A Proper Hot Toddy

There's a particular kind of February evening when your throat feels lined with wool and the light has gone by four and you can't quite face another cup of tea. That's when you make one of these. Not before. A hot toddy isn't really a drink, it's a small ceremony of giving up gracefully.

Whisky, honey, lemon, boiling water. That's the whole thing. The honey soothes, the lemon cuts, the whisky warms from the inside out, and the steam on your face does half the work before you've even taken a sip. I don't know whether it actually cures a cold. I do know that it makes being unwell feel less like a problem and more like a night off.

Don't waste a good whisky on this. A decent supermarket blend is what you want, something honest and smoky enough to hold its own against the honey. Save the single malt for when you're well enough to taste it properly. A toddy isn't about the whisky, it's about the whole glass singing together.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago after a terrible winter cough: whisky, lemon, honey, bed. Four words. It's the only cold remedy I've ever kept.