When it comes to strong waters, I have a weakness for the word imported. I like to imagine the distant, rustic vineyard, the voyage. Foghorns in the night. "O for a beaker full of the warm South," Keats wrote.
As a consequence, I've probably overlooked excellent American wines, but this is nothing compared to the mistake I've made with whisky. I assumed that if you wanted fine, regional whisky, you had to cross the pond to Scotland. Yes, I knew about bourbon. My parents drank bourbon, but only to keep warm. The bottle materialized in the fall and vanished after Easter. This was not a respected beverage. I mixed the leftovers with melted ice cream one Thanksgiving to get the dogs drunk.
Now, bourbon has always had its fans. William Faulkner was one of them.