Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog

Review – Roe & Co, Blended Irish Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 45%

When I finish a bottle, I take what I call a “man down” photo. Typically, I’ll lay the bottle on its side, the cork removed but visible, and I’ll include a glass containing the edition’s final pour. It’s also not uncommon for me to add additional staging before typing a quick sentence or two and posting it on social media. A few examples of this practice are included below.

As you can see, I take time with this. It’s because I’m someone who cares. Unfortunately, there are times when particular onlookers might think the phrase “someone who cares” is synonymous with “an alcoholic.” This is especially true when I focus my one-dram-before-bed routine on the editions I keep in a particular cabinet. It’s a breakfront containing the near-empties I’ve had sitting around for a few years. When I’m drinking from that gathering several nights in a row, a new “man down” post will likely appear more frequently, sometimes daily. People see this and assume I’m finishing off an entire bottle every day.

In a way, I think the misconception is funny, if only because, after a few days, the tenor of the posts’ comments begins to evolve. I may even get a private message or two asking if I’ve ever thought about seeking help. My reply is almost always the same.

“No, I don’t need help. I can do this all on my own.”

I know what they’re thinking, and yet, I also know what’s actually happening. Strangely, I appreciate the optical dissonance, which is why I may even misspell a word or two in my reply. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with pulling on someone’s chain on occasion.

That said, there’s one whiskey—the Roe & Co Blended Irish whiskey—I’m concerned won’t get a “man down” image or any alcoholic concern from observing friends. Well, maybe it will. I just don’t know. It’s disinteresting, and as such, I’m worried I won’t get to it often enough for it to graduate to the near-empties cabinet. All the others in the cabinet have taken a few years. This one has decades written all over it.

For one, its nose is dankly grassy. There are hints of honey and malt, but they’re incredibly slight. One sniff takes them all away, leaving almost nothing behind. A sip, while not distinctly unpleasant, is nearly too sweet and, in some ways, exceptionally metallic. I can taste the still. I shouldn’t be able to do that.

The finish is sharp, leaving a sour aftertaste of bitter fruit and burnt cinnamon. Thankfully, it’s a relatively swift conclusion.

Like I said, maybe I’ll get around to finishing this one before I die, and perhaps I won’t. In the end, while this whiskey may never make it to the near-empties cabinet, it’s certainly made it into the “questionable life choices” cabinet of my mind, and learning from one’s mistakes is always a win in its own right.

The post Review – Roe & Co, Blended Irish Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 45% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Shieldaig, 30 Years Old, 43%

Details matter. For me, details are like a recipe’s ingredients. If you miss one, no matter how insignificant it might seem, things can go south in a hurry. Details are the tiny heroes laboring in our lives and work. They turn “good” into “great.” They’re the bridge from “almost there” to “nailed it.”

Admittedly, some details are more important than others. While each is a brushstroke in the portrait, some are distinctly communicative, and others are mere fillers. Again, both create the whole. However, there will always be those details that transmit the whole’s epicentral purpose. Without them, all other details lose their meaning.

This particular philosophical rambling comes to mind only as I hold my Homeowners Association newsletter in my left hand and a glass of Shieldaig’s 30-year-old Speyside in my right. In my left hand are several pages of detail-oriented instructions from the HOA concerning autumn cleanup, sidewalk care during winter, and pet policies. There’s also a decent-sized note with pictures detailing the acceptable color schemes for the neighborhood. But there’s a problem. The approved color schemes have been presented in black and white.

Like spiced apple rings without spice or a map without street names, an organization that knows the exact height of my mailbox has communicated approved color schemes while forgetting the most crucial detail: color.

Thankfully, the communication from my right hand is far different. Wafting with precision, the Shieldaig 30-year-old’s nose communicates zesty vanilla and sun-dried apricots. In between frustration-betraying winces conjured by an article about trees that were once required but are now outlawed, a sip brings a calming wash of caramel-soaked oats, cinnamon, and citrus jam. The finish is just long enough to see the infuriation released through a chuckle’s valve. The decreasing pressure is replaced with peppery oak and the apricots from the nose—and a desire to join the HOA board.

Rest assured, I’d savor this amber-hued antidote to HOA absurdities before each gathering. I’d do so imagining a world where every color-coded regulation arrives with actual color. I’d tip back imagining that formerly mandated but now illegal trees are removed and replaced at the HOA management company’s expense. In other words, I’d imagine sanity’s details.

