The Eades Highland transgenders [Stephen: Bill! It's "engenders"] a seductive miasma out of the glass, a rosy round-cheeked sweet mango lassi(e) bespeckled with marzipan, but not bedpans. A closer sniff, after scales have fallen from the nose, reveals a serpent slithering through a vineyard festooned with pineapples like a Tiki Hut's torches. (You may cavil: pineapples don't grow in vineyards, and I may respond: They sure did in the Garden of Eden!)
Hot in the mouth, but by standing firm, mashed pomegranates spread on toasted English muffins emerge like my lover, bedewed and dripping from a shower, trailing clouds of vapourous, thunderous, wondrous glory (thx, Willie Wordsworth!). My lover then dons bumless, well-worn leather chaps...what? wait? They're bumless, well-worn, persimmon fruit leather chaps? How....creative?
[Stephen: Aren't all chaps bumless?]
A finish redolent with my high school prom carnations, lovingly preserved in the pages of The Book of Kells, no wait, The Domesday Book of William I, yield precedence to sugared pineapple slices dipped in beeswax, then a Carmen Miranda hat-explosion of sharp citrics and temperate bananas.
The red wine and white wine barrels used to finish this expression (Le Rouge et le Blanc?) have befogged senses, proven strange bedfellows, and given birth to quintuplets of lush, sinful delight. Pervasively lovely, with elegance wrapped around it like the 100% Egyptian cotton towel around my lover's dusky musky body.
--On the scale of memorable women presiding over Paris Salons—
The Eades Highland Small Batch Double Malt is Madame de Stael. She was the Sun, and all the Planets, Moons, and Asteroids orbiting her Salon did but reflect her brilliance with a high albedo, of, say, .9314159. Shine on, you crazy diamond.
--Thanks to Pat Jones-McCray and the good folks at Eades for the sample!