It’s “fleshing” out the details, not “flushing” them out. And while I know that the conversation may sometimes require dealing in the sewage-like dregs of miry mortality, still, a plan is fleshed and not flushed. Meat is put onto its bones. If you feel that “flushed” is more appropriate, then it probably wasn’t a good plan.
It’s “piqued” not “peaked.” You piqued my interest, which means that you awakened it to something fascinatingly new. I suppose that it could be reasonably argued that if you peaked it, then you’ve carried it up into the heavens, and let me tell you, that’s quite a feat these days because very few and far too little has had the ability to do that for me. Just sayin’.
It’s an enlarged “prostate” not “prostrate.” One is a part of the human anatomy and the other is a position of humility, namely, being face down on the ground. And although these two words are differentiated visually by a single letter, I’d be willing to submit that they do have a slight connection. If a man is kicked in the one, he’ll most likely end up positioned in the other.
It’s “peace” of mind and not “piece” of mind. To hear the doctor tell you that you do not have cancer is to be given peace of mind. In the other form, I’m figuring that you’d be clear on at least two things. The first is that your doctor is Hannibal Lecter and what he has just handed over could be telling of his plans for you. Second, you need to find a new doctor, like, right now.
Glenfiddich is pronounced “Glen-FID-ick” and not “Glen-FID-itch.” I know that most Americans probably don’t hear it vocalized as such, nevertheless, I speak the truth.
As you can see, I listen for these things. Why? Because in many ways they serve as indicators to help me home in (not hone in) on the people who may very well have a much fuller wealth of knowledge from which to draw insight about a great many things. They are naturally precise in their labor to communicate and effortlessly meticulous with the detail. They just know that it’s “sleight” of hand and not “slight” of hand, and they know why it matters.
The nose of this splendid dram is a near-divine combination of smells from the distillery’s malt room and an imagined neighboring bakery. I smelled freshly baked Italian loaf, cooling cinnamon bread, singed malt, and red currants.
The palate delivers on the dreamy locale, according a bite of the cinnamon bread, a sip of warmed honey-milk, and an extremely distant breath of smoke that seems less like peat and more like an embering edge of the oak tray used to remove the bread from the oven.
The finish begs another sip. It is barely medium, and yet it isn’t to be considered as falling short. There’s just enough time to receive the honeyed malt before it invites you back to see if you’ll discover more – and you do. A second run gives over the smoking bread crumbs on the tray.
I’d say this is a fine whisky, and I’d add the suspicion that while I know Glenfiddich is not beside a bakery, I wonder if they are hiding one within their gates, suggesting that the distillery and the bakery are one and the same (not one “in” the same). Of course I’m pondering the possibility, but until they make such a revelation, I’ll simply wait with bated (not baited) breath.