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Review – Kaigan, Japanese Whisky, (No Age Stated), 43%

In the spirit of collegial concern, I want you to know that I’ve discovered what very well could be the scroogiest restaurant in America. By scroogiest, I mean that every aspect of the experience was fine-tuned to provide all things in penny-pinching minimality.

I won’t share the name or location of the restaurant except to say that it exclusively sells Panera Bread products and that I was in North Olmstead, Ohio when I made the discovery. I’ll leave the rest to you, the intuitive reader.

Specifically, I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. As a side, I was granted a choice between a bag of kettle-cooked chips and a baguette. Having just traveled three hours on a relatively empty stomach and seeing a nearby assortment of unusually small baguettes, I chose the chips. A drink was not included. I asked for a Coke. They did not have Coke. They had Pepsi. For me, either was fine. Concerning the beverage size, I did not specify one, assuming I’d be afforded a reasonable container.

The meal’s total came to $16.07.

I paid. The cashier asked for my name. I told her. She handed me the receipt and a tiny plastic cup, the kind you might fill with water before giving to a soccer player returning to the sidelines for a break. It could hold fluids, but to adequately quench thirst would require multiple refills from the cooler.

Assuming refills were free, I disregarded its size and wandered toward the beverage dispenser.

A few minutes passed before my name was called. A plate with a sandwich and an accompanying bag of chips was set on a countertop and nudged toward me. The sandwich had been cut in half. If I were to guess, each half was no more than two inches squared. Having already filled and consumed two cups of Pepsi, I filled the tiny vessel one more time before taking the underwhelming meal to go, sit, and eat.

I was given no napkins. I searched for a dispenser but found only a short stack of cocktail-style naperies near the beverage machine. I took a few and returned to my seat. I opened the bag of chips to pour them onto the plate. Barely five or six and a dusting of crumbs emerged.

Observing the pathetically thin particulars before me, I couldn’t help buy vocalize my disappointment. Anyone within listening distance heard me say, “For sixteen dollars, I could’ve gotten more from a hotel vending machine.” Regardless of my disappointment, I ate.

Before leaving, I visited the restroom.

After finishing my business, I waved my hand before the motion-sensing paper towel dispenser. As if the meal’s insufficiency wasn’t already enough, out came a portion of paper that was a fraction of the previously described sandwich’s width. Indeed, barely an inch scrolled forth. It took sixteen swipes of the less-than-responsive machine to get enough paper to dry my hands. In fact, by the time I had the paper in my hands, they were nearly air-dried from waving them before the sensor.

I share these things with you because they mirror the unfortunate realities one might encounter in other aspects of life—like sipping a whisky that overpromises and underdelivers. Just as my meal was an exercise in underwhelming portions and thin gestures of hospitality, some whiskies present themselves with grand labels and rich promises, only to fall woefully short when you actually take a sip. And as fate would have it, I recently came across just such a dram. It looked the part, sitting proudly on the shelf, but much like the miserly offerings of a particular restaurant in Ohio, it failed to deliver anything relative to its price tag, let alone the integrity of its upbringing.

For starters, while Kaigan Whiskey claims Japan, it’s likely the whiskey is little more than an American whiskey riding the unique Japanese vibe. A little bit of research will show that the details surrounding the region it heralds and the source river it claims just don’t add up. A little more digging and one realizes there is no Kaigan Distillery at all. Instead, the whiskey is a brand created for and sold by Total Wine.

As $16 for a would-be grilled cheese sandwich is a dreadful bait and switch, so also is Kaigan Whiskey’s attempt to pass itself off as something it clearly is not. The bottle suggests a depth of tradition and craftsmanship, evoking the allure of fine Japanese stock, but what it delivers is disappointingly thin—both in flavor and in character.

The nose is faint, offering little more than generic citrus that wafts medicinal saccharine. The palate offers hints of sour grapefruit and toast, but it is not a homemade breakfast. It’s more the hotel continental breakfast food recycled from yesterday’s uneaten portions.

The finish is a short rendition of the nose and palate. Thank the good Lord for this.

In the end, the Kaigan lacks even the fundamental complexities one would expect from a spirit making such grand claims. You desire a grilled cheese sandwich, not two grilled cheese-like nuggets. You expect an enjoyable stack of chips, not an afterthought of chip-like fragments. Much like the scroogiest restaurant and its overpriced meal, the Kaigan leaves you wondering where your money went.

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Review – Rabbit Hole, Boxergrail, Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 47.5%

Plenty of things fascinate me. I am mesmerized by sunrises. Animal instincts—how they know things humans do not—are incredibly intriguing. A two-month-old’s facial expressions are attention-absorbing in every way. It’s mind-boggling that, technically, the space between any two objects can be infinitely divided in half. The fact that people will throw away life-long friendships after one disagreement is profoundly unbelievable.

