Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 10

Review – The Glenlivet, Caribbean Reserve, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]“It’s great to see you,” I said, handing my longtime friend a glass I’d already prepared. “I really appreciate you being willing to drive up from Clearwater to meet here at the house.”

“No problem,” Vader replied. “It’s about time I got to see where the Thoma family stays when they’re in my part of the galaxy.” Gathering his cape and dropping it over the back of his chair to sit, “What is this?” he asked.

“The Glenlivet Caribbean Reserve,”

“Nothing too fancy, I see,” he snarked.

“Did you bring your swimsuit?” I asked. “The kids were looking forward to you getting in the pool with us.”

“I’m wearing it,” the Sith Lord buzzed, dropping lazily into his chair. Scanning his surroundings, “Nice place,” he said. “So, this is where you stay every year?”

“Every year.”

“How’d you find this place?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Jen found it online a couple of years back, not long after we met you and—”

“—Edith left me, Reverend,” Vader interrupted, dryly.

“Wait, wha—?”

“She was gone when I got home from our get-together last year at Red Lobster. She left a note. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Oh, Darth,” I said, my heart genuinely broken by the news. “I’m so sorry to hear this. It seemed like everything was going great for you two.”

“What’s done is done,” he said, his understated tone matching his motionless.

“Did she give you a reason?” I asked.

“She was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“That Palpatine is back,” he said, stealing a sip from his whisky. “I’d told her a couple of nights before that I’d heard Palpatine had somehow survived the destruction of the Death Star, and while I didn’t expect him to come looking for me, still, we should probably use a little caution.” He took another sip. “Personally, I think she was still mad that I force-tossed her ratchety daughter, Becky, down a flight of stairs and into that fountain at Disney Springs a few years back.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, taking a sip from my glass. “But still, the thought of Palpatine coming after you two is a bit scary, isn’t it? I mean, you did drop him into that generator shaft.”

“We both know he had it coming,” Vader hummed through his modulator. “That bottle of Lagavulin 16 was pretty precious to me.”

The Sith Lord took another sip.

“And besides,” he continued, “he doesn’t even know I’m still alive. From what I’ve been told, he uses my ghost voice to haunt my whiny grandson, Ben.”

“By the way,” I interjected, “I just watched ‘The Lion King’ for the first time with my daughters, and I have to say, Simba’s dad, Mufasa, sounds just like you.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you sound like a nasally Nicholas Cage?”

“Everywhere I go. In fact, you told me that four or five times the night Jen and I met you. Edith had to tell you give it a rest.”

I took another sip from my glass. Vader lifted the bottle to a hover and put it into a slow spin to examine it.

“So, you don’t think he’ll come after you?” I asked.

“Nope,” he replied, leaning toward the bottle to read the label. “He’s too busy playing galactic matchmaker—doing what he can to get his granddaughter, Rey, interested in Ben.” Lowering his voice to a near mumble, he read, “Selectively finished in barrels that held Caribbean rum.”

“I’ve never had this edition before,” I said. “I thought it sounded, well, summery—like something we could sip in the heat by the pool.”

“I guess it’s not too bad,” the Sith Lord affirmed. “It’s definitely light.”

“I know,” I replied, sniffing the dram. “At first, there’s a bit of vinegar in the nose, but once it has a chance to open up, the sweeter fruits really do come out to play.”

“I get peaches and cream,” Vader said. “And maybe some chocolate.”

“Same for me,” I said. “Definitely peaches and cream.”

We both took a sip and a moment to give the dram an intentional savoring.

“Citrus,” Vader suggested. “And the chocolate from the nose. Milk chocolate.”

“I get the citrus,” I countered, “but not so much the chocolate. I’m getting more of a vanilla. And I can feel the rum spices. They’re slight, but they’re there.”

“I get the rum spice in the finish,” Vader added, “which is way too short. It should stay with you a little longer than it does.”

“Agreed. It’s thin in the finish. There’s barely a chance to discover what seems like a drop of oaky molasses.”

Vader downed what remained in his glass and then poured another. He sent the bottle drifting to me to refill my glass.

“So,” I said, reviving the previous conversation, “you don’t think Palpatine will come for you?”

“No,” he gulped and answered. “Again, I think Edith was just using the news as an excuse. She’s threatened to leave me before, saying I never really loved her—that my heart still belonged to Padmé.”

“Maybe,” I said and sipped. “You do still talk about her a lot. So, is Edith staying with Becky?”

“No one knows where she is.”

“She’s not at Becky and Carl’s place in Winter Haven—or is it Venice?”

“It’s Winter Haven. And no, she’s not at Becky and Carl’s.”

“I figured she was there because of the grandkids. Did she move back up to Indiana? Didn’t you say she had a sister in Fort Wayne who’s married to a seminary professor or something?”

“She’s not in Indiana.”

“Wow, Darth,” I said. “It just seems kind of weird that Edith wouldn’t at least tell you where she was going.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice sounding strangely disinterested. “Weird, huh?”

Stiff and staring, he took another sip. An uncomfortable moment passed.

“So, how’re things at the gator farm these days?” I asked.

“Uncle Vader!” a mass of Thoma kids shouted as they streamed through the patio door. “Are you going to get in the pool?!”[image error]

The post Review – The Glenlivet, Caribbean Reserve, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Aberlour, 12 Years Old, Double Cask Matured, 40%

[image error]Some days on vacation are better than others.

Some days you awaken alongside a sun just beginning to send its rays above a horizon arrayed in palm trees. With a yawn and a stretch, you give the marmalade sunbeam streaming through your window a smile as you take great care not to awaken your bride still cozied in the fading dimness. A peak through the bedroom door proving the children are still fast asleep in their bedrooms, you make your way to the kitchen where the already-prepped coffee maker needs nothing more than a button press. And so you do.

As your coffee cup begins to fill, sending tiny swirls of steam up and around the technological wonder, it takes you barely a moment to prepare a bowl of Frosted Flakes, retrieve a spoon, and set them beside the laptop computer upon which you’ll spend the next hour or so tapping whatever comes to mind.

