I was 18 years old, preparing to go to a party. And learning how to cook. Before leaving, I ate some home-made soup. The main ingredient? Parsnips. Bad move. From nine till late o’clock I was drinking God knows what. Chased down with a generous measure of Scotch. Not rocket science to figure out what happened to my stomach. Since that night I’ve treated parsnips with caution, and the taste of even the finest, Glenwhatever 12 Year single malt carries a faint warning note. But Jack Daniels was never a problem. For my digestion anyway.
For the last word on spirits raise your glasses to George Thorogood.