Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 14

Review – Tommyrotter Distilleries, Cask Strength Bourbon-Barrel Gin, (No Age Stated), 61%

[image error]So many things have their clumsy beginnings—driving a car, doing your taxes, love, changing a diaper, mudding and sanding drywall. The list is relatively inexhaustible.

This could be a clumsy first for me—reviewing gin, that is.

I just don’t drink gin all that often. But I suppose you knew that already, didn’t you?

It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. There was a time when a careful measure of gin in chilled tonic water and adorned with a fresh lime would be a near-flawless potation at the edge of any summer sunset. But even as tranquil as such scenes were, I never found myself committed to gin in the same ways I’m committed to whisky. Gin just never had a depth or vibrancy about it, at least not enough that I felt drawn to investigate it. The better known gins—Bombay Sapphire, Tanqueray, or Hendrick’s—I employed them all. But even so, until today, I remained relatively certain of gin’s charmless and settled form.

It was Albert Camus who suggested that charm is what’s needed for getting a yes without asking a question. It was Ambrose Bierce who mused that being certain means being mistaken at the top of one’s voice. It was John Stuart Mill who offered that all good things in existence are fruits of originality.

[image error]The rudimentary bells of these three statements tolled my foolishness with the first take of the Cask Strength Bourbon Barrel Gin from Tommyrotter Distilleries.

The nose of this spirit affirms Camus’ perspective. Indeed, charm has her way of getting through and stealing an affirming nod. This particular edition gives charming tracks of spicy licorice root, burnt sugar, and barely a hint of oak. Of course there’s the typical pine-like aroma because of the juniper berries—or more properly, the berry-like seed cones—which are standard to gin production. But the familiarity of the scent is anything but typical. The nose of this gin is crisp, almost cold. In my wandering mind, it betrays a vast and untouched pine forest, one with snow covered hills just beginning the transition to spring.

Charming, indeed. I could live in a place like that. I could sit and sniff this gin on the front porch of a little cabin in a place like that, too. I wouldn’t even need to drink it.

Ah, but I would experience the desire to consume it, because the palate is now carrying me into Bierce’s words. I say this because just as this gin began to come to life with a more distinctive barrel spice, wintry juniper, and maybe even a little bit of lemon pepper, I was immediately reminded of the fact that at one point in my distilled spirits journey, I was all but shouting that I would never discover a Bourbon worthy of cleaning my toilet let alone drinking for enjoyment, and yet over the course of the years I’ve happened upon so many that I truly adore. A sip from this gin is an invitation to remember that there are plenty of enchanting doors in life that are yet to be opened. This gin is one of those doors.

The finish, just shy of being medium in length, insists that we agree with Mill’s observation. This is a good gin, one born of originality. It carries along at its end in a way that rejoins its beginning, giving over the root spice and hint of barrel oakiness. It commends itself to you as thoughtful and unique, and it reminds you that it isn’t as you’ve known before. It isn’t Bombay Sapphire. It’s not Tanqueray or Hendrick’s. It’s Tommyrotter. And it’s definitely better.

Having now been seduced into another arena of spirits discovery, I suppose at some point I’ll give Tommyrotter’s American Gin a try. I have to. All the other gins I’ve known are now distant and clumsy beginnings, and something tells me that the Tommyrotter Distillery and its offerings could be a field where any one of us might actually begin a more skillful stride.

The post Review – Tommyrotter Distilleries, Cask Strength Bourbon-Barrel Gin, (No Age Stated), 61% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – John Distilleries, Paul John Indian Single Malt Whisky, “Edited” Edition, 46%

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I started a Ketogenic diet a few days ago, and I have to say it’s going pretty well.

For starters, I’m hungry all the time. My wife and four children say I’ve become incredibly irritable. I can barely gather enough strength to lift my toothbrush to my mouth let alone walk up a flight of stairs without feeling like I need a nap. I have more headaches than usual. I have a hard time concentrating, although I was able to gather enough focus for planning my funeral… which I’m expecting will be sometime next week. Probably Tuesday.

And I think the sun stopped shining. I’m serious. Since I’ve been on this diet, I’m almost certain that the joy-filled brightness allotted to any particular day has been snuffed out. Or maybe the scientists have been wrong about the sun all along. Maybe it doesn’t burn hydrogen and helium, but rather carbs, and it has decided to go Keto, too.

Great. Give it all you’ve got, sun. I’m not sure you actually exist anymore, but just in case you do, know that I’m rooting for you.

