My dad, master of the healing arts

“I got a shot a whisky for ya!” my dad announced a few minutes after we arrived at his house for a St. Patrick’s Day dinner of corned beef and cabbage. I was in the middle of coughing my brains out to a soundtrack of Irish music so jaunty I half expected Michael Flatley to come leaping out from behind the kitchen curtain.

I was still recovering from a terrible chest cold that left me hacking like an old man every time someone made me laugh. My dad’s solution? A shot of Tullamore Dew Irish whisky, which certainly helped to clear up my chest (and maybe put a little hair on it, too).