In his poem “To,” Edgar Allan Poe wrote:

I heed not that my earthly lot

Hath-little of Earth in it—

That years of love have been forgot

In the hatred of a minute.

What a dreadful rhyme Poe scribbled. And yet most poets, like novelists, often fetch their words from personal encounters. I don’t know the history of his poem, but I’m convinced he was describing a wounding experience. Unfortunately, this experience is familiar to many. For pastors, there’s often a unique layer to it, especially since, even as they may be their parishioners’ friends, they are also in a servant role.

For example, imagine a pastor devoting himself to a person in his direst hours of need. And by “devoting,” I mean that the pastor was there for every cancer treatment. I mean that he answered the person’s 3:00 AM phone calls, sometimes even getting dressed and driving an hour to the hospital to be with the panicked caller. I mean that the pastor called him on his birthday. I mean that the pastor baptized all the man’s children and rejoiced alongside him at his children’s successes.

Now, imagine the pastor accidentally overlooked the man’s hymn request on Father’s Day. Imagine that same man was so offended by this that he left the pastor’s church.

Is it any wonder that pastors are more likely to experience depression and other mental health issues than the general population? I read one study showing that the percentage of clergy with diagnosed depression was 12.7%, which is nearly double the national average among U.S. adults. I read that at least 7% of clergy experience extreme anxiety. Roughly half of all pastors report feeling so burned out that they eventually resigned or took an extended sabbatical. Would it surprise anyone that 65% of pastors report feeling lonely or isolated, with nearly 18% saying these emotions resonate daily?

In another study, 41 of the 345 pastors surveyed (12%) actively contemplated suicide.

If you didn’t know it already, someone decided to designate October as “Pastor Appreciation Month.” Perhaps, like me, you’re somewhat annoyed by this or that group laying claim to certain months for personal appreciation. I suppose, in this instance, I’m a little less bothered. Pastors exist in this world’s underbelly. They regularly deal in the darkest of humanity’s dreadfulness.

What’s more, pastors are engaged in a cadence of stressful activities like counseling, writing multiple sermons a week, and juggling the countless needs of hundreds of congregants. As you can imagine, pastors often feel guilty about not doing enough in any or all of their tasks. When this happens, they begin doubting their calling. Add to this the “pastoral confidence” factor. Much of what pastors do cannot be shared. This leaves them socially isolated from family, friends, and even from fellow pastors. Mix in church bureaucracies and mistakenly consumer-driven parishioner mindsets, and a pastor’s life becomes far more burdensome than joyful.

For the record, I drink whiskey because I have an almost autistic sense for its various contours. That said, anyone watching who’s also familiar with pastoral life might have reason to think there’s more to it.

There isn’t. Don’t worry. I’m fine.

In the meantime, know that it’s not far from me to arrive home after a contentious day of viciousness and pour myself three fingers instead of two. Certain events prompt it. Certain people demand it.

When this is the case, I prefer something like the Boxergrail edition from Rabbit Hole. Not only does this particular distillery have a way of whisking its imbibers away to far better uplands of hope, but the Boxergrail is out on point in such emotional expeditions.

With a nose of vanilla and citrus, the whiskey wraps its bearer in warm invitation. A sip proves the whiskey’s reliability, serving up the vanilla while adding hints of spiced apples and peppery oak. The finish is medium-long. Its warm spices remind the sipper, “The day is done. You’re home. Rest and enjoy because, in this place, you are loved.”

Thanks, Rabbit Hole. Keep up the excellent work. For guys like me, you play a critical role in our survival. It may be small, but it matters. It might even be argued that you’re saving parishioners’ lives, too… if you know what I mean.

The post Review – Rabbit Hole, Boxergrail, Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 47.5% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Forty Creek, Barrel Select, (No Age Stated), 40%

I’m a grandfather now. Crazy, I know. Although not half as crazy as the world into which my grandchildren are being born. I just learned that people are selling pictures of their feet to websites for cash. Apparently, there are lucrative fetish markets out there that few of us know about. In 2019, Italian artist Maurizio Cattelan duct-taped a banana to a wall of Art Basel Miami. He sold the piece for $150,000. In fact, he did it three times—until an art student came along and ate the banana. Nice.

A few years ago, a Japanese company began selling cans of air from popular Japanese locations. A can of air from Mount Fuji currently goes for $10. I wonder how much a can of air from Aokigahara, the “Suicide Forest,” goes for. Since the Japanese consider the forest haunted, and most avoid outings there, I’ll bet it’s rare and expensive.

