Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 13

Review – Proper No. Twelve, Irish Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]Jennifer, my wife, has a secret. When she shared it with me, I was nearly traumatized beyond repair.

“Surely, you must be joking,” I said, unwilling to believe her words. “It can’t be true. Tell me it isn’t true.”

“It’s true,” she replied. “I’ve never eaten a Big Mac in my life.”

“Never?!” I exclaimed with animated concern.

“Never,” she said, speaking with a resoluteness to match.

“But the sign says they’ve served over ninety-nine billion people,” I continued, my eyes still wide with disbelief. “That’s like twelve times the number of people on the planet!” Shaking my head, “I just sort of assumed you fit into that huge number,” I said, despondently. “You know, assuming that you are an earthling, like the rest of us.”

“I’ve never eaten a Big Mac. Ever.”

“I wanna see your birth certificate and passport. Show me your papers, woman!”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” I said. “Show ’em to me. I want to make sure you’re documented. I need to confirm that I didn’t marry a Russian spy or something.”

“You’re a dork,” she said, and walked away, a palm of disregard in the air.

The whole conversation was concerning, and it had me wondering if perhaps my little ones were traveling the same un-American paths as their clandestine mother, who I can’t even confirm is from earth let alone a citizen of these great United States. And so, the very next day, while Jennifer (who I’ll now refer to as Agent X) was taking my two daughters to their horseback riding lessons, I took my son, Harrison, through the McDonald’s drive-thru for lunch.

It was a test.

There at the menu board and microphone, I asked him if he’d like a Big Mac instead of his usual two-cheeseburger and fries meal.

“Sure,” he said, the ease of his answer granting me relative certainty.

“I’ll have two Big Macs,” I spoke into the microphone, “two medium fries, and—”

“—I’ve never had a Big Mac before,” Harrison said quietly to himself.

“What?!” I called out, turning to him in terror. “You, too?!”

“Sir,” a voice came from the speaker. “Could you repeat that last part?”

“And two medium Cokes,” I said, hitting the gas before I could hear my total.

“You’ve never had a Big Mac?” I pressed with a directness that caused the boy to become more attentive.

“No. I usually just get cheeseburgers with only ketchup.”

“You know you’re not an official citizen of America until you eat a Big Mac,” I said, sternly.

“I’m not?”

“No,” I replied, “and if the authorities show up and find out that you’ve never had a Big Mac, you could get deported—or worse—they try to feed you one, and your body rejects it, and then they lock you in a government lab and dissect you.”

“Wha—?”

“—Yes,” I interrupted. “They’ll send you back to your home country—or whatever planet your mother came from—but not before they try to figure out how you can subsist for so long without having ever eaten a Big Mac.”

“But I was born here.”

“Or so we were led to believe,” I said, putting my hand to the side of my mouth and whispering so that the woman at the window couldn’t hear me. “I don’t think we can prove it. As far as I know, your mother forged your birth certificate.”

“She did?”

[image error]“Look at the sign, Harry,” I said, pointing to the McDonald’s marquee. “Ninety-nine billion is a lot of people. You’re in danger, friend. It could be that you’re not really one of us.”

“So, what do I do?”

“Our only hope is to feed you a Big Mac and see what happens. For one, United States immigration code states that if you eat a Big Mac, you are officially an American and you’re due all privileges and protections. If you refuse to eat one, it could only be because you are French… or maybe from another world. And if you do eat one and your body rejects it, I’ll do what I can to hide you for a little while, at least until we can figure out what to do. Either way, we’d better hurry home and get to it, son.”

“Can I start eating before we get home?”

“Do it, man,” I said. “Do it.”

I paid the woman. She handed over the goods. We said a quick table prayer. I drove. He ate. By the time we got home, all was well. Harry had eaten his first Big Mac—and by the way, it was one with bacon on it, which is tantamount to affirming and blazing right past citizenship to being qualified for a seat in congress.

With that, I was happy for my son, although I’ll confess to sleeping with one eye open these days now that I know what I know. Agent X might try to cover her tracks and off me in my sleep.

Or lay alien eggs in my face.

Either way, the moral of the story is to pay attention. Know who—or what—is around you at all times. I don’t mean to alarm you, but resident humanity is established through a proper order of proofs. We breathe air. We drink water. We eat Big Macs. So, if you see someone who his able to hold his or her breath under water for an unusually long period of time, be amazed. But if you meet someone who has never eaten a Big Mac, call the authorities. It could be a sign of alien probing. It could be that you’ve met an alien scout who is surveying our weaknesses before an invasion. And what’s more, is you never even knew they were here.

Which reminds me.

