Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 12

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 40% 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 been closed,” I insisted, “and you and I both know that to discover a single malt from a long-since-mothballed distiller would be a prize.”

“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.”

“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.”

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“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 wood scent 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 – Old Elk, Blended Straight Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 44%

[image error]I think I can say that I’ve reached the delta in my life where my kids are surpassing me. And while I believe it’s true that each generation following the next is innately equipped with a sense for better handling technological advancement, I don’t necessarily mean to say my kids are ready to be crowned in the P.C. or video game department. Keeping the context, I’m still the guy everyone in the house calls when the internet is down or the computer is malfunctioning. I’m still the guy who, when propped in front of Pac-Man or Donkey Kong in an arcade, is a demigod among mortals.

But ask me how to change the settings on my smart phone, or put me in front of a flat screen TV with a Sony PlayStation controller into my hands, and you’d think I had a closed head injury.

I guess what I mean is that I’m at that point when the nature of my physical advancement has turned to retreat. Rough-housing with my kids has become less about me being careful not to injure them and more about them being careful not to completely maim me. Sporting activities are less about me being careful not to score too many more points than them and more about making sure I don’t have a heart attack. I just played air-hockey with my wife, and while I won, I’ll admit it wasn’t easy. In the arcade’s dim light, I had a difficult time seeing the puck. If I’d been playing one of my more aggressive sons, I’d have lost for sure.

The problem with all of this is that even though I’ve clearly met the mile marker of my physical abilities, my pride remains somewhere over the horizon. I’m not willing to forfeit these contests just yet. This means I’ll play to win a vicious game of Death Ball in the vacation swimming pool (see the Big House Straight Bourbon or Peerless Straight Rye reviews) even though I’ll be terribly sore in the days that follow. It means that in the heat of a high speed go-cart contest at a mock NASCAR facility, one requiring a helmet that just won’t allow my glasses to sit correctly so I can actually see the track without a slight blur, a father will keep his throttle wide open, risking his future and the future of his eldest son in every indistinct turn.

“Old” armed with the prideful desire to outdo all others can be a dangerous and foolhardy thing. However, in the case of the Old Elk Bourbon, it’s the perfect recipe for a fine dram.

A gold medal winner at the 2018 San Francisco World Spirits Competition, the nose of this whiskey is that of warmed brown sugar and overly ripened strawberries followed by the cloves and vanilla noted by the distiller.

An initial sip reveals a stirring warmth of caramel and the berries from the nosing. A drop of water and a swirl allows the barrel spices to flourish while at the same time giving thickness to its sweeter notes. In other words, as the intensity of one begins, the other comes along bringing it into balance.

The finish is medium in length, offering a brief retelling of the palate while at the same time beckoning another go-round.

It’s the perfect dram for a post-go-cart debrief between two ferociously competitive generations.

“I wish we’d have had the track to ourselves,” I said. “Those other three drivers were going way too slowly.”

“Yeah,” Josh replied. “If it wouldn’t have been for them, it would’ve been full on for us. And did you see that one girl was texting the whole time?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but did you see what happened?”

“Oh yes, I did,” Josh said, smiling. “She dropped her phone on the track.”

“That’s because I cut her off in the third turn,” I said, grinning pridefully and taking a sip.

“Old and young, we make a great team,” he said, matching my grin and sipping his Sprite.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, teetering at the edge of offense.

“You made her drop it. I ran it over.”

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——————

* Full disclosure: Before receiving this whiskey, I was offered the opportunity to visit with Greg Metze, the somewhat iconic hand behind Old Elk Bourbon. I chose not to do so for two reasons. The first is that I know a lot about him and his history in the world of rye whiskies, and with that, I didn’t want to be star struck before the first sip. The second reason is that I’m certain we would’ve become fast friends during that conversation. But if the whiskey would’ve been total garbage, a scathing review of what is his first venture beyond his days at the helm of Midwest Grain Products (MGP) in Indiana—the source distillery for a vast number of craft distilleries—I’m equally certain such a review would’ve soured that blossoming relationship before it had time to establish deeper roots.

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Bottega, Limoncino, (No Age Stated), 30%

[image error]I’ve been encouraged on more than one occasion to run for public office.

It’s true that I’m fairly engaged in the public square. And I suppose that if I did seek to run, I’d probably have enough folks in my community who know me that they’d at least be willing to send me up the chain to occupy some irrelevant position.

The biggest problem with the idea is that I’m perfectly happy not being an elected official. No matter the station, every official is beholden to someone. That’s the way our system of government works. It’s held together by strings. I suppose the first time I fail to cast a vote as my biggest donors would expect, I’d find my re-election campaign in jeopardy.

