Whisky and milk. Yeah. There was a programme about the emergence of white (mainly) middle-class British fans of black American blues, and how that lead to bands such as The Rolling Stones. There was mention of one of the Slims – I think it was Memphis Slim, but I wasn't really listening – and how, during a visit to London, it was noticed that he enjoyed drinking whisky and milk to line his stomach in preparation for the proper drinking that would comprise the rest of his life. Despite the fairly fascinating nature of the documentary I was more focused on the idea of whisky and milk, which I had never tried before.
I googled it and came up with a recipe for whisky milk punch cocktail: two parts whisky, three parts milk, five ice cubes, ground nutmeg, and one teaspoon of sugar syrup. By the time I got to the kitchen I had forgotten about the nutmeg, but I made myself a whisky and milk otherwise following this recipe. I did have to use Golden Syrup instead of the sugar syrup, and I stirred thoroughly with a chopstick instead of using a cocktail shaker. I took my first sip with trepidation and more than a little excitement. And, fuck me with that self-same chopstick -!- whisky and milk is delicious.
While I was making that, the wife was using the rest of the whisky to make her special I've-got-a-cold hot toddy (cheapo fizzy lemonade heated in a pan then poured into a mug of whisky and honey), resulting in me sitting with a glass of iced whisky milk punch in one hand and a hot mug of toddy in the other. They tasted very different going down but ended up in the same place: my happy sleepy contented stomach sinking into the pit of my heated-blanket bed. If that's not festive I don't know what the fucking buggery is.
Whisky and anything. Whisky and broccoli. Whisky from a rusty tin can. Whisky from a shoe. Whisky dripped on my forehead. Whisky and ice-cream. Whisky for breakfast. Whisky and toothpaste. Whisky and beer. Whisky and whisky. Whisky and whiskey. Whiskey and whiskey.