The Proper No. Twelve Irish Whiskey is anything but emblematic of proper order when it comes to the world of whiskies. I say this because when I popped the cork and poured the first dram, I gave it a nosing, but I really couldn’t smell anything. Every whiskey has its proper proofs. I usually walk through these proofs in order—nose, palate, and finish. This one was somewhat alien to that process. It didn’t have anything to nose. I even gave it to Agent X to sniff because I can pretty much count on a recoiling at every whiskey I set before her. But this time she just looked at me.

“I don’t smell anything,” she said. “Is this a Big Mac?”

“No, dear,” I replied. “This is Irish whiskey. A Big Mac is a sandwich.”

She’s an alien, I just know it.

Anyway, what little I could draw from the whiskey was as bare as I’ve ever experienced. There were the faintest hints of vanilla and copper, but again, just barely, and not much else. A sip confirmed the vanilla, but it brought along with it a passing bit of fruit flesh that was just at the edge of discernible. I’d say it was a dish of ripened plums and well bruised apples.

The finish was medium in length—which is a generous description on my part. Incredibly airy, the only thing about the Proper No. Twelve that lingered past the short marker was the sense of alcohol and the sugary juice collecting at the bottom of the dish (which I’m guessing is copper) of fruits from the palate. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, however it just wasn’t emitting the proper proof one might need to verify this is indeed a whiskey at all.

I’m going to do a little searching into the history of the man behind this particular edition—Connor McGregor—the UFC fighter from Dublin. I’ll nose around the internet a little and see if I can discern if he’s one of the ninety-nine billion.

If not, then we’ll know for sure why this whiskey is a little outside the boundaries of proper order.

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Review – Speckled Tail American Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

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Chapter One

The sun was falling behind us as we raced through the turns leading from town. Soon it would be night. The night was never to our advantage. Always to theirs. We needed to find a place to hide.

“I’ve never been this far out before,” Jennifer said as we passed a pasture of grazing cattle. I could see the shifting shadows of the surrounding trees stretching across the road as the sun continued to dip lower.

“Me either,” I replied. I was lying, of course, and I knew if she’d detected my lie, she would never trust me again. Still, I did it anyway.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she mumbled. Even at only a sip, she had swallowed far too much of the Speckled Tail American Whiskey and was beginning to falter in her speech.

“I have an idea,” I answered, “but I’m not entirely sure. How much of that stuff did you drink?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.” She rested her head against the window. “How did you know to go for that sword?”

“I just knew.”

A moment of silence passed between us.

“When we get a little further out of town,” I said, breaking the quiet, “I’m going to pull over so you can puke. You’re gonna have to try to puke. You have to get that out of you. I mean, you saw what it will do.”

“I know,” she said, “Just keep driving.”

“I love you,” I said, but she didn’t answer.

What is Michigan that it would be home to such things? We have lakes, temperamental weather, and micro brewers, but not much else. And so, what I’m about to share, you’d expect to discover only in movies. Popcorn in hand, the silver screen glows with scenes of a distant village settled in a remote English countryside. But here we are in Michigan sparring the same hidden powers written into scripts—and we’re doing so for our very lives.

[image error]I’d caught a glimpse of the bottle of Speckled Tail that was insistently served in a rock glass to me and my three companions, two of whom are no longer with us—or at least not as you’d expect for them to be. Being the enjoyer of whiskey that I am, I reached for my phone and tapped a casual scroll in search of the whiskey’s origins, hoping to find it sourced by a reputable distillery.

“Are you calling someone?” Vistus, our host, asked abruptly.

“Just seeing if any of my online friends have written about this stuff,” I replied. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“But I never told you what it was,” he said.

“I’m observant,” I volleyed in response. Again, I’d already noticed the bottle. It rested on an end table partially shadowed by a suit of armor clutching a sword and serving as sentry to a nearby fireplace.

“It is very rare,” he said, giving a grin. “In all my years, few have consumed it.” As far as I knew in that moment, he was right. I found a singular mention by an obscure religious group in Florida, but otherwise, the internet was silent—completely empty of mentions from anyone.

Vistus spoke as three of his four guests tasted the whiskey. I was uneasy. I didn’t want what was in the glass before me. I continued to scroll, but only to bide time. As I did, Vistus shared a lengthy history with his guests, which I’ll relay to you in a moment.

“It is an unfortunate impression you convey, Reverend,” Vistus said, stopping mid-story. “Will you not receive the gift I’ve set before you?”

I could no longer avoid a sip. I gave a stiffened smile and sniffed.

A nose of unnatural caramel and chocolates rose from my glass. Both scents were rich, but also very stale. I could tell I’d soon be tasting artificial flavorings.

The others sipped and gave polite smiles. Even Jennifer smiled. She betrayed her fear, barely getting a coating on her tongue. I sipped, too. The palate offered syrupy coverings of the candies from the nose, but not enough to hide the bitter tinge of alcohol and a distinct saltiness.

It was bloodlike.

I don’t know the whiskey’s finish. I didn’t swallow. I spit it from my mouth and knocked the glass from Jennifer’s hand. I knew what we were drinking wasn’t natural.