The second biggest problem is that I’m a teacher at heart. Too often I’m looking through the lens of teaching others a lesson.

Yes, that is exactly as it sounds, which means if you’re up to anything criminal, you wouldn’t want me serving as the judge in your court case.

Abusing your children? I’m a creative guy. I have some ideas on how to rehabilitate you, one of which involves a wiffle ball bat. Did someone die as a result of your driving drunk? I’ve sometimes wondered what it looks like to be water boarded with Scoresby. Are you a child sex trafficker? I’d be okay with letting you soak for a few hours each day in a tub full of Drano. Are you behind Daylight Savings Time? Well, I’ve already decreed your fate in my review of The Balvenie Single Barrel First Fill Cask in The Angels’ Portion, Volume III.

Are you a charlatan dealing in counterfeit goods? Do you own and operate a store in an Orlando shopping mall entitled “French Furniture,” which is a seemingly high class establishment brimming with gaudily designed and extravagantly priced furnishings, a place that makes every visitor feel as though he or she has just stepped into the world of “Beauty and the Beast”? Do you sell these items and the experience they suggest knowing that everything in the store is actually made in and imported from Italy?

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Liar. My best, most imaginative notions for punishment were born from the prospect of penalizing liars.

Stephen King said it best: “The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.” When innocence is lassoed by lies, people end up spending $4,000 on a curvy nook table and chairs reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in Paris.

Okay, so maybe it’s no big deal. Products are made in various countries and sold as authentic to others all the time. Still, I remain a purist, and false impressions fall beyond purism’s borderlands. I say if you want something that’s truly French, get it from France. If you want something that’s truly Italian, try the Bottega Limoncino.

Limoncino—also referred to by many Americans as Limoncello—is a sipping liqueur original to Italy. It’s typically made from lemon zest and grappa, and most often is served cold. And for the record, you’ll know the authenticity of the one serving the drink if they deliver it to you in an equally chilled ceramic cup.

I received this bottle as a gift from a friend who visited Italy. I’ll admit it was a kindly gesture, however, in order to maintain the integrity of my efforts here—and to stay in Stephen King’s good graces—I won’t pretend to like it.

“But you just told all of us to try it!”

Yes, I did. I said if you want something that’s truly Italian, try this particular edition of Limoncino. I said that because it’s actually from Italy. There are plenty of booze hagglers out there making stuff they call Limoncino, but Bottega Liqueurs does their work in Veneto, which is a town situated in northern Italy. A winery dealing in grappa, they’ve been making and selling this stuff for almost half a century—long before anyone anywhere else decided to set aside a vat in order to try their hand at emulating this regional spirit

Still, I maintain I’m not one to enjoy the drink. It’s too sweet for me. Also, I should note that while I consumed the dram chilled, I nosed it at room temperature. I did this because the scents from chilled drinks have a tendency to fall rather than rise, and when that happens, you miss the wider array of the gifts they bring.

That being said, the nose of this specialty elixir is butter, and as one would suspect, lemons. There’s a fraction of allspice and a hint of plums that come along to the palate. I’m guessing the plums are due to the grappa. I don’t know what would stir the spice. I imagined the lemon pomace.

The finish is long and oily. It coats the mouth with a stratum of lemony sugar that goes far beyond what most whisky drinkers would consider polite or enjoyable. And don’t think you can sip some water to cleanse the palate after drinking this stuff. It doesn’t work. My only success was found in eating a ham sandwich stacked with tomatoes, cheese, mayonnaise, and mustard. And then I washed it down with The Balvenie I mentioned before.

And then I brushed my teeth and took a shower.

But again, if you’re seeking an authentic Italian experience, I recommend this as opposed to what they’re selling in that little room just off of the kitchen of your favorite Italian restaurant.

You know the one.

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Review – Cascade Blonde, American Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

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It’s a fact that many corporations communicate their message to the consuming public as though we’re all children.

Hurry! This sale won’t last long!

Yes it will. I’ve driven past your establishment five hundred times over the course of several years and that banner has always been there. Of course, if you’re pitching to procrastinators, and by “long” you mean a decade, then okay. Still, your sign is strangely similar to something parents might be found saying to their kids.

If you do that one more time, you’re going to be in big trouble!

If by “one more time” you mean five hundred more times, then get comfortable, because it’s going to be a very long car ride before any of the youngsters start feeling trouble’s heat.

We’re #1 in satisfaction!