Not to worry, though. If you want rare, Gwyneth Paltrow’s company “Goop” has psychic vampire repellent in stock at $500 a batch. And McDonald’s has partnered with rapper Travis Scott for a limited-release and slightly higher-priced “Travis Scott Meal.” The special meal includes a Quarter Pounder with cheese, fries, and a Sprite.

By the way, all three of those menu items have been available at McDonald’s since 1971.

I used to think that hobby horse competitions were proof that the world may be losing its mind. Now, a casual scroll on one’s mobile device delivers a seemingly never-ending wellspring of ridiculousness—like luxury coffins complete with Wi-Fi, climate control, and sound systems. Even as I write this, I just received an email from someone concerned for my health and asking if I’ve ever considered bug-based protein bars. Just know I’ll put a bug-based protein bar in my mouth at the exact moment I put my head in a vice and turn the crank until my strength gives out.

Oh, dear grandchildren, what a world you’ve been given. I wish I could spare you from it, but alas, I cannot. In the meantime, may I direct your attention to one of life’s relatively untouched certainties? Indeed, and amen, whisky has experienced its occasional weirdnesses, and yet, it remains relatively constant. Various grains are employed in a four-step process of mashing, fermenting, distilling, and aging. When all is accomplished, an elixir is born, one that I believe was meant, in part, to soothe this world’s restless foolishness.

Although, sometimes, the resulting elixir doesn’t fulfill its divine ordination but instead causes more concern than ease. The Forty Creek Barrel Select teeters very near the edge of this premise. While not terrible, it’s more… well, it’s kind of… okay, it’s just not that great. It’s a thick and syrupy dram of overly sweetened bourbon pretending to be Canadian.

The nose is concord grape jelly and burnt corn. Yes, you read that correctly. The palate is thick caramel with a vodka-like burn, which is strange for such a low-octane dram. A caramel apple emerges near its end. However, the apple has burnt corn stuck to its exterior, making it somewhat clunky toward the finish. Thankfully, the finish is short, offering up a splinter of spiced oak and a tad bit of grape jelly aftertaste.

In the end, the Forty Creek Barrel Select is by no means the best escape from this world’s madness. It struggles to find a sturdy footing, which is what’s needed as humanity continues slipping into undoneness. Still, people are buying it. Some are dropping significant coinage to buy it in 1.75-liter containers. But then again, plenty of folks are buying virtual real estate. Again, yes, you read that correctly. People have spent thousands, even millions, on virtual land in games like “Second Life” and, more recently, in the metaverse. In 2021, a plot of land in the virtual world “Decentraland” sold for $2.4 million. I suppose in the scheme of things, with that kind of nonsense happening, a few bucks for a bad (but drinkable) whisky isn’t a big deal.   

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Review – Nearest Green Distillery, Uncle Nearest 1856, (No Age Stated), 50%

The thing about writing satire is that sometimes I just don’t feel very funny. Sometimes, I’m tired of the sound of my own voice in my own head. Thankfully, the world around me is reliably absurd. Thankfully, its voice, while equally exhausting, is forever resonating with foolish things worthy of ridicule.

For example, consider my morning.

I was tired. I did not sleep well. I did not feel funny. On my way to the office, I stopped at a grocery store for a half gallon of milk. I keep milk in my office refrigerator because I’ve started eating my breakfast at work. I also purchased a pre-made salad and a bottle of Thousand Island dressing for later.

But these details are unnecessary. The only information you need is that I was at a grocery store, and I was tired. I suppose you also need to know that whenever I park and go into any public place, I always lock my car doors. I drive a two-door Jeep Wrangler that does not have automatic locks. I cannot click a device while walking and lock the doors. I have to lock them manually. I usually lock the passenger door while still sitting in the driver’s seat. I lean over and flip the toggle. Next, I exit the vehicle, being sure to do the same with the driver-side door. Finally, I walk to the rear of the Jeep, press a button on the vehicle’s key fob that ejects a key like a switchblade, insert the key into the rear gate’s keyhole, and lock it.

I do this everywhere I go. Thankfully, a passive-aggressive comment from a black gentleman passing by during the key fob leg of my routine so graciously taught me that this is what white racist men do when a black man is around. They see him coming and lock their car doors.

Was he joking around when he said this? I don’t know. Was it his peculiar way of acknowledging an early-morning passerby in a parking lot? Again, I cannot answer the inquiry. I was tired. I did not sleep well. I wanted a half gallon of milk, a salad, and some Thousand Island dressing.