The two beside us, both of whom had so nervously consumed nearly all within their glasses—began to convulse.

“A rather abrupt response to my hospitality,” our host said, furrowing his brow and giving a simper wide enough to allow a sharpening canine tooth to emerge. “And very unwise.”

The next few moments were less cordial—and very violent—far too violent to describe here.

Now we’re on the run.

Recalling the history Vistus had shared, it would seem that our immediate troubles have their roots in the dark woodlands of Eastern Europe, set back from society, and yet not necessarily apart from it. Vistus spoke of the ones he called the Brethren. In the daylight, clustered at the outskirts of villages, they lived as gypsy traders. At night, they slunk stealthily through the small towns feasting. Some, however, were mindful to engage in planting seeds of their unrighteousness in the schools, courts, and churches.

By this, they labored to become a part of society.

It wasn’t until the early 1400’s that the Brethren found themselves pit against the mortals and nearing extinction. Many were being revealed, hunted, and killed. Their numbers were dwindling. Survival required reform. Mortals could no longer be their primary source of food.

A powerful faction bearing a fiercely loyal ideology arose among them. They would abstain from mortal contact completely. If they continued to collide with man, they believed extinction to be all but certain.

And they were right. Those who remained among men were lost.

The Brethren preached this new way, and those who would not follow were dispatched. Either they accepted the new way, or they were devoured. Those who managed to escape were revealed to the mortals. Mankind, lost in its own superstitions, could always be trusted to hunt and slay them. The remnant, about 100 in all, believed the time for coexistence would one day return.

A hundred years passed before a contingent crossed the ocean bearing the same hope to the New World.

In the newly established American colonies, they continued to wrestle against their natural appetites, eventually finding it necessary to venture away from the settlements and into the undiscovered reaches of the country. They settled into an obscurity in the Appalachian highlands. There they would feed on the wildlife and safely avoid human contact. But soon the American population increased and spread across the mountains forcing them into migratory patterns, all to avoid detection.

In their travels, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to discover them. A Native American, a mountaineer seeking fortune or adventure, a religious group seeking a monastic life, of these there were some who would be found alone on the wrong face of the mountain. Each would be captured. Each would be offered the Speckled Tail and a place among the Brethren. It was through this whiskey that you became a werewolf. You cannot become one by accident. A bite will not do it. That’s foolishness, anyway. In a lycanthropic state, it is impossible for a werewolf to decide to do anything but indulge fully in the old way.

You become a werewolf by choice. It’s always by choice.

You must accept the whiskey as the way of immortality, or refuse it. But refusing the Speckled Tail was as equally welcomed by the Brethren as accepting it. A refusal brought about a savage carnival of darker things.

Few refused the whiskey. The fear of death against the promise of immortality almost always stirred the murkier desires of men’s hearts, and once the whiskey had brought about the change, ultimately removing the victim’s soul, nothing of regret remained.

Over the years, the Brethren’s numbers began to grow. With such evangelical success, one would have thought that the time for integration was drawing near. Still, with technology advancing and pushing the populations further west, they soon realized that seclusion in large numbers would be impossible. In the winter of 1830, they elected to divide. Five hundred would press to the west while the rest would divide among the mountains and the flatlands of the Midwest.

A good number found a suitable home in Michigan.

It is now 2019. They have settled and their numbers have grown. The time for hiding was coming to an end. The time to return to the old way was on the horizon.

Jennifer and I know them. I have refused the Speckled Tail American Whiskey and lived. I don’t yet know how things will unfold, but I know that I can make them known. And they they know it, too.

They cannot allow it. They will not allow it.

I do hope that very soon I’ll be able to tell you more, but until then, you mustn’t blink at what I’ve shared. And I beg you, if you behold the Speckled Tail American Whiskey in the home of your host, there’s only one thing for you to do.

Run.

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Review – Southwest Spirits and Wines, Title No. 21, (No Age Stated), 42%

[image error]It wasn’t that long ago I suggested to the chairman of my church’s School Board that we choose some sort of keyword or gesture between us, something to be employed during a meeting when either one of us begins saying something that has any potential for making the meeting take longer.

I suggested the throat-cut signal, but he thought that’d be too obvious to onlookers. He returned by suggesting the finger-to-the-mouth shushing motion. I told him that’s a signal my wife uses on me pretty regularly so it would probably work.

In the end, we decided to ponder the idea and revisit it. In the meantime, the meetings will remain all but unenthusiastic, which is good, because there’s nothing worse than a bunch of folks sitting around in committee with nothing to do.

As evil may have roots of gold, so many other troubles have their roots in boredom. I mean, what should we expect of people in authority with nothing to do? Start a war, that’s what. I’m pretty sure that’s how the Eighteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution came into being. There was probably a committee of really bored congressmen sitting around with nothing to do, and because it’s already innate to the government to make life harder, they decided to outlaw booze. I can see it now…

“Right-o,” I hear in my mind an elected gent saying, “what shall we decide on today?”