What a fantastical claim for all who’ve been served by this company! They must be well-tuned to what we’re experiencing out here in the trenches! Still, something doesn’t feel quite right. I could swear I’ve heard other companies stake the same claim at the top of the satisfaction mount. And not to mention, it reminds me of something my wife said to our youngest daughter while walking along at Disney Springs in Orlando, Florida.

“Momma,” the little girl droned while pressing on a portion of her cheek, “this part of my face hurts.”

“Mine does, too,” Jennifer replied. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” she whimpered, and continued in stride.

“What did Evelyn say is hurting her?” I leaned over to ask.

“I don’t know,” Jennifer said, her swiftness of response no different with me than with her offspring.

Overhearing her mother’s response, Evelyn turned back to her, “I thought you said yours hurts, too!”

“What hurts?”

“This part of my face,” she said, pointing to the same place as before.

“Mine hurts, too, honey. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

For the record, I shared this story with my wife before sharing it with you, and lest she be considered the kind of mother who remains carefree while her daughter has a stroke, she clarified that Evelyn had previously been making funny faces with her siblings. One rather contorted expression required the young girl to pinch and pull her cheeks while sticking out her tongue. Apparently, she did this over and over again. Naturally, her cheeks were sore.

Anyway, I know for a fact there are distilleries that communicate with the public this way, too. They carelessly slap words like “rare” and “crafted” and “aged” on their labels. Some are even bold enough to put the word “whiskey” on the side of a product that’s little more than ethanol with caramel coloring added at the time of bottling. Being a relatively inexpensive whiskey, one might think this to be the case with the Cascade Blonde, especially when a marketing skeptic like me sees on one side of its labeling the words “Probably the best whiskey in America,” and on the other side, a somewhat gimmicky proposition for using the edition’s cork as a fishing bobber.

But set aside your cynicism. Cascade Blonde is a really great dram.

First off, with regard to the labeling, any practical ideas for the usage of the bottle and cork after it’s emptied is something to be well considered. It suggests a mindfulness for the joys in life beyond the whiskey given. I like that. Thinking this way, I started using the corks from all of my empties as Christmas ornaments. I did the same with my daughter’s old Type 1 diabetes devices. The instruction as to how one might use Cascade Blonde’s bright yellow cork for catching fish is a great idea.

Additionally, by using the word “probably,” the producers of this dram communicate honestly with the consumer. They let us decide its place among American whiskies. They encourage investigation, and so by a careful nosing, one can discover for his or herself that the whiskey is indeed quite nice. Crisply light, it sends up subtle wafts of peppery vanilla. It’s pleasantly easy.

Investigating further, the Cascade Blonde is reminiscent of a Bourbon and Irish whiskey blend. I sensed a sour corn mash, but I also noticed the tang of something metallic. This sounds weird, but in truth, it wasn’t a bad combination. Coming together, it leaves behind the pepper from the nosing, but pulls the vanilla onto the palate, and in the process, adds ginger and little bit of citrus sour.

The finish is barely oaky, and like the nose, is extraordinarily light. There’s very little burn in the throat. It’s refreshing enough to make this a flask sipper while knee deep and casting a line in one’s favorite stream.

I’ll conclude by emphasizing that I’m not much of a salesman. And yet, I’ll dare to herald that this whiskey is at least in the top ten with regard to satisfaction. I might even risk asserting that at its current price tag of about $25, you should hurry up and add it to your collection because such a sale won’t last long!

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Review – 1792, Small Batch, (No Age Stated), 46.85%

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France.

I’ve never actually been to France. I’ve been to all of the countries around it, but I’ve never stepped foot over its border.

I’ll admit that for a guy of German descent, that’s a bit awkward. But I assure you that it’s purely coincidental. I haven’t been circling the country with shady intentions of eventually staking a claim in its soil. I’ve just never been there.

Love it or hate it, France has a depth of culture and history that few other countries can assert. I mean, which other country is as thrifty as France, considering sex a national pastime in order to save money on other forms of personal enjoyment? And which other country can literally boast seven hundred ways to serve eggs, or claim itself as the source of over two hundred and fifty different cheeses? It takes a very special country to be that devoted to cheese. Forget the nation of Wisconsin. France has this one hands down.

A country filled with such creative individualism and bold originality is bound to have a few revolutions here and there, too, wouldn’t you say? Thus, the namesake for this whiskey.

Hold on a second, Thoma? Where are you going with this? Why are you talking about France in relation to this whiskey?