But no matter my physical condition or nutritional desires, here’s the thing.

I could be at a tiny mom-and-pop store in the middle of nowhere with no other person for two hundred miles; I could be at a similar store in a densely populated city filled with only white people. Do you know what I’d do before going into either store for some beef jerky and a Coke? I’d lock my car doors.

I. Do. This. Everywhere. I. Go.

I am not a racist for locking my car doors. In fact, the exercise proves the absolute opposite premise. It proves I feel the same about everyone. I lock my doors to keep everyone out. I don’t care if you’re black, white, or black-and-white striped. If you’re not me, you shouldn’t have uninvited access to my car.

Again, I don’t know what stirred the comment. But I began this jaunt by saying that even when I don’t feel funny, the world at least provides things worthy of laughter. Of course, racism is not funny. It’s dreadful. But it is worth mocking. It is worth saying that only a certified deadbeat could ever thoroughly believe he is better than someone else because of his race or skin color. It is worth saying that it does not matter who’s engaging in it. That said, a man who sees me doing what normal human beings do in a public parking lot and then, because of the color of my skin, imposes sinister aims upon my actions, such a man has become racism’s emblem and is worthy of stinging commentary.

“But what about his context, his experiences?”

Whatever. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know my context or experiences either. And since neither of us knows these things, how about we start with friendliness? How about we say “Hello” to one another in the parking lot instead of artificially inserting unfortunate divides?

Even better, how about we express rage over the things that deserve it? How about we complain about what deserves our complaints? For example, what’s keeping the milk carton manufacturers from getting the design right?  How is it that with some cartons, when you first pour the milk, it streams into one’s bowl perfectly, but with others, the milk’s first route is straight down the carton’s side? Or better yet, when are we going to start locking up society’s real criminals, like the folks who perpetually occupy the passing lane while miles of cars line up behind them? Persecute them.

Criminalize the people who take everything personally. Persecute the folks who feel the need always to be the victim. Make their ridiculous inclinations worth their while. Lock up the ones who are late for everything. Imprison the people who talk to people beside them at the same volume they’d use if the person were on the other side of a railroad crossing with a train passing between them. Throw the serial gossipers in a cell beside them.

Or how about we reverse the tenor?

How about we spend more time commending beautiful things without qualifying their beauty based on race, gender, or whatever? How about we refrain from voting for a candidate because she’s a woman but instead because she is qualified? Closer to my immediate context, how about we buy and drink a whiskey like Uncle Nearest 1856 because it’s good and not because its enterpriser, Dan Call, who, as the website describes, was “a righteous man and Lutheran preacher of the highest regard,” or because the actual whiskey’s formulation and masterful creation came from Nathan “Nearest” Green, a black man?

How about we take our praise to an even higher level? How about we rejoice in the friendship between Reverend Call and Green—a white man and a black man—even during a time when racism was actually a thing worth fighting and dying to end?

Let’s do this instead. And let’s do it while tipping back the whiskey I already mentioned. Let’s clink our glasses before taking in its toffee and sugar maple scents. Let’s sip its caramel apple sweetness and enjoy its cinnamon sting. Let’s smile along as its medium-fade of wood spice, caramel chews, and pepper draws us to pour another.

Let’s do these things together, regardless of race, color, or creed. And as we do, let’s start sketching ideas for a 100 percent mess-free milk carton.

The post Review – Nearest Green Distillery, Uncle Nearest 1856, (No Age Stated), 50% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – The Glenlivet, Fusion Cask, Rum and Bourbon Fusion Selection, (No Age Stated), 40%

You know there must be something wrong with an item when its price tag is well below the item’s value. For example, I once bought a Marshall speaker stack for my guitar amp for about half what it was worth. It was in great shape, with hardly any wear and tear. However, the price foretold an issue. And there was one. Only two of the four speakers worked. Fortunately, it was a wiring issue that was easily remedied. Still, the item’s price reflected the issue.

My wife, Jennifer, has long desired a particular pillow sold by a high-end California company named Catstudio. The pillow, admittedly an embroidered marvel, details all things Michigan. However, it sells for about $225, which is why Jennifer has long desired it. No one in their right mind actually spends $225 for a pillow. Well, except maybe for Saudi princes.

While scrolling through an online marketplace, Jennifer noticed a woman nearby who was selling the very pillow for $35. Could it be true? After a few back-and-forth queries concerning the item’s authenticity and condition, indeed, it was, and Jennifer promised to be there in no more than sixty minutes to retrieve it. She asked me to drive her. I did.