This is your routine—your wonderfully therapeutic routine. You reach for your coffee and the day truly begins.

Other days on vacation aren’t exactly this way.

Other days you awaken beside that same sun, give a yawn and a stretch, and discover a cockroach (oh, I’m sorry—Floridians respectfully refer to them as “palmetto bugs”) scurrying through the marmalade sunbeam on the floor. The next few minutes are spent doing everything possible to stalk, catch, and kill the thing without waking the beautiful woman resting peacefully in bed. If she does stir from her slumber to discover the current scene, most assuredly the whole neighborhood will be awakened with her.

After a few exhilarating minutes, the palmetto bug is delivered to the toilet and the vacationer resumes his morning ritual.

Peering through the bedroom door reveals the kids are still sleeping—and another palmetto bug crossing the kitchen floor. Like a cheetah fading back into the thicket while spying an antelope, the vacationer shrinks back into the bedroom to retrieve a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom for capturing the insect. After a few minutes, the intruder, like his former friend in the bedroom, is riding the toilet’s waves into oblivion.

And so, the vacationer once again resumes his course.

Pressing the button on the coffee maker, he crosses to the sink for a post-hunt washing of hands. But the only trickling to be heard comes from the sink. The coffee maker is unresponsive. A moment of investigation reveals there’s no power to the coffee maker. Further examination reveals that all of the countertop sockets are powerless. Of course, this gent understands the probability of a faulted GFCI socket somewhere in the vicinity, and so he sets out to discover it. Along the way, he notices microscopic motion on the countertop behind the coffee maker.

Sugar ants.

Not many, but enough to bring him to the edge of swearing as he stubs his toe against the stove in surprise.

A momentary glancing across the countertop’s vista, and the troublesome outlet is discovered. The reset button is pressed and the sockets regain their usefulness. The vacationer pokes at the coffee maker’s ignition, the brewing begins, and he sets out to murder each ant one by one with his thumb. The massacre and the coffee machine’s brewing end simultaneously. Another washing of hands, and the vacationer begins cleaning the countertop with disinfectant spray.

Believing he has regained control of his routine, he opens the refrigerator door intent on fetching milk for his cereal. As he does, an opened box of Frosted Flakes put into the appliance by the children (because they were told to do so by their parents for the purpose of preventing trouble with bugs) spills to the floor, spreading its sugary contents for what seems like miles. Of course, the vacationer’s instinct was to catch the box mid-fall, but this only served to cause a far bigger mess.

Crouching, he scans the devastation. Giving a sigh, he rises to his feet and somehow manages to clip the handle of the freezer door with his head, resulting in an excruciating ricochet that sends him back to his knees and nearly into the open refrigerator below.

Taking a moment to rest at the base of the open appliance, he picks at the cereal flakes stuck to his knees and feet while giving his head a rub. There on the floor, he reconsiders his current pursuit of this particular morning’s routine.

“Maybe if I sit very still, I’ll be okay,” he whispers, concerned that things have grown exponentially worse with each passing moment. From the floor, he can see the open bottle of Aberlour 12-year-old Double Cask he purchased two nights ago to marinate his salmon fillets.

“It’s after five o’clock somewhere,” he whispers, appearing to have embraced defeat. But his surrender is almost immediately dissuaded by the thought of one of his four children emerging from his or her room to find Dad sitting atop a mess of Frosted Flakes beside an open refrigerator door and holding a bottle of whisky.

“Never mind,” he replies.

He continues on. Grateful to his Lord that the cereal cleanup was accomplished without further injuries, he takes hold of his cold coffee and sips. He’s no longer interested in eating, but only taking to his usual chair and doing what he can to create something of value from the morning.

Still, he spies the Aberlour. Having already tried it, he knows how it could’ve soothed those turbulent moments on the floor. The nose alone—one heralding a rich cabernet and milk chocolate—would’ve stirred a moment’s peace and the opportunity for catching one’s breath. A sip—sweet, honeyed peaches stippled with cinnamon—truly a warming delight while nursing a wound at the base of any major appliance. And the finish—a medium dance of allspice and oak. By these, the courage to continue would’ve been assured.

Okay, I suppose I should provide some transparency here.

Knowing all of these charming details about the Aberlour 12-year-old while removing shards of Frosted Flakes from my knees, I’ll confess that I didn’t refrain from imbibing because of concern for what my children might discover. They know their father well enough not to wonder at his whisky-reviewing activities. In fact, had they discovered me on the floor in my disaster, I’m pretty sure they would’ve greeted me with a “Good morning, Daddy” as they reached around my head for the milk, scraped some cereal from the floor into a bowl, and proceeded to eat breakfast at the kitchen nook a few feet from my despair.

Honestly, the only reason I didn’t go for the whisky is because I hadn’t eaten in ten hours and the rest of my morning routine—which I fully intended to pursue—involved getting into the pool immediately after writing. Trust me, whisky and swimming on an empty stomach is a bad idea, and had I done it, I’m guessing I’d have had more to add to this tragedy.

The post Review – Aberlour, 12 Years Old, Double Cask Matured, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Bruichladdich, Octomore 10.3, 6 Years Old, 61.3%

[image error]My 15-year-old daughter, Madeline, isn’t all that interested in watching horror films, which is why it took me more than a year of steady pestering to get her to watch one of my favorites from childhood—John Carpenter’s 1982 version of “The Thing.” After I edited out the swearing, we finally sat down together to watch it while on vacation in Florida.

And she loved it.

I knew she would. In fact, no sooner than the credits began rolling did she ask about the prequel made in 2011, which we ended up watching the very next evening.

There just aren’t enough illuminating adjectives in the English language to describe Madeline’s gentle loveliness both as a person and in relation to others. And yet, she has a darkly creative side that most folks aren’t privileged to enjoy. This creativity is betrayed by her sense of humor as well as her gifts as an artist.