Did you miss what I just wrote? The whiskey’s name is 1792. It’s obviously named in memory of the French Revolution and the year King Louis and Mary-Antoinette were imprisoned. And it makes sense to name a Bourbon after something in France’s history. As I’ve noted in other places, the word “Bourbon” is French. The Bourbons were that extended branch of the French royals who supplied the sitting monarchs with their booze.

Add to that the historical work accomplished by Michael Veach, the one who finally shed light on the fact that Bourbon didn’t get its name from Bourbon County, Kentucky, as so many among us have believed for so long. Its birthplace was Louisville. Two Frenchmen from Cognac, France, began selling their homemade recipes along the shores of the Ohio River—popularizing it all the way to New Orleans as something like Cognac, which was hugely popular at that time. Over the course of several years, it became known as Bourbon.

Knowing all of this, it makes perfect sense that someone would make and market a whiskey with a deliberate nod to France.

That’s not what 1792 means at all, Thoma.

It isn’t?

No. It’s the year Kentucky became a state.

Oh. Really?

Yes.

Hmm. Okay, then. Let’s see…

Kentucky.

I’ve never actually been to Kentucky. I’ve been to all of the states around it, but I’ve never stepped foot over its border.

Okay, that’s not true. I’ve been to Kentucky many times, and each time was as wonderfully memorable as the first. I suppose that’s the better tie-in to this whiskey. I liked it, each sip being as enjoyable as the one before it.

With a nose of whipped cream atop overly-spiced raspberries, this dram is a thrifty deliverance of something exceptionally sensual.

The palate continues the raspberry affair, but invites along a warmed cheesecake of sorts sprinkled with bread crumbs and peppery oak. A second sip is as the first, except more appreciated now that you know it actually met the edges of its promises.

The finish is nearly long. It strains away with the cream and spice, but the last sensation offered is a surprising turn to buttered corn bread.

I suppose I should end with gladness that my mistake was corrected. Pearl S. Buck said that every blunder has its half-way moment when it can be remedied. Looking back over what I’ve written, mine looks to be a little past the half-way mark.

But you gotta admit, the name fits either way—and of the two, mine was the better reasoning.

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Review – The Macallan, 12 Years Old, Sherry Oak Cask, 43%

[image error]Do you remember that time when you were driving along at sixty miles per hour and you happened upon the cross street you were looking for much sooner than expected? Do you remember how you decided in that moment to attempt the turn anyway rather than pass it, turn around, and come back? Do you recall how in that moment of the actual turn you realized what a huge mistake it was? Do you remember the silent prayer that formed behind your wide-eyed animation and cursing, the one that sounded something like, “Lord, as I roll this car and am ejected into the ditch, please just let me live”? Do you remember that feverish instant of trembling after the successful completion of the turn, that moment when you found yourself in disbelief that you were still alive? And perhaps finally, do you recall that thought a half mile down the road when you gave a sigh of relief that there was no one else around in the moment of the turn to be jeopardized by your deathly lunacy?

Now, envision an Airbus 321 arriving in Orlando from Detroit. Imagine that all 240 of its seats are occupied by excited vacationers. Be mindful that the overhead compartments are brimming and so is the luggage compartment in the plane’s belly.

Imagine that aircraft coming in for a landing and touching down at two-hundred miles per hour. Imagine hearing the ceremonial applause from the passengers. Imagine cruising along for a few moments as though heading to the furthest exit at the end of the runway. Imagine the sudden and deafening sound that comes from throwing the engine thrust reversers into full power in order to make an immediate left turn.

Imagine that turn—because it happened.

The plane tottered. People screamed. Prayers were said.

Once the turn was completed, folks offered another round of ceremonial applause—although I’m guessing it was more a form of communal praise to the Lord for deliverance from the runway canal we nearly rolled into and which was most likely occupied by gators.

The captain eventually came over the PA system to offer a nervously quick welcome to “the beautiful city.” After that, he was never seen or heard from again.

My guess is that the tower changed plans on the pilot mid-landing. Or he woke up after the autopilot landed the plane and sounded an alarm that it was his turn to take over.

Either way, here I sit believing the event to be providential.

Yes, I’m giving thanks that we’re all alive. And I’m equally appreciative that no other planes were near enough to ours to become endangered by the hasty turn. But I’m also grateful that the pace of that turn most likely shaved a few seconds off the arrival time to our final destination. Essentially, it allowed for me to arrive at the liquor store near the home in which we vacation just in time to snatch this solitary bottle of The Macallan 12-year-old Sherry Oak Cask from the shelf before another fellow came along looking to do the same.

“Excellent,” I said, smiling at the proprietor and reaching up to take the bottle. “I’ve had every edition on your shelves except this one. This one is new.”