“Well, good sir,” another replies, “all is well and there’s nothing on the docket.”

“What to do then, friend?” the first asks, visibly disappointed.

“I say, my friend,” comes an exuberant reply from another at the table. “Let us amend the Constitution! It’ll surely bristle the whiskers of the Lutherans!”

“Hoorah and it’s done, then!” the Baptist chairman says, interrupting with finality. “What a brilliant idea! To it, men!”

And with that, in order to busy themselves, they went to work on crafting their own pietistic importance—or as Tolstoy put it, they engaged in “the desire for desires.”

Indeed, terrible things are born from boredom. However, I’m willing to say that the Title No. 21 (which, technically, is born from this terrible event in history because it’s named after the amendment that would later repeal prohibition) is to be considered an exception to the rule. Even as a bottom shelf whiskey I happened upon at the local Walmart, it’s quite delightful.

The nose of this dram is subtle and sweet, rendering scents of candied pie—chocolate silk with a cinnamon crust. A drop of water lets loose cornstarch and salt.

A sip is a warmed wash of sweet butter, allspice, and overly ripened McIntosh apples. Again, a drop of water introduces something new—a peppery geist.

The finish, a medium trail of the chocolate and cinnamon from the nosing, is a kindly bit of forgiveness to the bored politicians who tried to rid the world of such things, suggesting to them that they nearly betrayed a worthwhile gift of God.

But not to worry, men. We’ve forgiven you. Well, maybe the Episcopalians have forgiven you. We Lutherans are still considering it in committee. Still, there is one thing you should know of the whole lot of Christendom.

Your chances at re-election are incredibly slim.

The post Review – Southwest Spirits and Wines, Title No. 21, (No Age Stated), 42% appeared first on angelsportion.

And the winner is…

Of 783 legit entries, the contest winner is… Nikki Wantz!

Congrats, Nikki! The Highland Park Valkyrie and a signed copy of The Angels’ Portion Volume III are on their way. (By the way, I threw in a t-shirt and a custom rock glass.) Again, congrats and enjoy!

And thanks to all who participated!

The post And the winner is… appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Guam’s Own Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]Today is Saint Patrick’s Day, and you know what that means in America, right?

It means the celebration of a sainted missionary while dining on corned beef and cabbage and drinking green beer chased by Irish whiskey.

Sounds good. Sounds holy.

Unfortunately it means a number of other things, too.

It means donning green apparel and four-leafed clover stick-on tattoos. It means some among us skipping all that and going full throttle toward sanctity with a leprechaun costume.

It means rehashing stereotypical castings of Irishmen as irate drunkards with red hair and freckles.

It means stroppy pecks for a woman wearing a Walmart t-shirt that reads “Kiss me, I’m Irish” even though her maiden name is Sienkiewicz.

It means performing dances that apparently can only be properly executed while completely intoxicated. It means raising a glass and shouting, “They may take our lives, but they will never take our freedom!” even though the line is from a movie about a Scotsman.

It means drinking Shamrock shakes from McDonald’s until the middle of May—because that’s about the time McDonald’s finally runs out of the green syrup.

It means sitting at the bar and learning from a friend that the only kind of furniture you can’t purchase anywhere else but Ireland is Paddy O’Furniture.

It means a whole lot that has very little to do with Saint Patrick.

Having all of this in square focus, I’ve decided that this year I’m celebrating the blessed saint with a whiskey from Guam. Yes, Guam. And why not? Guam has as much to do with Ireland and its patron saint as any of the other doings mentioned.

For example, the nose of Guam’s Own is most certainly a wafting of Ireland in every way. With a twist of the cap, the first available scent is that of canned green beans, and because said beans are deeply green, they’re perfectly associated.

The palate confirms the appropriateness of the whiskey’s observance. The soggy green beans are back, except now they’re warmed in a briny sauce of salty seaweed and cloves, both of which are clearly appropriate for the celebration. The seaweed mixture is obviously Irish, and not only because it’s green, but because it’s matches the salty attitude of every red-haired fighter on the emerald isle. Of course the word clove fits because it is but one letter from being clover. That was easy.

The finish is short like the Irish temper, and it’s syrupy in ways that even McDonald’s would consider giving it a glad eye.

Praise be. It was nothing less than the luck of the Irish that I had this on hand.

For the record, I don’t believe in luck. I’m with Emily Dickinson who said, “Luck is not chance—It’s toil—Fortune’s expensive smile is earned.” But then again, Miss Dickinson was clearly an American poet, and with that, what would she know about something so Irish?

