The smell churns up nausea, and the liquid burns my throat like chili peppers. It conjures up memories of raiding my parents' liquor cabinet and the evil after-effects of juvenile idiocy. And I didn't think my tender, newbie palate (or stomach) could handle it, but I actually survived Scotch whisky. >>>

I reluctantly agreed to sampling whisky (for reasons unknown, Americans and Irish insert an "e" before the "y"). This dark, alien spirit sipped in dim, leather-laden lounges seemed something only haughty rich men enjoyed, but the cult (and my husband) drew me in. Wide-eyed and slightly nervous, I plopped down at a Scotch whisky seminar. Thankfully, humor, cloaked in a singsong Scottish brogue, made this tentative newbie's initiation easier. The kilt-wearing host explained the difference between East coast (sweeter) and West coast (smokier) Scotch whisky — called simply "whisky" in Scotland since there is "no other." Wearing a skewed expression reminiscent of eating Brussels sprouts, I "nosed" and daintily nipped three different versions, from a 10-year single malt to Chivas Regal blended whisky.

Then something magical happened. I learned the taming secret everyone else knew but never shared — add water. And it's not a wimpy cheat — the Scotchmaster encouraged it. A dollop of water or a few ice cubes brings out aromas and eases the liquor's pungent burn. At least some of it.

But wait, there's more to uncover: the ever-hallowed single malt whisky. "Single malt" means the whisky comes from one distillery, while "blended" generally indicates a malt and grain whisky combo. Although I've heard Scotch snobs proclaim single malt superior, I admit it tastes the same to my numbed, unappreciative palate.

Though I'm vastly oversimplifying, smokier Scotch whisky differs in the process and grain that's used — primarily malted barley dried over smoldering peat (clumps of decaying vegetation found in Scotland's wetlands). Then there's orange peel, often resulting from contact with the massive copper stills distilleries use.

Once it's distilled, the pure, 70 percent Scottish moonshine ages in barrel. One strong sniff of this slightly salty-smelling, newborn whisky revealed how much oak aging adds to the final product — the amber color and essentially all the aromas. I found it interesting that the Scots have used heavy-toasted American Bourbon oak barrels since the early 1900s — an odd nod to the New World. After only three years of aging, the alcohol can officially be called whisky in Scotland, but many distilleries keep it much longer (exact or average age reflected on the bottle). For this reason, it isn't cheap — upwards of $350 for some 30-year-old whiskies. I suppose the wealthy need gifts for their attorneys, right?

Before bottling, whisky producers add water to bring the alcohol down to a more palatable 40 to 43 percent, or "drinking strength." I added more water to make it "Taylor drinking strength." And as much as I tried to man up and enjoy it, no can do for this chick. I smelled and tasted charred honey and salt but still felt the burn like bad tequila. And it's not like I was drinking bathtub rotgut. Perhaps with more sipping practice and exposure, I can develop a palate for Scotch — or channel my white-trash roots and add Coke. Or maybe I should turn to the other ancient Celtic beverage — mead — sweeter and easier on my wine-soaked throat.

M

Scotch recommendations

Talisker 10-year-old Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Scotland $65

Glenfarclas 12-year-old Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Scotland $55

Clynelish 14 -year-old Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Scotland $45

A bit harder to find:

Ardbeg "Uigeadail" Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Scotland $80

Glenmorangie "Nectar D'or — Sauternes Cask" Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Scotland $70