“That’s just the bottle I came here for!” came the sound of a disheartened gent behind me.

“Sorry, friend,” I turned in reply. “I almost died today. This one’s mine.”

And so here I sit with dram in hand, watching the kids swimming in the pool—and it’s a fine little whisky for such a pleasurable moment.

An initial nosing of this 12-year-old is rich with dark chocolates, and of course, warming sherry. There is a passing moment of vinegar, but after a minute or two, with a swirl and a sniff, all is followed by black raspberries and coffee.

The palate takes a hard left away from its sweeter runway to a spicier path of a cinnamon and citrus.

The finish is superb. It brings its passengers into a gentle docking with the barrel oak, a dash of crushed almonds, and an extremely distant char.

Again, this is the perfect near-death-experience whisky for any among us. Although, as I re-read what I just wrote, I suppose most any whisky has the potential for being a celebratory dram in such circumstances.

Unless it’s Scoresby. I’d rather be dead in a ditch full of alligators than drink Scoresby.

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Review – Very Old Barton, Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 45%

[image error]Jennifer believes that my children will one day require therapy because of the stories I tell.

“That’s a very hurtful thing to say,” I say, gruffly. But you’re probably right, my inner voice whispers, taking her side and recalling that just today my son Harrison, having a general nervousness when it comes to dolls, asked about the movie “Child’s Play.”

“It’s about a serial killer named Chucky whose soul ends up in a doll,” I explained. “If I remember correctly, he’s trying to transfer his soul into a little boy, and in the meantime, runs around killing the people trying to stop him.”

“That’s stupid,” Harrison said, doing his best not to betray his uneasiness.

“Of course it’s stupid,” I continued. “That’s not how it works.”

“Whaddya mean?” the boy asked.

“Do you know how sometimes the cashier at Walmart will ask me if I want an extended warranty on an item I might be buying?”

“Yeah,” he said. “That happened when you bought that external hard drive.”

“Well,” I kept on, “they’re supposed to do something like that whenever you buy a doll.”

“They are?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice steady and my face plain. “They’ll usually ask if you want the doll possessed or unpossessed.”

“Wha—?”

“Seriously. You have the option of getting a plain doll, or for a little more nighttime excitement, you can upgrade to the possession pack. For an extra twenty bucks, the store manager will put a curse on the doll before you take it home.”

“Are any of my dolls cursed, Daddy?” Evelyn lobbed from the living room.

“No, honey,” I turned and called back. “None of yours are possessed—at least I don’t think so. Although I wasn’t with Momma when she bought some of them, so I can’t say for sure.”

“I think one might be,” my almost-always-reliable partner in crime volleyed. “I think I saw one of my Barbies floating in the door of my closet the other night.”

“Was she keeping you up last night?” I asked. “If so, I can do an exorcism on her tonight before you go to bed.”

“That’s okay,” the little girl replied. “She said she wasn’t after me.”

“Did she say who she was after?”

“It sounded like she said ‘Larry,’ but I was tired and I don’t think I heard her right.”

I turned back to Harry, but he was already gone. I fully expect to find all of Evelyn’s Barbies in the trash tonight.

Foolish boy. Everyone knows that when you throw a demon-possessed doll into the trash, it always turns up under your bed a little dirtier and a lot angrier.

Therapists. Seemingly demon-possesed things. Trash. Dirtier and angrier. Unfortunately, these things not only pinpoint all of the things my wife adores when it comes to my off-the-cuff storytelling, but they are reminiscent of my time with the Very Old Barton Kentucky Straight Bourbon. This particular whiskey is a special kind of deceptive unpleasantness.

With the twist cap removed and two fingers worth in my glass, a sniff suggests that the Walmart store manager may be nearby casting subterranean, but enticing, magic. At first, the scent is sweetly pleasant, offering something of vanilla and maple-butter. A drop of water—which in my case, I’m guessing must have been blessed—causes the sweetness to turn sour.

But the truest struggle between heaven and hell begins with the first sip.

A horde of sorts attempts to present the dram as endearingly sweet, setting before their victim the possibility of carmeled citrus. But that hellfire-quenching drop of holy water reveals the whiskey’s more sinister intent—a sputtering plume of the leftovers from the last picnic in Hades, which included charred corn and an imbalanced scald of barrel spice topped with pepper.

The finish is fairly quick, which is surprising. In any of my dealings with Lucifer, I can usually count on him to put up a more formidable fight. But this time around, he gives a swift bite of alcohol and then calls it quits before the bout gets any further. I guess he already knows there’s no tricking a man who’s already attuned to his ways.