Although, I suppose I could be mistaken. Maybe the sunshine seems distant because it’s being blocked out by the sizeable list of “no” foods to which I am now subscribed. The “yes” food list, the low carb list, I’ve learned is comprised primarily of savory construction material—wood, replacement windows, cement, beef jerky, door knobs, paint, coaxial cable, caulk, nails, pork rinds, and pretty much anything else you can purchase at your local hardware store. But the “no” list is far more grand. It contains all things either simple or extravagant that might stir one to smile at a life lived fully—doughnuts, pizza, joy, spaghetti, happiness, Frosted Flakes, waffles doused in maple syrup, enjoyment, and other such flavorful things.

Thankfully there’s a wide assortment of thirst-quenching fluids on the “yes” list. I can choose anything from among the seemingly endless spectrum of water and water. Apparently any water is good—tap water, pool water, downspout water, sewage water—as long as it doesn’t taste very good, you should be fine.

I don’t know for sure if whisky is on the “yes” list. I’m kind of afraid to check. I suppose if I had to guess, it’s probably on the “no” list. Why? Because it’s an enjoyable thing, and if you recall, joy is a no-no in this life-editing exercise.

But there you have it. Since bending all reason in submission to my current life-editing routine is a part of what I’m doing to torture myself right now, then I’m sure it’ll be fine to stretch my reasoning a little more to find a place for enjoying a dram of the Paul John “Edited” edition while I chew on a low carb, butter-dipped corner of vinyl siding.

And so, with high hopes for even a moment of rescue, the cork is popped and I’m giving it a try.

Refreshingly, the nose of this whisky is the first real sunbeam to pierce my dreadful gloom in days. Alongside a somewhat vegetal scent, a touch of forbidden chocolate and fleshy fruits—plums, perhaps—is carried along by a lazy and shapeless draft of peat.

The palate offers another few rays of liveliness—glimmering beams of warmed vanilla and overly ripened gala apples—both pleasant enough to penetrate the shell of anyone’s misery.

The finish is a medium stream of faintly strolling smoke and a more prominent barrel spice that spends its time nipping at the tongue with a lovely reminder that this is only the first sip and the bottle is still very full.

Another sip brings a satisfyingly consistent sameness. A little water, however, lessens the palatable joy, and that’s probably because water is on the “yes” list. The “yes” list things are meant to murder enjoyable things.

Overall, this is another edition from Paul John that, if you can find it, is worth your attention. It may stir disappointment from your dietitian, but I can pretty much guarantee that your therapist will offer a commending grin.

And so, like I said, I think the diet is on track for accomplishing its goals, and with that, I’m fairly confident that I can keep at it for another seventy-two hours or so before altogether forfeiting in order to choose happiness again. Although, if I do decide to press on, if I do decide that suffering is the preferable road to better health, even as I go to bed hungry, at least I’ll sleep peacefully. I’ll do so knowing that the Paul John “Edited” edition is within reach and I have five other people in my home who can pour it for me when I’ve grown too weak to lift the bottle.

The post Review – John Distilleries, Paul John Indian Single Malt Whisky, “Edited” Edition, 46% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – John Distilleries, Paul John Indian Single Malt Whisky, “Brilliance” Edition, 46%

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In a sense, I suppose that brilliance is synonymous with genius. Both terms communicate a certain level of exceptionalism that isn’t common to all. And by exceptionalism, I don’t mean skill alone. An athlete making fifty million dollars a year is doing so because he has talent, but that doesn’t necessarily assume he’s brilliant. Arthur Schopenhauer, the German philosopher, is the one who said, “Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.”

As artless as these words were, Schopenhauer’s brilliance beamed through them. They show that true brilliance requires a pairing of both intellect and skill, and his words hint to the fact that brilliance is often more a spark than a bonfire, more so something of simplicity than a complicated matrix of overthought confusion. Einstein and his theory of relativity being prime examples—a man and a tiny equation giving birth and contour to so much. Mozart, another example, heard simple tunes in his head that became extravagant orchestrations on paper and in performance.

I only wish more of the brilliant minds among us were at work building things like parking garages rather than helping to design neutron bombs and writing musical compositions. I say this because earlier today I spent thirty-five minutes—yes, five minutes past half an hour—in a long line of cars circling heavenward in a hospital parking structure only to discover not a single available space at the top. Once up there, I waited another fifteen minutes until someone left before I was actually able to park. Perhaps worse, had any among us in the joyless line changed our minds along the way, having become uncommitted to being where we were, there were no avenues for exiting the lemming-like death march to nothingness. We were trapped. I don’t know about any of the others, but I certainly couldn’t call for help—you know, maybe at one point around the third level trying to get a call out for an evacuation chopper to meet me on the roof. The concrete and steel monolith in which I was being digested was more than confusing my mobile phone signal.