Let me be clear. Calling her an artist isn’t an expression of the typical parental bias which gives room for every kid to be considered a budding virtuoso. What I mean is that while your kid may have made a pretty interesting paper mache duck at school, I fully expect one day to discover Madeline’s oil paintings hanging in the Hermitage. She’s good. And every day she gets better. Admittedly, however, when her work does eventually end up in a museum, the curator won’t hang her pieces beside the Caravaggios and da Vincis. She’ll get a wing all to herself. This is true not because hers are lesser in precision, but because she has a unique style. As you observe her serene landscapes, you’ll undoubtedly discover ominous impositions she lets hover in the shadows—a red-eyed phantom watching from the darkness, or the bony appendage of a creature reaching up from the tranquility of a lake toward an unsuspecting fisherman.

She adds a bit of “creepy” somewhere.

[image error]Perhaps to better visualize this, if Madeline had been the creator of Rembrandt’s “A Young Woman at an Open Half-Door,” the portrait wouldn’t be so expressively neutral. Instead, it’s likely Madeline would’ve sketched cues into the image to help the viewer know the girl is more than posing. She’s actually investigating a lumbering thump against the door that will quite possibly lead to her demise.

Her portraits always have an unsettling edge. It’s her style. And I like it. It’s the kind of stuff I used to sketch when I wasn’t writing creepy stories or watching scary movies, and it’s why I tried so hard to convince Madeline to give “The Thing” a go. A good scary movie can jostle free a seed of inspiration.

My guess is that if Madeline isn’t eventually found laboring as a graphic design artist for a marketing firm, she’ll probably get a job doing concept art for movies. Or better yet, maybe she’ll be able to apply her creativity to the efforts of a distillery, and not necessarily as a packaging artist, but as one of the minds behind the actual products. Her ability to visualize unseen edges, making things a little more interesting, would be a valuable asset in this regard. In fact, I’d recommend Bruichladdich taking a chance on her, especially when it comes to furthering the Octomore series. Every single one of the Octomore editions is phenomenally wonderful, all bearing a unique edge that puts them in their own wing of the whisky museum.

[image error]Take for example the Octomore 10.3.

I received this particular edition as a gift from my friend Alden, and it’s nothing short of a thrill ride of unanticipated delights.

The nose of the 10.3 describes a pleasant coastal landscape with the softer hues of fruit warmed by a sun beaming through minimal smoke. Give the glass a swirl and the fruit rides a fuller plume up and into the open air, revealing itself as vanilla-soaked pineapple.

Like the guts of a great thriller, the first sip brings tension, washing ashore as a briny grapefruit that’s more sour than sweet. But as you’re carried along by the story, the twist arrives as a creamy tide of ash-sprinkled bananas and carmeled raisins producing an audible, “Wow. I didn’t see that coming.”

The longer finish is equally thrilling, bearing itself out with spices and pineapple cream cheese. Again, wow. That was unexpected.

For the record, I fully intend to sip and savor this whisky while enjoying whichever flick I can talk Madeline into watching next. I don’t know which it will be, just yet. Although, I’m thinking we should shoot for “The Exorcist.”

On second thought, we’ll skip that one, and not because it’s too scary, but because she’s seen what I go through on a daily basis at the church. It’ll feel more like a documentary than a horror flick. Maybe we’ll give “The Silence of the Lambs” or “The Shining” a try.

The post Review – Bruichladdich, Octomore 10.3, 6 Years Old, 61.3% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Kilbeggan Distilling Co., 2 Gingers, 4 Years Old, Blended Irish Whiskey, 40%

[image error]“Be honest with me,” Jennifer said, leaning over to whisper. I could sense by her tone she was serious. “Are we normal people?”

I knew why she asked such a question. We were both observing the passenger in front of us speak rather colorfully to his wife while the three-year-old between them smiled as if it were nothing.

“No, we’re not,” I replied. And I meant it. We are not as society around us has become.

Jennifer and I don’t use profanity. We don’t use it in the privacy of our own home, and we would never think of employing it in public, let alone in front of children. As you might expect, we didn’t raise our children to find it suitable, either. The proof is found in their concerned expressions when they hear it spoken or see it in print.

Nevertheless, it would seem there aren’t too many places left on earth where people like us can go and be spared of open profanity. The close quarters of an airplane? I think not. A movie theater? No way. A restaurant? Here’s an F-bomb or two from the booth behind you to pair with your grilled chicken salad. Perhaps worst of all, as the tendency toward crassity has more or less become the standard, not even the borderlands of one’s own home are benign. I say this as I regularly endure the three young boys currently living across the street from my house. It’s by no means uncommon for them to shout out the vilest things, their mom only steps away in the front yard listening to rap songs about doggy-style sex. My guess is that among the family as a whole, the span of their functioning vocabulary is already limited to about twenty words, six or seven of which they can actually spell. Of those twenty words in their memory bank, I’m guessing six are on the MPAA’s list for qualifying a film as rated “R.”

It’s sad. It’s also very frustrating.

It was Aldous Huxley who said, “Thanks to words, we have been able to rise above the brutes; and thanks to words, we have often sunk to the level of demons.”

True.

Language separates us from beasts, but it is often proof of an arching human trajectory back toward a devilry that began long before we were brutes.

I wrote an article some time ago reflecting on all of this. In it I shared that I’m one who considers his words to more or less be the clothing in which his thoughts are dressed. Simply put, thoughts are presented to others in the form of language, and the best communications occur when people take care with the words they choose to assemble. In every conversation, participants can either adorn the thoughts emerging from their character with gutter rags or with regalia. It’s completely up to them. Unfortunately, our society is proving itself to prefer the gutter.

Something I find rather interesting is that some people are relentless in their defense of profanity’s value. During exchanges on this topic, it hasn’t been uncommon for an opponent to pull studies from the internet implying people who swear are typically above average in intelligence and may actually have better communication skills. Playing that same game, I’m just as capable of producing an equal number of studies proving the exact opposite. In short, I don’t believe for a second the premise that profanity proves the swiftness and depth of a person’s intellect.