I mean, consider the scarring—eh-hem, creative—stories I tell my children. Which reminds me, I suppose “Larry” sounds a lot like “Harry.”

I’d better go check the trash. I’ve already thrown away so many of the kids’ toys just for fun, I can’t afford to have the kids doing it, too.

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Review – J.P. Wiser’s, Rare Cask Series, Seasoned Oak, 19 Years Old, 48%

[image error]If you have to end your super-serious, tragically misspelled, cookie cutter Facebook post with the words, “I’ll bet only my true friends will repost this,” then you are a person of great emptiness. Only the neediest among us would post something on social media and try to guilt people into sharing it.

And yet, meme’s such as this continue to plague the internet. One doesn’t have to scroll for too long before discovering the loneliest among us. In fact, here’s one I just read about the American flag.

This flag was bought and paid for with American lives. Let’s make this go viral! Only 2% of you will show you have a heart by reposting. The other 98% will continue to take freedom for granted.

Seriously? By not reposting I’m taking my American freedoms for granted?

Yes, the freedoms we enjoy in America weren’t cheap. They cost lives. But the complete measure of my national devotion is by no means reflected in whether or not I share your carelessly constructed image of a bald eagle and a flag. Instead, I’d like to think that the 98% aren’t withholding their sharing because of their frivolous patriotism, but because they know you’re a dope and they don’t want to feed the tiger that is your emotional barrenness.

Here’s another one.

Aaron is 8 and has cancer. All he wants before he dies is 1,000,000 shares. Let’s help him get there! I’ll bet I already know which of my friends will actually share this to help Aaron.

While you’re betting on which of your friends will share this, a few of us are betting you didn’t realize your list of friends just got a lot shorter.

Again, these are easy to find. Here’s one more.

Repost if you Jesus. If not, just keep scrolling to show your true colors.

The problem I had with this one was that it had been recycled and reposted so many times that the heart in the image was blurry and looked more like a smudge. With that, I kept scrolling… because I’m not Jesus. Although, once I did figure out what the meme was communicating, I took the liberty of signing the particular friend up to receive email updates from some of the better known pharmaceutical companies dealing in antidepressants.

Repost this if you love Jesus’ gift of antidepressants. If not, just keep scrolling… all alone… in your pajamas… in the dark… with your only friend, a pizza.

[image error]As you can see, I have neither tolerance nor empathy for such childish things. Leave it to the Kindergarten teachers to sit through this gobbledygook. The rest of us sitting at the adult table will exercise and enjoy our freedoms by raising a glass to our nation, praying for the suffering ones, and thanking the good Lord for His gifts—one of which is the J.P. Wiser’s Rare Cask Series Seasoned Oak 19-year-old. It’s the perfect sipper for soothing an irritated soul under assault from virtual guilters making racket over at the kids’ table.

This particular edition—a kindly gift from my Canadian friend, George—has the sweetly scent of raisins, vanilla cream, and cinnamon. The tiniest drop of water enhances the raisins and cream.

The palate takes concentration. At first it suggests the cool of something peppermint. But if you’re paying close attention, it turns back to the sweeter tendencies it shared by way of the nose, adding to the gathering an unmistakable orange zest and oak.

The finish is incredibly charming. Having reached a splendid peak in the palate, it takes to a medium soar on the well-balanced wings of caramel and wood spice.

This is a good one. If you happen to find it, buy it. And if you have a heart, share it. Although, I’ll bet only one percent of you actually will—and we all know who you are.

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Review – Auchentoshan, 12 Years Old, 40%

[image error]Maybe you’re like me and you rarely feel as though you have enough time to get much of anything done.

As a child, perhaps sitting in a droning lesson with an inanimate teacher, I’d watch the clock and judge myself sentenced to purgatory. The barest turn of the minute hand would fool me into thinking that time moves far too slowly, that perhaps endings were far less common than beginnings.

As an adult, there is a different awareness. I’ll discover myself in conversation almost as exciting as the lesson from youth. A guarded glance at the clock proves affirms time’s familiar pace, and yet there is an alternate sense that the most profitable hours have flittered away with a hummingbird’s stride.

“Time speeds away irretrievably,” we think, not realizing Virgil already penned the phrase. But no matter. The instincts of both are right. Time is the most expensive fruit in the basket, and it’s also the one that ripens and spoils the quickest.