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Review – Jefferson’s, Ocean, Voyage 17, Very Small Batch, Aged 4 to 6 Years, 45%

[image error]The tornado sirens were screaming. I’d not heard them because I was on the treadmill typing, listening to AC/DC, and trying to get less fat.

But my daughter, Madeline, heard them. In fact, ever since March 24 of 2007 when an EF-2 tornado hopped right over our house (yes, I saw it) and destroyed pretty much everything else around us, I’d say some sort of early detection system was instilled into her soul. Somehow she’s more inclined than the others to a keep a lookout when the weather’s changing for the worse.

“The tornado sirens are going off,” Madeline said, motioning to get my attention while remaining strangely calm.

“Get your sister and brothers and get back down here to the basement,” I said, removing my earbuds and matching her placid gaze. She skipped back up the basement steps and called for her siblings. I brought my pace to a halt, shut down my computer, and moved to action, doing what any responsible father would do in that moment.

Grabbing my mobile phone, I darted to each and every cabinet holding my precious and inimitable collection of whiskies to take pictures.

The photo albums were passed over. I darted through storage spaces with irreplaceable keepsakes. No mind was paid to the backup hard drive on the shelf containing every historical record of the Thoma family. My quest was set for more important things, and I pondered all along the way, If this glorious collection gets swept up and carried miles from here to its destruction, the insurance company will never believe its origin was this one location.

Proof was needed. No, I needed wisdom to feed my agility in this moment, because I’d already failed against the essential maxim that “nine-tenths of wisdom is being wise in time” (Theodore Roosevelt).

Let it be known that I accomplished my goal well before the first child ever arrived to the safe space. Take note that I was there with a few blankets I’d snatched from the guest bed to tuck them in and give them comfort. And I’ll add gladsomely that while a tornado did indeed touch down and destroy several businesses and residences about twenty miles from our home, no one was injured. I’ll say with a less than gleeful tone that none of those businesses were liquor stores, which means that I didn’t receive any unexpected deliveries to my front yard by way of tornado-mail.

Hum-hum. Anyway, my collection—and family—were safe. None from among my community was harmed. All may be counted as well and good.

Although, the Jefferson’s Ocean Voyage 17 edition before me now could have been a casualty.

After the sirens stopped and the children were shooed from the basement, I remade the guest bed and then checked another cabinet upstairs—a place where I used to keep whiskey bottles—just to see if I’d somehow overlooked a few. Sure enough, this bottle was in there. A gift from my father after a recent trip home to Illinois, I’d placed it there temporarily and had since forgotten to introduce it to its kin.

But again, all is well, and the Ocean Voyage 17 is anchored safely in port.

A bit of a ploy I’d say, the idea behind this whiskey (and the sixteen releases before it) is that it has been traveling around for four to six years on a ship at sea. The “ship’s log” tagged to the bottle’s neck implies that the vessel ventured to as many as five continents, and all along the way, the various conditions of the sea imparted something to the elixir being carried in its belly.

Yeah, maybe.

But honestly, I didn’t get anything suggesting that. As far as I can tell, this is a pretty straight shooting, but well-formulated, blend of bourbons that went into the cask tasting great and was extracted at the end tasting great, having not moved an inch.

There’s no salty sea air wafting in the nose, but rather a thinned, but more than pleasant, breeze of cinnamon, oak, and vanilla. Another sniff delivers a pinch of cloves.

A sip is a careful steering through a narrow inlet of the nose’s vanilla. There are moments when it comes very near to rocky char, but as it does, the caramel-coating to the oaky hull is never in jeopardy. The precision required for this leg of the journey is by no means lost on the final product.

Alas, the craft arrives at home, having slowed from winds of sweet cinnamon and tangerines at medium speed.

Thankfully I was there to receive it when it arrived. Or rather, it was there to be received. What a shame it would have been to have traveled so far and seen so much only to be sucked up in a tornado and cast into the wetlands behind my house—or Lord forbid, the yard of someone in the county who drinks Scoresby.

Thank you, Lord, for your compassionate deliverance of my family, my home, and my booze.

And thanks, Dad, for the gift. It’s quite delicious.

The post Review – Jefferson’s, Ocean, Voyage 17, Very Small Batch, Aged 4 to 6 Years, 45% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Forty Creek, Copper Pot Reserve, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]“I don’t think she can do it,” I said.

“Yes, she can,” Harrison argued.

“No, she can’t,” I replied.

“Yes, she can,” Jen said, taking his side. “She’s pretty intuitive.”

“But not that intuitive,” I answered. “She’ll never figure it out.”

“I’ll bet she can do it,” Evelyn chimed.

“You stay out of this,” I said, pointing.

“Me, too,” Joshua interrupted. “I’ll bet she can do it.”

“Me, too,” Madeline added, giving a glance from behind the protection of her older brother.

“Whatever,” I said, in mid-turn toward the device. “Hey, Google,” I continued, using exceptional enunciation, “it looks like you are going to have a chance to prove your worth.”