[image error]Actually, my purer point isn’t how smart a person is or isn’t, or whether or not they’d beat me in Scrabble. My point is that profanity seriously devalues dialogue as well as the people engaging in it. For as paradoxical as it may seem, I think the foul mouthed Will Darnell in the film “Christine” was on point when he surmised, “You know, Pepper, you can’t polish a turd.” Profanity is this way. It makes pretty much anything it’s trying to communicate all but unpolishable. When the thought is one of value, the unfortunate result is a swinish misrepresentation.

I’m not sure how I managed to meander into this discussion, except to say that I’m still bothered by the man in the seat in front of us on the plane and the fact that the little girl in his care will, most likely, never escape the clutches of his vernacular. She’ll probably simmer in this her whole life, and the odds are pretty good that one day, her children will, too.

I suppose the connection to whiskey in all of this is found in the unpolishable editions put out by lively distilleries of good repute. Such concoctions grossly distort the value of such a whiskey maker’s endeavors. The 2 Gingers edition from the Kilbeggan Distilling Company is an example.

When thirsty for a dram, I’ve never been one to reach first for the Irish whiskies. And yet, the folks at Kilbeggan have labored in ways that cause me to rethink this position. They’re a pretty good whiskey group, one worthy of the respect they’ve muscled to attain. And yet, their 2 Gingers edition is simply profane, owning the barest vocabulary of character.

The nose of the whiskey is bitter and bothersome, wafting artificial sweeteners atop metallic fruits. Inhale a bit more deeply and you’ll realize that the experience I just described was most likely the result of chemical engineering.

The palate is just as off-putting. There’s a little bit of malt to be had, but it’s rinsed away in a thin stream of tinny citrus—kind of like someone mashed up a vitamin c tablet and put it into the bottle.

The pale but sugary finish lasts about three whole seconds. Not four. Just three.

In all, a sip from this dreck is enough to make a guy like me reconsider his profanity-free lifestyle, especially since he spent a handful of his hard earned clergy-dollars to acquire it. Although, I think the higher-ups at Kilbeggan may just feel the same way I do. Most whiskies are glad to put their various offerings on their websites. Strangely, 2 Gingers isn’t listed by Kilbeggan, but rather has its own website.

In other words, I get the sense that Kilbeggan endures as I endure, living across the street from sewer-mouthed hooligans who could amount to a whole lot more in this life if they try, and yet, appear to prefer the realm of brutes.

The post Review – Kilbeggan Distilling Co., 2 Gingers, 4 Years Old, Blended Irish Whiskey, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Paul John, Indian Single Malt Whisky, Nirvana, Unpeated, 40%

[image error]“Yeah, it’s Scott,” the young man said to the chirpy girl on the other end of the line. “When did you get in, baby? I thought you weren’t gonna be here till tomorrow?”

The Florida sun was beaming through the windows of the rental car office. An extensive line of customers had gathered. Scott was immediately behind me.

“Oh, that’s cool. But what about the plane ticket I got you?” he asked, barely lowering his voice and shifting a step from the line. “I don’t think you can just give it to your sister. The airline won’t… Never mind. Seriously, it’s no big deal. So, how was the drive?… Tom? Do I know him?… Oh yeah, I remember him. He was at your brother’s party a couple of nights ago. Did he drive or did you?… Did you guys stop anywhere, because, you know, that’s a long drive?… That’s cool. Yeah, I’d have done the same thing. No wonder you got here before me.”

His emerging concern became a settled sigh.

“So, did you miss m—?… I don’t know. I was thinking I’d get us a convertible. I thought we could have some fun this week in a drop top mustang or… I don’t know if they have those. I can ask, though. It’ll cost me a little more.”

I can tell you right now, this economy class rental company isn’t likely to have Porsches. Either of us will be lucky if they give us cars with wheels and seats we don’t have to install ourselves.

“I’ll ask, baby… It’s all going on my Visa. We’re going to have fun this week… Yeah, I’m hungry, too. They didn’t serve anything on the pla—… Okay, I’ll be over, soon… I don’t know. I’m like fourth in line, and it’s moving pretty slowly… Maybe about an hour… No, I can take you. I’ll get the car and… Sure. I can meet you guys there.”

The weary traveler occupying the equally weary agent’s time took his minivan keys and left for the lot. The next in line made his way to the desk, and everyone else took a step forward.

“You should probably check to see if we need a reservation to that place… Baby, I’m in line, and… Yeah, I can call the place… Can you maybe text me the num—?… Sure, I’ll just look it up. If there’s a snag, I’ll call you back… I’ll put the reservation in your name… Okay, Tom’s name.”

Scott shifted a little more to his left while still keeping one foot in the line. Turning away, he fruitlessly attempted to maintain a measure of privacy.

“I’m looking forward to seeing,” he said, nudging at his suitcase with his foot. “Don’t worry about it. I’m taking care of the whole week… I’m looking forward to seeing you. Did you miss me?…  Maybe after dinner we could go to the hotel and… Well, I at least need to go there to check in and drop off my… I don’t know if there are shops by the restaurant. Why do you need clothes?… That’s all you brought?… I don’t know if… Okay, I’ll just put it on my Visa… Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you some new stuff… Yes, and some shoes, too… And a swim suit.”

He began to sound tired.

“I can’t wait to see… No, it’s just a regular room, but it has a great view of… There’s not going to be enough room… Baby, Tom is probably going to have to get his own hotel room… I don’t know… I don’t know, but I can check… I’ll call after I make the dinner reservation. Maybe they can bump us up to a suite with a guest room… Can he at least help cover the… Never mind, baby, I got it… Tell him I got it.”

His voice became even quieter.

“I can’t wait to see you… You know what I’m really looking forward to tonight?… Hello? Hello?”