Mindful of this, I’ve learned to multitask in some pretty incredible ways. I have articles, blog posts, and sermons to write each week. I have a spouse and four children to whom time must be devoted. I have day and evening meetings to attend, classes to teach, and visitations to make. Among a great number of other things, I also have my health to consider. I need time on a treadmill to loosen up my decaying frame and keep my waistline in check. A day or two of no walking and this 40-something feels a little more like an 80-something.

But again, as time breezes by, I’ve learned some things about myself.

I’ve learned that even as I could never read in a moving car, I can read perfectly fine on a treadmill. I’ve discovered that rather than trying to find a laptop desk made for my treadmill, I was capable of designing and employing my own from the scrap lumber in my garage. I’ve become aware that I can type about two thousand words in an hour at that homemade miniature desk on the treadmill. I’ve learned that I can do these things with great confidence, never once relying on the safety tie that stops the treadmill if I suddenly trip and go flying through the closet door behind me.

In other words, as time and tasks have pressed against me, I’ve learned I’m a death-defying exerciser who gets an incredible amount of study and writing accomplished at four to five miles per hour.[image error]

Admittedly, it takes a certain measure of skill to get so much accomplished in such a short period of time. Auchentoshan knows I speak the truth. The distillery’s 12-year-old edition is nothing less than the Doogie Howser among a good number of the whiskies I’ve enjoyed as of late.

[image error]This triple-distilled delight wafts scents of the better, darker fruits in time’s basket, all of which have been carefully malted at peak ripeness. Another draw suggests a sprinkling of wood spice.

The palate is enchanting. It presents itself with a gentle youthfulness, but then begins reciting lofty lines of spicy vanilla and raspberry prose. A twelve-year-old, you think? It can’t be.

The finish betrays time’s truest nature. It’s gone much faster than you’d expect. Nevertheless, the moment together was anything but dull, and the finish reminds of the fruits that spoke so clearly.

Overall, the Auchentoshan 12-year-old edition infers that while a little over a decade in the barrel was certainly sufficient for crafting a superb dram, one can only imagine what a few more years in the barrel would have delivered.

I’m guessing something in the superhero range—like Doogie Howser bitten by a radioactive spider.

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Review – J.P. Wiser’s, Commemorative Series, Canada 2018, (No Age Stated), 43.4%

[image error]It’s migraine season—and I just emerged from one.

It’s hard to be funny when you have a migraine. It’s hard to be, do, or say just about anything when you have a migraine.

Light hurts. Noise hurts. Moving hurts. Life in general hurts.

And then the nausea.

I started getting migraines about five years ago. The first one landed on me right in the middle of Holy Week, which is a time in the Church Year when I have multiple worship services each day from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday—about eleven in all. Each service requires a different sermon, and so I do a lot of writing. It’s a killer time for a pastor. A migraine multiplies the struggle.

The first migraine I ever experienced hit me on Maundy Thursday. And when I say it hit me, I mean hard. It started before the service, and by the time I got to the sermon, everything on the inside of the left side of my head felt like it was being scrambled and prepared as an omelet. My sinus cavity was throbbing, from head to toe my skin was extremely sensitive to the touch, and I was ready to puke. And I eventually did.

Not in the middle of the service, of course. But it was close. Thankfully the former pastor of my congregation—now retired—was there in the pews. He robed up and finished the service. I went to my office to empty the contents of my stomach, and then Jennifer took me to the Emergency Room.

I spent the next eight horrible days in the hospital with a gathering of specialists hovering above me attempting to sort out the mess. They drew blood, performed tests, ordered up CT scans, X-rays, and MRIs. Eventually they discovered the problem.

“You have a severe migraine,” the chief of neurology said that final day. “At first we were concerned that your brain had shifted by three millimeters, which would have suggested a particular disea—”

“—You thought I had a disease that shifts my brain?” I interrupted.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you don’t. Good thing, huh?”

“Yes. Good thing.”

“Essentially, it’s a severe migraine you’re dealing with,” he continued.

“A migraine?”

“Yeah, it’s probably seasonal, coming on because of changes in the weather—maybe barometric drops and such. You’ll probably get them every year from now on. This was the first.”

“So, what do I do?”

“Well,” a negligible doctor beside the chief doctor began, “if it isn’t necessarily the weather, then you’ll need to discover and watch for the triggers.”

“Triggers?”

“Usually migraines are triggered by something—stress, chocolate, something. Your wife said you’re under a lot of stress. That could be part of the problem. You need to figure out how to get rid of the stressors.”

“I’m a pastor,” I said, my eyes locked shut from the pain. “My stressors are people. You’re counseling me to commit murder.”

They laughed among themselves.