Within that same hour, pillow in hand and a gleeful smile on her face, Jennifer was stunned. No stains, no tears, no frayed threading—the pillow was perfect.

“I can’t believe it,” she repeated.

“You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with it,” I prodded.

“Nothing,” she replied. “It’s perfect.”

“And you’re sure it’s real.”

“Oh, yes,” she insisted. “It’s real.”

“Did the woman know what she had?” I asked. “I mean, a $225 item for only $35. There’s gotta be something going on here.”

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Jennifer answered.

“Maybe,” I replied and then, in my twisted way, offered what I thought would stir a reprimand. “She was probably trying to get rid of it. It’s probably possessed, like the Annabelle doll.”

“Well,” Jennifer reacted dryly, “welcome to your new home, demon.”

Her reply nearly sent me into a ditch. She laughed, too. Nevertheless, the overall conversation brought to mind The Glenlivet Fusion Cask edition. I think it did because I’d only recently revisited the bottle, and after a few sips, I wondered what I paid for it. The internal query arose because I hadn’t willingly shelled out my hard-earned dollars for a top-shelf edition in quite some time, and yet, this whisky had a top-shelf profile.

“Did I spend $200 on this?” I sipped and wondered. “There’s no way.” It turns out I didn’t. I purchased it for about $85.

“There must be something wrong here,” I said and sipped again. “This tastes like a $200 whisky. Maybe my friend Sean put the wrong price tag on it. Maybe he typed in the wrong number or scanned the wrong box.”

Grasping at the answer, I continued, “Maybe bad things were happening in the store, and this whisky was the reason. It’s possessed, and Sean figured that his priest-friend was the only one who’d be able to handle it.”

As I said, I paid $85. It’s definitely worth more. Why? Not only for its lovely contours (which I’ll get to in a moment) but also for its intricate conception. The Glenlivet’s coopers disassembled first-fill rum barrels and bourbon barrels, creating new barrels from the combined planks. The whisky was finished in these unique casks.

And the result is just delightful.

The nose is as vanilla as vanilla can be—and not just as some reviewers might say, “There’s a hint of vanilla.” No, it’s the possessing spirit’s crispest vapor, accented in part by warmed peaches.

The palate is incredibly eloquent, incanting vanilla rites that establish the spirit’s residence in a cauldron of steamed apples and chocolate coffee.

The Fusion’s finish is a medium presence. It nips with rum and then recedes, more so reminding you of its mystical character than attempting to interfere.

My advice? Buy a bottle or two before The Glenlivet, like the woman and her pillow, realizes the price tag doesn’t match the Fusion’s supernatural caliber. And then, possessed or not, perform an exorcism on it. And by exorcism, I mean drink it. The Lord Himself noted that some demons can only be driven out through prayer and fasting (Matthew 17:21). This one, however, requires a glass.

The post Review – The Glenlivet, Fusion Cask, Rum and Bourbon Fusion Selection, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Hunter Laing, Journey Series, Islay Journey, Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 46%

I saw the strangest thing.

It was early, a little after 7:00 AM. I was on my way to the office. Barely a quarter mile from my subdivision’s exit, I pulled into the parking lot of our town’s only hardware store to fetch something from the rear of my Wrangler. Item in hand, I mounted the pilot’s seat and prepared to resume my journey. Rolling toward the lot’s exit, I noticed two pedestrians—a man and a woman—approaching from the left. I braked, granting them ample space to cross before me. And they did.

The couple appeared to be powerwalking together. Decked in exercise duds, the man was also carrying a white pastry box of doughnuts. How do I know there were doughnuts in the box? Because the lid was open and bouncing with his stride, and the woman beside him, decked the same, had just pulled one from the box and was eating it. Or better said, she gobbled it. One—two—a final piece and the glazed delight was gone. What remained was licked clean from her fingers.

The parking lot has two exits. The one I used is the narrower one, maybe thirty feet wide at the most. Moving at maximum pace, with one arm swinging accordingly with her gait, she accomplished her gobbling in those thirty feet. On my left, she had the doughnut in hand. On my right, she was done, and her companion was reaching back into the box as if to hand her another one.

I cannot explain what I saw. I’m certainly capable of conjuring scenarios where this scene might be possible. For example, maybe the woman has Type 1 diabetes. Maybe her blood sugar was getting dangerously low, and to raise it again (because they were still far from home), her husband was feeding her doughnuts. It could be this. However, my better sense says that isn’t what was happening. My daughter has Type 1 diabetes. She’s also an athlete. A small pack of supplies on her shoulder or around her waist, maybe, and a juice bottle in hand seems more likely for a power walker.