The conversation ended. Scott sighed through his nose and resumed his place in line. I heard a few hushed profanities joined to the name “Tom” as he tapped at his phone in search of the restaurant. I heard a few more expletives while dialing the hotel.

Some people take far more than they give. Baby appears to be one of those people. Unfortunately, Scott is somehow caught in her gravity. I don’t know why, but I certainly feel sorry for him. On the other hand, I’ll admit that his pain had a hand in framing my thoughts of the Nirvana Unpeated Single Malt edition from Paul John Whisky.

Like people, some whiskies are givers. Others are takers. It would seem that the takers, whether wholly or only slightly so, at some point along the way require things of you. Some demand very little, perhaps only a drop of water. Others demand the world, conceivably requiring a gallon of Coca-Cola to make them tolerable. But the givers are all-sufficient, arriving in hand ready to please. The only thing they need is the recipient’s time and a place to dwell.

For the record, I’ve had all of the available Paul John Whisky editions, and I can assure you, they don’t make takers. They make givers. The Nirvana edition, which so strangely carries a near-bottom-shelf price tag, is no exception. Even at around $35, it brings everything one might need for an enjoyable sip.

The nose of this delightful dram is one of malt and salted caramel. Beyond these, it delivers exactly as the distillery describes—“honeycombed bourbon” and “fruitcake.”

The palate gives over wholegrain bread and apples. Another sip whispers a clarification—apple butter on warmed wholegrain toast. There may even be some coffee steaming nearby.

The medium finish leaves behind a winking effervescence of peppered honey and dried fruits. The spice is the last to leave.

Considering all of this, I wish I knew Scott personally. I wish I could sit and share a dram with him. Perhaps I’d find an opening for sharing a little about how wonderful it is to be in a relationship—namely, a marriage—where thinking of the other person first is pretty much the norm. Even better, perhaps by way of the Nirvana edition, I’d demonstrate how big ticket living is not essential for happiness—and neither are life-sucking abusers like the one he calls baby.

The post Review – Paul John, Indian Single Malt Whisky, Nirvana, Unpeated, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Paul John, Indian Single Malt Whisky, Nirvana, Unpeated, 40%

[image error]“Yeah, it’s Scott,” the young man said to the chirpy girl on the other end of the line. “When did you get in, baby? I thought you weren’t gonna be here till tomorrow?”

The Florida sun was beaming through the windows of the rental car office. An extensive line of customers had gathered. Scott was immediately behind me.

“Oh, that’s cool. But what about the plane ticket I got you?” he asked, barely lowering his voice and shifting a step from the line. “I don’t think you can just give it to your sister. The airline won’t… Never mind. Seriously, it’s no big deal. So, how was the drive?… Tom? Do I know him?… Oh yeah, I remember him. He was at your brother’s party a couple of nights ago. Did he drive or did you?… Did you guys stop anywhere, because, you know, that’s a long drive?… That’s cool. Yeah, I’d have done the same thing. No wonder you got here before me.”

His emerging concern became a settled sigh.

“So, did you miss m—?… I don’t know. I was thinking I’d get us a convertible. I thought we could have some fun this week in a drop top mustang or… I don’t know if they have those. I can ask, though. It’ll cost me a little more.”

I can tell you right now, this economy class rental company isn’t likely to have Porsches. Either of us will be lucky if they give us cars with wheels and seats we don’t have to install ourselves.

“I’ll ask, baby… It’s all going on my Visa. We’re going to have fun this week… Yeah, I’m hungry, too. They didn’t serve anything on the pla—… Okay, I’ll be over, soon… I don’t know. I’m like fourth in line, and it’s moving pretty slowly… Maybe about an hour… No, I can take you. I’ll get the car and… Sure. I can meet you guys there.”

The weary traveler occupying the equally weary agent’s time took his minivan keys and left for the lot. The next in line made his way to the desk, and everyone else took a step forward.

“You should probably check to see if we need a reservation to that place… Baby, I’m in line, and… Yeah, I can call the place… Can you maybe text me the num—?… Sure, I’ll just look it up. If there’s a snag, I’ll call you back… I’ll put the reservation in your name… Okay, Tom’s name.”

Scott shifted a little more to his left while still keeping one foot in the line. Turning away, he fruitlessly attempted to maintain a measure of privacy.

“I’m looking forward to seeing,” he said, nudging at his suitcase with his foot. “Don’t worry about it. I’m taking care of the whole week… I’m looking forward to seeing you. Did you miss me?…  Maybe after dinner we could go to the hotel and… Well, I at least need to go there to check in and drop off my… I don’t know if there are shops by the restaurant. Why do you need clothes?… That’s all you brought?… I don’t know if… Okay, I’ll just put it on my Visa… Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you some new stuff… Yes, and some shoes, too… And a swim suit.”

He began to sound tired.

“I can’t wait to see… No, it’s just a regular room, but it has a great view of… There’s not going to be enough room… Baby, Tom is probably going to have to get his own hotel room… I don’t know… I don’t know, but I can check… I’ll call after I make the dinner reservation. Maybe they can bump us up to a suite with a guest room… Can he at least help cover the… Never mind, baby, I got it… Tell him I got it.”

His voice became even quieter.

“I can’t wait to see you… You know what I’m really looking forward to tonight?… Hello? Hello?”

The conversation ended. Scott sighed through his nose and resumed his place in line. I heard a few hushed profanities joined to the name “Tom” as he tapped at his phone in search of the restaurant. I heard a few more expletives while dialing the hotel.

Some people take far more than they give. Baby appears to be one of those people. Unfortunately, Scott is somehow caught in her gravity. I don’t know why, but I certainly feel sorry for him. On the other hand, I’ll admit that his pain had a hand in framing my thoughts of the Nirvana Unpeated Single Malt edition from Paul John Whisky.

Like people, some whiskies are givers. Others are takers. It would seem that the takers, whether wholly or only slightly so, at some point along the way require things of you. Some demand very little, perhaps only a drop of water. Others demand the world, conceivably requiring a gallon of Coca-Cola to make them tolerable. But the givers are all-sufficient, arriving in hand ready to please. The only thing they need is the recipient’s time and a place to dwell.