“I’m sorry,” came the device’s friendly female voice, “but I can’t help you with that just yet.”

“See,” I said, waving my hand in the diminutive machine’s direction. “She can’t even have a reasonable conversation when I’m making sense. How’s she gonna figure out what you’re trying to get out of her?”

“She can do it,” each offered with certainty.

And so a wager was set. If she accomplished the task, I’d say I was wrong, and that, dear reader, is as big a deal as ever to these squatters—especially the miniature ones.

“Well,” I prodded, “give it a shot. Let’s see what this baby can do.”

“Hey, Google,” Jen called, “play that mackalacka shamacka lalacka dacka fracka song.”

“Okay,” the virtual assistant replied almost immediately. “Playing ‘Mele Kalikimaka’ by Bing Crosby. Here it is playing on YouTube.”

The song’s notes teemed through the kitchen and living room like a Hawaiian stream. The whole family cheered, some demonstrating their prideful joy with arms outstretch and swaying like palm tree branches nudged by an ocean breeze. Others celebrated with some pretty uncoordinated hula moves.

Indeed, she did it.

I admitted my wrongness, turned to my whisky cabinet, and poured myself a dram of the Forty Creek Copper Pot Reserve, which I must confess, I approached with the same level of expectation as our Google Home device. Because of the bottom shelf price, I just didn’t think it would succeed.

But once again, I was humbled.

The nose of the Copper Pot Reserve delivers a carefully enunciated phrase of caramel and sour citrus. That’s it. Nothing else.

The palate repeats word for word what it received from the nose, and then it adds a bit of clarifying commentary—roasted pecans and a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee, which in my opinion, is more tart than other coffees, but still quite enjoyable.

At first, the medium finish leaves behind something metallic, but only for a moment. It dissipates quickly in an agreeable conversation of caramel and rye spice.

A smile, a gulp, and the Canadian gem is gone. Yes, I was wrong.

Again.

“Hey, Google. Do me a favor and pour me another dram of the Forty Creek Copper Pot Reserve.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help with that just yet.”

“Hey, Google, you’re useless.”

“Got it. Wikipedia.org says that Ulysses S. Grant, born Hiram Ulysses Grant, was an American politician, soldier, international statesman, and author, who served as the 18th president of the United States from 1869 to 1877. During the American Civil War Grant led the Union Army as its commanding general to victory over the Confederacy…”

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Review – Basil Hayden’s, Dark Rye, Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

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Even though the sun is very near the edge of the world, making all preparations for presenting itself to the new day, the darkness proves the tenacity of its jealousy at 6:05 AM. “Don’t forget about me,” it prods by way of a small thing, a reminder to an already exhausted clergyman that his children might not be all that interested in succeeding in life.

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The noonday sun is brightly beaming, and still the darkness hovers. It affronts as a napkin dispenser stuffed beyond capacity. Like a chittering raccoon clawing aggressively for an object just out of reach, the clergyman wrestles in desperation for something to cleanse his digits of the meal’s debris. But it isn’t to be. The darkness’ grip is robust.

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And so the clergyman surrenders, choosing instead to be as a raccoon in a birdbath, sloshing his fingers into his water glass before drying them on his pants. As he departs, perhaps he finishes the task using the coat of an unsuspecting customer in the booth nearest to the cash register.

Perhaps he does this.

Back in his office, the afternoon sun is cascading through the blinds of his window. Still, the darkness labors to pin him in a strange conversation with a visiting pastor who, having used his host’s personal bathroom, is wondering why he keeps a can opener near the toilet. Between them is the momentary insinuation of a struggle with some sort of biological condition that only such a device can relieve.

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Eventually he arrives home. The sun has long since offered its goodbyes through a blanket of oncoming clouds. The darkness resumes a fuller reign, and with that, is less interested in the clergyman.

[image error]But the clergyman has become interested in the darkness, at least a more fitting lightlessness at the end of a day’s collections of minor irritations. The Basil Hayden’s Dark Rye edition is the bidder.

“Dark and Rich” are its adorning words. And rightly so. The deeply rubied whiskey smells of sun-dried cranberries, cinnamon, and rye.

A sip and savor introduces the port noted on the label while bringing along a merger of the nose’s cinnamon and something that reminds of canned beets. Strangely, it isn’t as forbidding as it sounds. It’s delicious, in fact.

The finish is nearly long with a slight burn, but the heat comes from the spices and not the alcohol. As it fades, it reminds once again of the port and rye, and then slips in a dash of burnt sugar.

I say, if darkness is to reside among us, let it be by this whiskey. The price of the edition—around $45—affirms its accessibility and place in anyone’s cabinet of delights.

And just for the record, the can opener in my bathroom has nothing to do with my innards. I keep it there because the bathroom also serves as a mini-kitchen. I suppose if I were the casual observer, I’d be wondering more so about the guitar in the corner and how much time the clergyman spends in his bathroom.