I think a more straightforward scenario is that she’s just living a life of luxury. She’s out for a morning power walk. Her manservant is trailing and feeding her doughnuts. She’ll get home just as the masseuse arrives. She’ll make him wait until she’s had a quick dip in the pool and another doughnut or two. This could be it. Except, I don’t live in or near a neighborhood exemplary of this lifestyle.

The truth is, I was probably the couple’s test subject. It’s likely they were scientists—or reality TV personalities I didn’t recognize because I don’t watch such nonsense—and they were coaxing a response. There was probably a camera hidden somewhere, and someday soon, I’ll see myself and my “What the hell is this all about?” expression on one of those thirty-second TikTok videos while scrolling.

Sitting there, trying to make sense of the scene’s surreal details, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. I continued on my way, praising life’s unpredictability—how it so often presents mental palate cleansers in between the heavier courses of any given day. For me, they’re like whiskies. Sometimes, they’re good. Sometimes, they’re not so good. But no matter the details, they’re memorable interludes along life’s occasionally droning way.

In particular, the scene I described eerily reminisced of my initial experience with Hunter Laing and Company’s Islay Journey edition. I say this mainly because its nose seemed weirdly contradictory—like exercise and doughnuts. It began sweetly, offering up peated Werther’s candies and salt. But a deeper sniff powerwalked into weird. By weird, I mean to say I know a doctor with a tropical fish aquarium in his office. It reminded me of his aquarium’s smell. Not necessarily unpleasant. However, I don’t understand how Werther’s candy and a saltwater aquarium might work together. In this case, it would appear they do.

A sip, while not forgetful of its initial oddness, does seem to bring the weirdness together. The caramel and salt combine with mildly peated strides tinged with pepper. Its medium-long finish is slightly oily, coating one’s mouth and throat with the whisky’s sweeter elements.

Overall, the whisky introduces itself oddly but carries on entertainingly, adding a touch of intrigue to one’s day—like a powerwalking man accompanying a powerwalking woman and feeding her doughnuts.

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Review – H. Deringer, Bourbon Whiskey, Small Batch, (No Age Stated), 46%

I raised my children in love. Despite the more modern Disney princesses’ best efforts, I taught my daughters that, indeed, they are prizes to be won. Despite this world’s selfish interests, I taught my sons to be honorable men worthy of other fathers’ daughters.

Except when it comes to the board game “Monopoly.”

Monopoly has a history in my family. For starters, let the reader understand I’ve never legitimately lost a game of Monopoly in my adult life. At one point along my youthful way, I realized something about the game that ultimately, changed how I played it. As a result, I now have a tested strategy that seems to deliver victory after victory, no matter how cursed the dice rolls might seem.

The proof of these victories is recorded in our family’s game. This is to say, when you open and turn over our Monopoly game’s lid, you’ll discover a list of dates and endgame wealth totals. My name is beside each date and total. Most of the totals reach far past the standard $15,000 available to the game’s bank. How is this possible? Because I never take all of my opponents’ cash and instead enjoy various transactions that inevitably extend their suffering, typically resulting in astronomical IOUs. 

My oldest son, Joshua, is now married. He and his wife just welcomed their first child, our grandson, Preston. A few weeks before Preston’s birth, my wife, Jennifer, purchased an older version of the Monopoly board game. She chose it because the new ones just aren’t the same. Something is lacking in their design.

Nevertheless, she bought it for Josh because every family needs a Monopoly game. She asked me to inscribe it. I agreed, fully aware of Monopoly’s more profound nature relative to a patriarchal responsibility. To pass along this wisdom, I wrote a note inside the lid of the gifted board game. It read as follows:

Joshua,

Your mother purchased this game for you. However, I was tasked with the inscription. It must be as follows.

Charles Kettering once said, “Every father should remember one day his son will follow his example, not his advice.” I suppose this was never truer than in the game of Monopoly. My advice has always been that you love your wife selflessly in all things. And yet, not here. Here, you crush her. I’ve always urged you to sacrifice all that you are for your children’s wellbeing, and yet again, not here. Here, they are treated cruelly. I’ve raised you to be kind and of generous spirit to others. But not here. Here, you take everything, leaving behind only hopelessness.

Indeed, with Monopoly, my example has not matched my advice—because it does not belong. Here, you decimate. Here, you build empires while destroying futures. Here, the respect owed the family’s patriarch and the genuineness of natural law’s viciousness reign with relenting fury. Monopoly leaves room for nothing else.