“We’ve ordered up something called Dihydroergotamine—DHE for short,” the chief said. “It’s one of the most powerful medications out there for slowing these things down and getting a handle on them.”

“Got it,” I replied, dryly. “DHE. How about we get it into me and get me the hell out of here?”

The next few hours were spent feeding the DHE into my body. Within a half hour of the first dose, the migraine began to subside and I was feeling better. In fact, for the first time in over a week, I was finally able to open my eyes to look around the room.

“How’re you feeling?” the nurse charged with my care asked from the doorway.

“A lot better,” I replied. “The headache is still there, but it seems to be dissipating.”

“That means it’s working.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I pried as she moved among the various devices that shackled my body’s diagnostics to the nurses’ station in the hallway. “When this whole thing started, it felt like it began on the left side of my nasal cavity. Could there be something going on in there?”

“It sounds like the doctors checked everything,” she said. “If something was out of sorts in there, they’d have found it.”

“Well,” I said, looking to the window timidly, “what if I did this to myself?”

“What do you mean?”

[image error]“Do you know what a neti pot is?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “It’s a little teapot-like thing that you fill with warm salt water. You tip yourself upside down and you pour the water into your sinuses to clean them out. A lot of people swear by them.”

“Yeah, well, I’d never used one until about three weeks ago,” I said, continuing the diffidence.

“Yeah, so?”

“Well,” I started, “I felt what I thought was a head cold coming on, and since Holy Week was approaching, I got sort of nervous. I didn’t want to be out of commission during the busiest time of the year with a sinus issue. My parish administrator suggested I try a neti pot, and so I did.”

“And?”

“And instead of using warm salt water, I figured I’d go full guns and destroy the bugger.”

“What did you use instead of salt water?”

“Scotch.”

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed between us.

“You… poured Scotch… into your sinuses?” she asked, a look of disbelief now adorning her kindly face.

“Yes,” I replied. “But don’t worry. It wasn’t good Scotch. It was Scoresby, which is really bad Scotch.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Didn’t… didn’t that hurt?”

“It was a little warm,” I said. “But trust me, I’m a guy who can handle whisky no matter how or where it gets into my body.”

“Really?”

“That didn’t sound right, did it?”

“Not at all.”

“So, anyway,” I said, attempting to shift conversational gears. “Did I permanently damage my sinuses with Scoresby?”

She drew another breath betraying a tenacious surprise as well as her attempt to get her bearings in the discussion. “While that’s probably not something you should be using,” she said, “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your current situation.”

“Are you sure?” I pressed. “Maybe I should’ve used a good single malt instead of a crappy blend—maybe something from The Macallan, or maybe The Balvenie?”

“If I were you,” she said, maintaining a straighter face, “I’d just use the warmed salt water… like you’re supposed to. Don’t put whisky into your sinuses.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “No more whisky up my nose.”

As I said, several years have passed since that conversation, and now instead of cleansing my sinuses with Scotch, I shoot up with DHE every few days during migraine season. It seems to keep the demons at bay. More importantly, I haven’t had to murder anyone in my congregation.

[image error]Also, I suppose there’s a greater success to attribute to the DHE. In the midst of a cranial storm, my thirst for whisky goes away. The DHE helps it to return. I’m glad for this, because it means that the sample of the J.P. Wiser’s Commemorative Series Canada 2018 edition sent to me by my friend George could be thoroughly enjoyed here in the aftermath of the most recent bout.

And indeed, it was enjoyed.

A nose of tangerines, spiced marmalade, and rye, the whisky’s scent speaks to the bright beaming sunshine of an uneventful summer day, one well beyond the reaches of the relentlessly unstable migraine purgatory that is springtime.

The palate is a tongue gloss of treacly caramel and the darkest of red cherries, both sensations warmed and then served together on nearly burnt rye toast. The juice from the cherries seeps into the toast to soften it. The caramel holds the whole snack together.

The finish is shorter than expected, although not thin or unenjoyable. The corn finally comes out to embrace the sweeter rudiments mentioned in both the nose and palate.

Overall, this is a well-balanced bit of joyful relief to a recent migraine—relief that was had with neither murder nor neti pots. And yet, since the nurse assured me that putting whisky up my nose wouldn’t kill me (even though I gave her my word that I wouldn’t), this particular dram is far better than Scoresby, and with that, I’d certainly consider using it the next time a head cold chooses my already sensitive sinuses for a dwelling place.

The only problem is figuring out how to swallow it through my nose while upside down. But then again, it’s me we’re talking about. If anyone can do it, well, you know I probably can.

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