For the record, I’ve had all of the available Paul John Whisky editions, and I can assure you, they don’t make takers. They make givers. The Nirvana edition, which so strangely carries a near-bottom-shelf price tag, is no exception. Even at around $35, it brings everything one might need for an enjoyable sip.

The nose of this delightful dram is one of malt and salted caramel. Beyond these, it delivers exactly as the distillery describes—“honeycombed bourbon” and “fruitcake.”

The palate gives over wholegrain bread and apples. Another sip whispers a clarification—apple butter on warmed wholegrain toast. There may even be some coffee steaming nearby.

The medium finish leaves behind a winking effervescence of peppered honey and dried fruits. The spice is the last to leave.

Considering all of this, I wish I knew Scott personally. I wish I could sit and share a dram with him. Perhaps I’d find an opening for sharing a little about how wonderful it is to be in a relationship—namely, a marriage—where thinking of the other person first is pretty much the norm. Even better, perhaps by way of the Nirvana edition, I’d demonstrate how big ticket living is not essential for happiness—and neither are life-sucking abusers like the one he calls baby.

The post Paul John, Indian Single Malt Whisky, Nirvana, Unpeated, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

The Angels’ Portion in Quarantine

Governor Whitmer has instructed us to wear masks in public. I’m making the best of it while trying to stir a few smiles here and there for the wonderful folks of Fenton and Linden, Michigan.

Be safe, friends.

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Review – That Boutique-y Whisky Company, North of Scotland Distillery, 46 Years Old, 41%

[image error]“I see we’re back in our usual spot, Reverend,” Vader said, tapping on his smart phone. The Red Lobster menus were already on the table.

“What’s with the Tie Fighter outside?” I asked, setting down the paper bag in my hand and pulling a chair from the table. “I thought you were trying to be inconspicuous these days.”

“The Mazda’s in the shop,” he replied.

“Why not just fly?”

“I did fly.”

“No, I mean like your daughter, Leia, in ‘The Last Jedi,’” I said. “That was… well… interesting.”

“You mean that ‘Mary Poppins’ nonsense?” he asked. “That was dumb. And Rian Johnson told me personally he’s hoping we’ll forget that scene ever happened.”

“He did?”

“Oh yeah. He’s really embarrassed by it. He said he was just trying to make Star Wars fresh for a new generation of fans. But he forgot that every generation of sci-fi nerds is born from the strict traditions of the previous generation. He caught a lot of flak for that scene, not to mention that side plot in the casino. He’s never going to live that down.”

“I’d believe that,” I said. “That was pretty lame. And you’re right about the ways of nerddom. My kids learned everything there is to know about the Force from me. When they saw Leia flying around in space, my oldest shouted out ‘Whatever!’ right there in the movie theater.”

“I get it,” Vader said, still tapping on his phone. “Like I said, Johnson is pretty embarrassed over the whole thing. I’m the most powerful in the galaxy. If I can’t do that, nobody can.”

“Thus the Tie Fighter.”

“Yes.”

“You do realize you parked it on top of some cars out there?”

“Yes.”

I took a sip of my water. “Who are you texting?”

“I’ve been trying to explain to Edith for the past half hour what’s wrong with the Mazda,” he answered, giving a redirecting nod toward the bag on the table. “What’d you bring this year, Thoma?”

Taking the bottle out, I reached and set it beside the Sith Lord. I saw him give a glance in between taps.

“That’s a little bottle,” he said.

“It’s fifty centiliters instead of the usual seventy-five.”

“Why so small?” Vader asked. “We could finish that off before the waitress brings your Admiral’s Feast.”

“It’s a little smaller than usual,” I said, “but that’s only because there isn’t much of this 46-year-old to go around. It’s pretty rare stuff.”

“Whatever,” he said, stuffing his phone into his utility belt and taking a sip of his Coke through the mechanized tube in his breather. “Everybody’s whisky is ‘rare.’ I came here to drink with you, Reverend, not Rian Johnson.”

“It’s not a gimmick, Darth,” I interrupted. “I know everything there is to know about this whisky. I actually had a hand in getting it to market.”

Before Darth could say anything else, I proceeded to tell him the story.

In September of 1971, Oscar Haab, the owner of Haab’s Restaurant in Ypsilanti, Michigan, commissioned five barrels of North of Scotland Scotch Grain Whisky from Strathmore Distillery. He did it again in 1972, adding five more barrels of Invergordon to his holdings. He did it one last time in 1973, adding two more North of Scotland barrels a few years before the Strathmore Distillery eventually closed.

In total, Oscar commissioned a stock of twelve barrels.

The barrels rested comfortably in the Lying Bonhill Warehouse for a good many years before finally being transferred to Inver House Distillers under the care of Speyside Distillers in Glasgow. After Mr. Haab’s passing, his wife Keturah (or Kay, as I know her), took ownership of her late husband’s whisky, and in 2015 decided to liquidate it with the hopes of giving the proceeds to charity. The process proved slow and extremely unproductive.

In the spring of 2018, Kay reached to me for help.

I’d met Kay by way of various Lutheran circles, and she knew that as a Lutheran pastor, strangely, I had a hand in the whisky world. One afternoon in the midst of casual conversation, she shared with me what she knew about her late husband’s whisky stock and what she was trying to do. She also shared her frustrations. My interest was piqued, and a few days later she delivered to me a file filled with documents that told the story of the conception, birth, and every subsequent footstep of each of the barrels over the past four decades. The file also contained a record of the frustratingly shady and nearly completed deals with some in the business who knew they were dealing with an uninformed seller.

I promised Kay I’d do some investigating among the people I knew and that I’d work to get her a fair price from a reputable firm.

And that’s exactly what happened. Six months later, a deal was struck with Toby Cutler at Atom Brands for eleven of the twelve barrels.

