Whiskey makes me think of several different things. I associate the word with warm flavor, a thick burn in my throat like drinking rubbing alcohol, and deep golden colours. I can see an old-style study, complete with beautiful leather-and cloth-bound books on classical shelving, a heavy wooden desk shining dark mahogany, a dressing gown on an overstuffed chair, the smell of cigars, and a top hat, tilted neatly on a hat rack by the door. Somewhere a newspaper sits folded neatly on a table by a large fireplace.
Whiskey is also Sortilege (maple whiskey from Montreal) which my university friends loved, cherished and sought like it was gold. I think of ancient almost broken sofas, white with pink flowers, a little portable pool table, and sitting on the floor with a cup of this precious liquid clutched carefully in my hands, afraid that I might be scolded for wasting it should it accidentally fall.
Whiskey is a shy character in the television show Dollhouse, and makes me think of a damaged and frighten(ed/ing) woman, so fragile with steel in her eyes.
Whiskey burns on the way down, no matter how delicate the flavour.