Hey geniuses—get to work figuring this out, okay? I guarantee that no small number among the populace would appreciate it. And while you’re at it, you know what would make us smile while we traverse the corridors of your state-of-the-art parking garage? If you changed all of the shepherding departure signs with arrows that say “Exit” to something a little more intellectually honest. I already have a suggestion. Change the word “Exit” to “Escape,” because in the end, that’s what we’re really trying to do.

Interestingly, when I finally did escape and returned to my office, I discovered a box on my desk that contained a bottle of the Paul John Indian Single Malt Whisky “Brilliance” edition sent to me by John Distilleries in Goa, India. I have to admit that when I receive whiskies for review directly from the distilleries, I get a little nervous. I know it’s not the same, but I have to imagine that when the procedure is done, if the news is bad, it’s a splinter of what it’s like to be a surgeon tasked with telling the family in the waiting room that their loved one didn’t pull through. I don’t enjoy being the one to do this because I know how much time and effort goes into any particular edition. With that, it’s an unpleasant thing to see it fail.

But I assure you in this case, the name of the whisky—Brilliance—is fitting. This is one that meets with Schopenhauer’s words. It proves John Distillery’s skill for hitting the target, while at the same time, imagining and reaching new ones unseen by others.

The nose is a splendid structure, one of overly buttered caramel poured into a mix of spicy malt. A slight draft comes at its end, the kind of tickling breeze you get while simultaneously smelling and sipping a glassful of Coca-Cola. I almost expected some carbonation with the first sip.

The palate matches the nose’s equation, but at its end adds a little something more to its intriguing character. The first sip beams the spicy malt. A second realizes the buttered caramel. Both form a mixture rightly measured. A third sip adds to the recipe a nip of citrus jam and well-browned sourdough toast, bringing the whole experience to a balanced level of exceptional loveliness that’s certainly present in other whiskies, but not necessarily attainable by most.

The finish is a medium casting of what has been shared coupled with a bite that reminds you you’re drinking whisky and not something for the faint of heart.

Overall, the Paul John “Brilliance” edition is a demonstration of what guys like me would like to see accomplished by other whisky makers, especially here in the United States. In fact, maybe the Paul John folks could visit us here in the states and share some of their insight. And I suppose while they’re here, if it isn’t too much trouble, perhaps they could stop by and weigh in with whichever think tank in Washington D.C. has concerned itself with infrastructure. It’s obvious we need a little more brilliance when formulating architecture meant for accommodating the public masses.

The post Review – John Distilleries, Paul John Indian Single Malt Whisky, “Brilliance” Edition, 46% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Russell’s Reserve, Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, 10 Years Old, 45%

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My daughter has a hamster. Well, she had a hamster. Fernando was his name.

I’m not at liberty to tell you where he is and why he is there,
but what I can say is that rather recently, his more-than-benevolent caretaker
approached me with the request that I assist her in taking a picture of all of
the tiny rodent’s belongings in order to sell them online.

“Done and done, my dear child. And if you don’t mind, shall
I scribe for you a finely tuned advertisement that will, most certainly, rid
you of these things while achieving a top dollar goal?”

“Whatever. Sure. I don’t care. I’m just never getting another
hamster.”

“Again, done and done.”

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Together we staged Fernando’s belongings on the kitchen
table. I took a picture with my phone and then uploaded it to the Facebook
Marketplace. Once I’d gotten an affirmative nod from the seller beside me
regarding the $55 price tag, I tapped away at a short description of the items,
and then posted it to the local resale networks. Here’s what I wrote:

“Well cared for hamster supplies. Everything you need to
keep a happy and healthy hamster. Unless, of course, he’s an unappreciative
jerk. Then you can evict him, being sure to send him to live with a friend so
that you can sell all his junk and buy a cactus. Anyway, good stuff here.”

Within a few moments I received a notice from Facebook announcing that my advertisement was in violation of their marketplace policies and asking if I’d like to appeal. At first I thought, Wow, there must be a hypersensitive member of PETA living somewhere in the tri-county area. I just figured I had offended someone by the way I described the situation with Fernando. But that wasn’t it. It turns out that even though I posted the advertisement in the pet supplies section of the market—which I would imagine assumes each seller is going to note the kind of supplies being sold and the particular animal with which the supplies are associated—it was the word “hamster” that triggered the block. It sounded the virtual alarms because it is illegal to sell animals on Facebook.

That’s one bad algorithm right there. And as to whoever formulated
it, Facebook should follow my lead and replace him or her with a cactus. I
mean, cacti are designed by the Creator to be fairly self-sufficient, needing
very little care or concern. The algorithm that tagged my post, however, is
making a lot of extra work for the people dealing with the appeals process.