The post Review – Basil Hayden’s, Dark Rye, Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Grand Traverse Distillery, Ole George Whiskey, 100% Maple Finished, Straight Rye, 3 Years and 7 Months Old, 50%

[image error]McDonald’s was relatively quiet. But of course it was. The time was a little past 4:00 PM and the dinner rush had yet to come in for a landing.

An elderly couple sat only a few paces from us. A kindly gentleman to his wife, the man helped his bride with her chair. She smiled at us as he did. We smiled back.

“What a beautiful young girl,” she said, leaning ever so slightly toward my daughter, Evelyn. “How old are you, sweetie?”

“I’m nine,” Evelyn answered, giving a bright and friendly smile. “How old are you?” she volleyed, revealing her unguarded approach to anyone willing to engage in conversation with her.

“Oh, I’m much older than you, dear,” the woman answered, unwrapping her McChicken sandwich and seemingly unaffected by the less-than-appropriate question. “Are you enjoying dinner with your dad?” she continued, stealing a wandering glance of my clerical collar.

“Yep,” Evelyn replied.

“Well, that’s nice,” the woman offered, her grandmotherly voice well-rehearsed. “It’s nice to spend time with dad.”

“Yep,” Evelyn said.

“I’ll bet as a pastor, he’s gone a lot helping other people.”

“Yep.”

And then in an instant—and not uncommon to her flightiness—Evelyn broke off the engagement and turned the conversation back to me, asking a completely unrelated question. “Daddy,” she said, “when can I start saying the a-word again?”

“Not for a while,” I answered, noticing a sudden expression of shock between the elderly couple. “We’ve got quite a few weeks to go before you can say it again. After that, you can say the a-word all you want.”

“That’s such a long time,” Evelyn moaned. “I love the a-word. I love to say it and I love to sing it.”

“I know you do,” I said. “Just hold on for the next few weeks and then you can say and sing it as much as you’d like.”

“Okay,” Evelyn said, taking a bite from one of her hamburgers dressed only with ketchup. She looked back to her previous conversational partner, but the woman had become strangely removed, her eyes a bit wider than before. This didn’t bother Evelyn at all. She continued with her meal and started a different thread of discussion with me, something about a scene that came to mind from the movie “The Avengers.” Still, I sensed the abrupt disconnection on the part of the woman beside us and it made me wonder.

It wasn’t until we were back in the car and making our way down the road that I realized the woman’s concern. But first, you may need the same explanation she required.

At the time this occurred, we were in the pre-Lenten season known as the Gesima Sundays. This church season lasts three weeks. Right after the Gesima Sundays, Lent begins. Lent lasts six weeks—Ash Wednesday to Good Friday. During this time, nine weeks in all, it isn’t unusual in historically liturgical churches like mine to jettison the word “Alleluia” from the liturgy, hymns, and general vernacular of the congregation. Alleluia is a Hebrew word which means “Praise the Lord,” and since we’re contemplating more closely the suffering and death of Jesus during these combined seasons, we set alleluia aside. At Easter, the congregation welcomes the word back into her speech, singing it boldly in celebration of Christ’s resurrection.

Evelyn was referring to the word alleluia. But that’s not what this woman understood.

Instead, sitting two tables away in her favorite McDonald’s was a nine-year-old daughter of a clergyman who apparently allows her to use a certain expletive. And while the little girl was currently barred from using it because it would seem she had a great love of employing it, after a time of temperance, the day was coming when her father would once again allow the word to roll from her lips with some measure of control. Additionally—and I’m guessing here—it’s quite possible that the woman assumed the explicit descriptor came into the little girl’s mind during their short discussion together, suggesting that perhaps Evelyn’s peculiar boldness in asking her age, the short answers of “yep,” and the sudden inquiry of her father regarding her freedom to use the a-word were all pointing to a crass little girl who was restraining her candor while being annoyed by a woman she didn’t know.

Again, looking back, this is really rather humorous. But it also teaches a lesson on human stupidity and the tragedy of miscommunication in the hands of assumption. I suppose this same lesson is more than applicable in the case of the Grand Traverse Distillery’s “Ole George Whiskey” maple finished edition sitting before me right now.

Consider the voice of the label. In person, the label itself communicates the high probability that the effort to design it wasn’t hired out. Such carelessness with the label stirs a questioning of the quality of the product inside the bottle it adorns. Add to this the heralding of maple finishing, which for me is tantamount to putting a notice on the bottle which reads: “You will hate this. Don’t drink it.”

But even as the beverage itself was being carried by a miscommunication that was harnessing my assumptions, it took a solitary sip to break through such human stupidity and deliver a pleasant delightfulness worth sharing with you.

This is a really good whiskey.