“Why only eleven?” Vader asked.

“As with all things,” I said, “time takes its toll. Over the course of the effort, I discovered that one of the barrels had spoiled, while four others had dropped below the forty percent ABV level—although they were still highly viable for blending. But the seven casks that remained were in pristine condition, all well above the 40% mark and ready for bottling, or for whatever a buyer might prefer. Atom Brands ended up buying all eleven of the unspoiled barrels.”

“Great story, Reverend,” Vader said, ho-hummingly. “Still, I can walk down the street right this very second and find a 40-year-old bottle of something. It’s not that weird.”

“Yeah, but it’ll cost you your Tie Fighter,” I said. “And still, it won’t be as rare as this whisky.”

“Right,” he droned. “Rare.”

“The Strathmore distillery has long since been closed,” I insisted, “and you and I both know that to discover a single malt from a mothballed distiller would be a prize.”

[image error]“Maybe,” the Sith Lord said, leaning toward the bottle to investigate a little more. Lifting and turning it, he added, “I was at a nightclub in Edinburgh a few years back with Ricky Christie, and he claims there are only two bottles of single malt whisky from the Strathmore in existence in the entire galaxy.” He set the bottle back on the table. “Ricky said he has one of them.”

“Who’s Ricky Christie?”

“His father was George Christie, the owner of the North of Scotland Distillery, which I’m guessing you already know sourced some of its blends from Strathmore back in the day.”

“How long has Ricky had that edition?” I asked.

“He didn’t say, but I’m guessing it had to be a young bottling.”

[image error]“Well, it doesn’t really matter. This stuff is still a doubly rare find. It’s been aging for 46 years and it comes from a distillery that’s been closed for decades.” I popped the cork and poured two drams. “And now That Boutique-y Whisky Company, an arm of Atom Brands, has 193 bottles of this scarcity to sell to the world. Well, actually, they have 187 bottles. They sent me six—as well as an 18 by 24 canvas print of the label.”

“And this is one of the bottles,” Vader said, waving his hand and lifting his glass through the air to clink with mine.

“Indeed.”

We sniffed and sipped.

“You can tell this one’s been in the barrel a while,” Vader said. “The scent of old wood was the first thing through my breather.”

“The grains are ample, too,” I added. “There’s a loaf of bread on a wooden peel just being taken from the oven.”

“And the baker’s nearby stirring some blueberries into a bowl of melted butter,” Vader inserted eloquently.

“That’s a perfect description of the palate, my friend,” I praised. “It’s blueberry bread—warm and buttery.”

I took another sip. “But there’s something else.”

“Malt,” Vader intoned, succinctly. “There’s a spicy malt mixed into the dough.”

“Agreed,” I said, taking another sip. “So, how does it end for you?”

“The finish is about medium,” he answered. “It ends where it started. The barrel wood and grains lead us out.”

“I like it,” I concluded.

“Yeah,” Vader admitted. “It’s pretty good. I’m glad you’re leaving this bottle with me.”

“I’m not leaving the bottle with you, Darth.”

“Yes, you are. You have five more at home, Thoma. This one can stay.”

“You know,” I said, beginning to betray a long-suppressed irritation, “it’s bad enough I’m the one between the two of us who brings the whisky for this yearly get-together. And now, of all the whiskies I’ve brought to share with you, you want to keep the one that is incredibly personal? That’s never been part of this deal, Darth.”

[image error]“The deal has changed, Reverend. Pray I don’t alter the deal any further.”

I’m not leaving the bottle with you, Darth.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yes, I am.”

 

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Review – Penderyn, Welsh Gold, Madeira Finish, (No Age Stated), 46%

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Do you want to know how I know that alien lifeforms aren’t being kept alive in captivity or stored in glass jars filled with formaldehyde in a government vault somewhere?

Because it’s hard to keep secrets from a pastor.

Most folks take us for innocent dolts. But they forget that we interact fairly regularly with the underbelly of mankind’s visceral grotesqueries. Infidelity, drug abuse, you name it. I’ve seen and heard just about every veiling lie for covering a human’s tracks. I’m more than accustomed to the facial expressions and I’m overly familiar with the accompanying body language.

If you’re hiding something from me, ninety-nine percent of the time I’ll know just by listening and watching. It’s almost eerie how accurate I can be in this regard, too. And again, it’s also why you can trust me when I say we’ve never experienced first contact.

Here’s why.

The President of the United States holds absolute executive authority. Absolute executive authority assumes full access to all government facilities, programs, and documentation. This means that no sitting U.S. president is subject to security clearance requirements. It follows then that the only thing keeping a U.S. president from knowing every single one of the highest tier secrets of our nation, past or present, is the level of his own personal interest.

You’ll never convince me that any of the men who’ve ever achieved the highest office in the land did so without feeding the beast of self-interest. And so once again, the reason I know the U.S. government isn’t keeping any other-worldly secrets hidden away in steely bunkers six miles below the earth is because if it was, the presidents would have been asked this on camera, lied about it, and ultimately been discovered by guys like me who know what to listen and look for.

I mean, just think about it simply. They’re human, like the rest of us, right? Not that we’re all chronic liars, but rather just imagine if either of us were newly elected as president. You and I both know that one of the first things we’d want to know is what’s going on in Area 51. Upon learning that we’d been visited by beings from another planet, and we’d actually held their technology in our hands, do you really think either one of us would be able to hide this knowledge so easily behind a stale faced persona? I don’t think we would. Certainly, we’d hold to the oath of office and wouldn’t betray the secret verbally. But my guess is that most regular human beings would betray it visibly before the cameras as they struggle to find any bit of interest in the major geopolitical situations going on around them. My guess is that at the first run-of-the-mill press conference with another world leader, it would be easy to tell they’d learned something fantastical.

“Thank you for taking my question, Mr. President,” a reporter would say, his recorder outstretched toward the two dignitaries. “You’ve only been in office a few days, so with that, what points of discussion took place between you and the French Prime Minister regarding the war in Syria?”