It’s your turn as husband and father to wield this heavy and unrelenting but glorious sword. Follow your father’s example, not his advice. Show no mercy. Give no quarter. Destroy all, and then keep a record. These are Monopoly’s timeless biddings.

Love,

Dad (also known by many as The Undefeated One)

With a surge of primitive manliness resonating through my frame, I set the box top aside, laid the pen against its edge, and poured a two-fingered dram of the H. Deringer Bourbon Whiskey. It only makes sense to pour from a man-of-the-house bottle with a single-shot percussion pistol for a topper.

A gift from my good friends Scott and Georgie Rhodes, the Deringer received harsh reviews in the digital sphere. And while my readers know well enough I’m not one to give a lousy whiskey a good review just because friends gave it to me, the Deringer does not deserve the hate.

From the bottle, its nose is a clean wafting of Werther’s candy with a hint of warmed challah bread. From a glass, it’s the same, adding only a slight pinch of spice.

A sip continues the spice while adding chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon. There may even be a drop of butter in there somewhere.

The finish is medium-long. It remembers the cookies and butter, but within moments, it ponders sour oak. It’s not necessarily the best ending. However, it isn’t the worst. Overall, the dram is enjoyable. Interestingly, a few drops of water rid the finish entirely of its sourness.

If anything, the H. Deringer is the kind of whiskey a man wants beside him during a furious game of Monopoly, if only to intimidate the opponents. I don’t necessarily need it beside me. As I said, I never lose. My strategy has proven relatively invincible. Everyone else might do well to add it to theirs, though.

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Review – The GlenDronach, Port Wood, (No Age Stated), 46%

Somehow, the “If I were God” topic arose during a casual discussion with my family. Barely at its midpoint, a determination was made.

“It’s a good thing I’m not God,” I said. My wife unhesitatingly agreed, but that’s only because she knows my darker, less compassionate self. My children, on the other hand, do not, which is probably why my first proposed act as the Divine, although shocking, was entirely acceptable.

“What would you do first?” my eldest daughter asked.

“Well,” I started, “I’d put every pedophile, child groomer, and child sex trafficker together on an island.”

“That’s a great idea,” a different one replied. “With the way our world’s turning,” another continued, “you’d need something the size of Australia to fit them all.”

“This is true,” I added.

“Would you destroy—?”

“—Oh, no,” I interrupted, anticipating the question. “I wouldn’t destroy the island.” Leaning toward my eager listeners, I continued, “You know the Yautja, the creatures from the Predator films?” I asked this, knowing that they most certainly knew what a Yautja was. I have a life-sized one on display in my basement. “Well,” I resumed, “Yautja would no longer be fictional. And I’d let a few hundred of them loose among the island’s new residents, you know, for fun.”

This is only one reason why it’s to the benefit of many that I am not God. Justice would be far different beneath my rule—brutally messy and suffering-filled. Another reason is that Scotch would enjoy special privileges in the spirits world. Because Scotch is by far one of the most fantastical imaginings of inspired man, I’d make its exceptional status that much more incomparable. For example, a lifted two-finger swirl would change the weather, drawing sunshine through clouds. A sniff would relieve headaches. A long draw would cure cancer. A sip would match its name—aqua vitae, the water of life. It would reverse aging, adding years to the imbiber.

Of course, with such qualities, all other spirits would fade into the unknown. Tequila, that marvelous Mexican potion, would be extinct in many cabinets. Cognac, France’s delightful serum, would lose its history and future.

Oh well. That’s what I’d do. And from among the distilleries, some would enjoy my favor more than others, ultimately receiving extra dashes of invigorative potency. The GlenDronach is one such distillery that has already proven its worth. The less-expensive Port Wood edition is no exception.

A blend of Christmas sugar cookies, summer’s fresh blackberries, and an autumn pie—apple, perhaps—the Port Wood’s nose teases and influences multiple seasons at once. A sip brings a malty nip sprinkled with warmed tangerine drops. It’s calming and more than capable of curing whatever sadness might be vexing its owner.

The finish is a medium savor of the sip’s malt and the nose’s blackberries. A moment more, and it’s oily. However, not in a bad way. It’s an almondy sensation and really rather enjoyable.

Indeed, GlenDronach appears to be already laboring in the otherwordly spaces. So many of their drams bring an encompassing joy with each taste. If I were divine, I’d most certainly have a GlenDronach in my ethereal hand while smiting evildoers.

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