The nose of this edition of the Ole George is one of sweet rye spice and cinnamon toast. Add the tiniest drop of water and you may be tricked into sensing the fizzing carbonation of cherry cola.

A sip reveals the maple finish, and the folks at Grand Traverse Distillery show they have what it takes to get such a finishing right. It’s a subtle, almost gentle enhancement. It’s certainly not added to hide the medicinal sour of a bad whiskey, but rather it compliments a good whiskey, giving it just enough sweetness to make it unique—and dare I say, better. With the higher ABV, one might expect some burn, but instead it comes off with balance, bringing along a tart nip of caramel to grab at the tongue.

The maple is fast-fleeting in the finish. Still, I’d say the finish whirls at the edge of medium and long. There’s just enough of the rye spice (which before was sweet but is now found buttery) to keep it in the medium category. At the same time, the nip noticed by the tongue continues beyond this, implying the desire for a lengthier stay.

In the end, whatever you decide, don’t let the label keep you from being in the position to actually come to a reasonable conclusion. Do what you can to suppress the nature of human stupidity—which we all contain—and give this whiskey a try. It’s a good-hearted and youthful dram that means you no harm. And I’m almost certain that after a sip, you’ll choose to enunciate Evelyn’s a-word as opposed to the one the old lady foolishly presumed while eating a McChicken sandwich beside us.

The post Review – Grand Traverse Distillery, Ole George Whiskey, 100% Maple Finished, Straight Rye, 3 Years and 7 Months Old, 50% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Tommyrotter Distilleries, Triple Barrel American Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]“So,” the youngest of my four children asked with a voice suggesting the need for clarification, “Joshua gets to drive Momma’s car, and so now she’s getting a different one?”

“That’s right,” I said. “We gave him the Ford Explorer to drive and now she needs to get a different car.” I made the turn into our subdivision. “She likes her Explorer,” I added, “so we’ll try to find another one just like it.”

“Which car will Madeline drive when it’s her turn?” the little girl continued to pry.

“I already told her she could have my Wrangler,” I replied.

“And because you like Jeeps you’ll get another one just like Momma’s gonna get another Explorer?”

“I guess, yeah, if we can afford it.”

“How about Harrison?” she asked, her tone noticeably calculated.

“I’ll keep to the rotation. He’ll drive the next Jeep I get, and then I’ll probably get anoth—”

“—a Ferrari,” she interrupted, finishing my sentence. “You should get a Ferrari.” A depth of seriousness in her eyes, she gave a glance and reached over, gently placing her hand on mine. “I hear Ferrari’s are really nice, Daddy,” she said. “I’ll bet you’d like a Ferrari more than another Jeep.”

A moment of silence passed between us. She gave a grin.

“I’m on to you,” I said, pulling into the driveway. She didn’t respond, but continued her half smile, grabbed her backpack, and hopped from the Jeep.

“Hey, Harrison!” I heard her call through the front door just as it was closing behind her. “When I start driving, Daddy said my first car will be a Ferrari!”

She’s fresh into her ninth year of life, but I already predict Evelyn will be the CEO of a major corporation. She’s an analyst. She’s a planner. She’s a goal-setter and a go-getter. She keeps all of these traits harnessed and working in time for finding a way through just about anything—like a team of horses pulling the carriage of ambition. I’d say she epitomizes the Greek tragedian Euripides when he wrote, “Slight not what’s near through aiming at what’s far.” One needs only to consider the conversation I just shared, which began with the eldest brother driving a decomposing Ford Explorer and ended with the youngest tooling around in a ride fit for Magnum P.I.

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There are others like her, and thankfully they’re flexing the muscle of determination in the whiskey business. Bobby Finan and the virtuous folks at Tommyrotter are among them. Never having met any of them, I’m comfortable making this assumption and admitting to its verity while taking in a dram of their Triple Barrel American Whiskey. It betrays their communal wit.

[image error]The nose of this edition is ambitiously energetic, more so than you might first expect. Don’t take too deep a breath. Take your time. Do it gently. If you do, you’ll get nearly equal portions of walnut nougat and dark, deeply roasted coffee. If you don’t, you’ll catch a medicinal snap that could put you off before you get a chance to actually begin.

The palate is as determined as the nose, except now there’s no controlling its pace. It breezes through in Ferrari fashion, turning heads and generously doling out sweet cream, maybe a tad bit of honey, charred toast, and something that reminded me of a dry merlot.

The medium finish is reminiscent of the coffee in the nosing, but now it’s far warmer and peppered with allspice.

I like it, and it has me thinking…

On second thought, if Evelyn isn’t eventually a CEO, I’m pretty sure she’s going to be the first of the four children to do time for the highest grossing Ponzi scheme in history. I say that meaning that she has incredible skills, and my sincerest hope is that like the folks at Tommyrotter, she’ll choose to use them for good and not evil.

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