“Yeah, well,” the President would reply, a distant stare revealing his struggle to care much about the here and now. “I told him some stuff. He told me some stuff. Then we ate lunch.”

“What did you eat for lunch, Mr. President?” another reporter would call with a chuckle from the back of the room.

“Well, the Prime Minister had soup. I had an alien spaceship—I mean, um, an Episcopalian sandwich.”

“Sir,” the same reporter would ask, “what makes a sandwich Episcopalian, exactly?”

“Um, because, everything on it is out of order. The meat’s on the outside and the bread’s on the inside. Very weird. Thanks, everyone. No more questions.”

It’s true that the government lies to us about a lot of things, but alien contact probably isn’t one of them.

Do you want to know how I know that the folks at Penderyn must be lying about using Buffalo Trace and Evan Williams barrels for the aging of their whiskies? Because Penderyn whisky is good. It’s well balanced and crisply sweet—especially this particular edition of the Welsh Gold finished in Madeira casks.

Okay, so maybe Penderyn isn’t lying and I’m merely betraying my dislike for Buffalo Trace and Evan Williams. With that, the truth to Penderyn’s story remains sturdy, just as Oliver Wendell Holmes said truth would be:

“It will not break, like a bubble, at a touch; nay, you may kick it about all day like a football, and it will be round and full at evening.”

No matter the barrels, Penderyn has a fine dram here. It’s round and full all day long.

The nose of the whisky is one of malt and dark fruits—back raspberries, perhaps. There’s a flow of warmed vanilla that tapers into a stream of honey.

The palate is generous with the malt. At first, it feels like the whisky might be hiding something metallic behind this particular flavor, but then it comes clean on the copper still used in distillation, and then rounds a corner toward balance with a well-timed dash of wood spice.

The whisky’s medium finish is as it began in the nose—malty, fruity, and warm. It’s the perfect dram for a summer evening on the deck beneath the stars. It’s even better to have in hand if that star-filled night is suddenly disturbed by an alien spaceship landing in the back yard. Your best bet for establishing peace between two worlds is to make the strange beings an Episcopalian sandwich and then let them wash it down with this particular edition from Penderyn.

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Review – Douglas Laing & Co., Scallywag, Small Batch Release, Speyside Blended Malt Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 46%

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The Thoma family just returned from visiting the Kennedy Space Center, and because I remain absolutely enthralled by what I experienced there, I took to doing a little reading on the history of the Apollo 8 mission—which is the one aspect of our visit that marveled me the most.

In my casual study, one thing led to another, and I ended up swimming in various aerospace articles that did far more to harm my self-esteem than actually inform me.

I’m a moron beside these people.

I say this not only in comparison to the details surrounding the men and women who were the first to figure out how to get a spacecraft to orbit the moon, but also in response to the well-versed writer who scribed one particular article in which the word “cabotage” was used with the casual assumption that I actually knew what it meant. I’d never seen this word before in my life. As far as I knew, it described the moment when one person successfully hails a cab only to have another person come along and steal it.

“Spell ‘cabotage.’”

“Please use it in a sentence.”

“That stupid s.o.b. stealing my cab was a clear case of cabotage.”

“Cabotage… c-a-b-o-t-a-g-e. Cabotage.”

“That is correct.”

But cabotage has nothing to do with cab-stealing. And for the foodies out there, it’s even further from meaning to slip a little bit of cabbage into a dish where it doesn’t belong. It’s the term used of a country’s right to both operate and monitor all transportation within—and in some cases just beyond—its own borders.

[image error]Colliding with my own ignorance, and sipping a rather pleasant dram of Douglas Laing’s Scallywag Small Batch Release, I wondered about the etymology of the whisky’s title. I already knew it was a derogatory term used during the time of the Civil War by Democrats in reference to the Republicans intent on freeing the slaves, but I figured it had a deeper meaning in Europe. I thought perhaps it might’ve had something to do with a particular historical character in Scotland who stood against the travesty of high taxation of whiskies, ultimately making the individual malts of this blend somehow possible. You know, something like that—something deeply inspiring.

Well, let’s just say that the previously mentioned blow to my self-esteem caused me to over compensate on this one. It’s nothing more than the name of Douglas Laing’s toothless dog.

No worries. For as derogatory as the term might be, as it relates to this namesake whisky, it suggests Scallywag is an exceptionally refined pooch, one that is a well-bathed, affectionate, and steady companion in all of life’s circumstances.

The nose is crisp and fruity, not only giving over the remnant scents of the sherry casks, but other candied tree delights as well—bruised peaches and warmed plums. There’s an initial waft of vanilla, but it dissipates shortly after the pour.

The palate maintains the vanilla. But like a well-trained canine friend, it fetches a few other enchantments and sets them at its master’s feet, its only expectation being that of a loving pat and a “Good boy.” It runs out to find milk chocolate, but returns with cherries, too. It fetches the nutmeg, cinnamon, and citrus zest noted on the whisky’s canister.

The medium finish sees one more round trip from the pooch, a venture that results in a fading, oaky ember from an extinguished fireplace.

Come to think of it, since we’ve been playing with words, I sure hope Laing wasn’t pulling a fast one on us when he named this after his dog. I sure hope he chose the title as he did because Scallywag is (or was) a well-mannered and faithful pooch, and not because his fox terrier, like his whisky, was so incredibly delicious.

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The Thoma family with our new bestie, astronaut Ken Cameron. What a genuine gent, one who was kindly enough to take time out of his day to sign autographs and take pictures with the lower life forms. Turns out he lived not too far from us in Michigan when he worked at General Motors. I did a little reading about Ken, and for the record, I gave a silent toast to his more-than-astounding list of accomplishments when I sipped this Scallywag. Slàinte mhath, Ken!

The post Review – Douglas Laing & Co., Scallywag, Small Batch Release, Speyside Blended Malt Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 46% appeared first on angelsportion.