded in 1830 by Hugh and Kenneth MacAskill and built in 1831 on the Isle of Skye at Carbost when they acquired the lease of Talisker House from the MacLeod of MacLeod. The distillery was rebuilt between 1880 and 1887 and enlarged in 1900. When a new lease for the distillery was negotiated with the chief of Clan MacLeod in 1892, the annual payment was a ten-gallon cask of best-quality Talisker and £23.12s ($36.62. Today you can’t buy even a fifth of 18-year-old Talisker for that.). It was rebuilt in 1960 after a stillhouse fire destroyed the distillery. Five exact replicas of the original stills were constructed to preserve the original Talisker flavor. This was the facility we toured.

We learned the distillery operates five stills and that its distinctive flavor derives from a combination of unique factors. The stills use worm tubs (condensing coils), which are believed to give the whisky a fuller flavor; the malted barley used comes from Muir of Ord, a village in the Highlands; and the lye pipes taking the vapor from the still to the worm tubes are swan necked. A loop in the pipes causes some of the alcohol to condense before it reaches the cooler where it goes through stages in which the level of alcohol increases as it cools. It then runs back in to the stills and is distilled again.

After the tour, we were treated to generous samples in the gift shop where the staff wished us well and sent us on happily our way to Loch Ness. That’s another story for another day.

Copyright 2012 by Prudy Taylor Board