“Ah, here’s another trickster trying to sneak by us,” I
imagine a young and idealistic screen jockey whispering. “Hmm, let’s see. Ah, the
fraudster used the word ‘hamster.’ Bad idea, pal. This guy is probably a dark
web dealer in illegal Mammalia Rodentia. Poor little things. Oh, wait. He’s
selling his daughter’s hamster stuff… in the pet supplies section… like a
normal person. I hate this stupid algorithm.”

Maybe instead of a cactus, the people at Facebook should
consider hiring Jimmy and Eddie Russell, the master distillers who particularized
Russell’s Reserve Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey. I’ll bet they could
provide the expertise for getting the formula right. They certainly succeeded in
catching all the right details with this 10-year-old edition.

With a gentle nose of candy corn and something reminiscent
of pineapple juice and cake frosting, the Russell’s Reserve puts forth a
fanciful advertisement that beckons to give it a try.

But with what is being offered in comparison to its
price—which in my particular corner of the whiskey universe was about $45—one
might become alarmed, thinking the deal to be trickery. Nevertheless, a sip
proves the honesty in the transaction. This is no bottom shelf Bourbon
attempting to sell itself incautiously. It is a finely calculated presentation
of wood spice, honeyed nougat, a simpler pinch of cinnamon in cola, and a
wrapping in mild warmth.

The finish—an easy, medium-length retelling of the spicy
cola—is a pitch to revisit the whiskey as often as one might prefer. And now you
can, because after a couple of hours, the folks at Facebook acknowledged the
uselessness of their algorithm and allowed your pet supplies advertisement to
go through. With such a pardon from Facebook prison came a good number of
inquiries, one of which led to a final sale. With a crisp $55 in hand, you can
easily afford a bottle of the Russell’s Reserve. Although, now you are facing
another problem.

“Daddy, did the hamster stuff sell, yet?”

“It sure did, honey,” is my reply. “But I forgot to tell you
that I charge a $45 fee for each online advertisement I’m hired to design.”

“Wait. What?!”

“Here’s your ten bucks, sweetie.”

The post Review – Russell’s Reserve, Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, 10 Years Old, 45% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Crown Royal, Blenders’ Series, Bourbon Mash, 40%

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As a clergyman, I probably shouldn’t do some of the things I do in public. And why? Because there’s always the chance that the passing observer to any of my odder interactions will one day visit my church, and when they discover me in the pulpit, who knows what they’re reaction will be.

It’s not like I do anything offensive. I don’t swear or throw up rude hand gestures or anything like that. My concern is that I am more than ready and willing to use my innate weirdness to lob a curve ball at pretty much anyone when they invade my space. I don’t do it to be a jerk. Most often I do it because the moment is a teachable one, and the people are boldly crass enough to initiate the interaction. Other times, I do it just to keep things interesting. Consider the following example and decide for yourself as to which of these you think was in play.

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I have a t-shirt that I like to wear when I’m doing work around the house. It’s one that Jennifer bought for me at Walmart a few years back. It says “England” across the breast and has the Union Jack prominently displayed. I like the shirt. In fact, I like it a lot, and I happened to be wearing it one day while visiting the local Home Depot in search of wood screws and wall plates for some electrical outlets I installed in my basement.

I found the wood screws first, and then I made my way to the main aisle that would lead me to the section where I’d find the remainder of my required items. To get there, it was necessary to pass the appliance department. On approach, there was a rather rugged looking fellow who appeared to be guarding multiple flatbeds, each bearing some larger appliances—things like dishwashers and microwave ovens. It was an impressive stash of items he was preparing to purchase. But even with his remarkable train of products, the man himself stood out as most notable in the collection. He was decked in red, white, and blue from top to bottom. Everything on him bore an American flag, from his bandana to his pants. Even his shoes testified to the pageantry. Admittedly, being the patriot that I am, I was impressed, and I felt almost as if I should remove my hat and put my hand over my heart as I passed him.

But I didn’t, and that’s because as I made my way toward him, I could more than tell that he’d locked onto me with a stare. Having forgotten what was on the t-shirt I was wearing, I didn’t know why, at least not until he spoke.

“Nice shirt,” he intoned sarcastically. I smiled and kept my passing pace. But then he added, “Ashamed of your own flag, friend?”

Now, I suppose most folks would probably just have allowed the man his space and kept walking, relegating his rudeness to the obvious fact that he’s an overly-zealous nutjob. I mean, I don’t need to tell him that I’m not ashamed of my country’s flag. I love America. I also love the freedom I have to wear my England t-shirt while working on my home. Still, it was the urge I acted upon next that I posited at the beginning of this little jaunt as something I should probably stop doing because it could get me into trouble.

As immediately as he spoke, I turned and offered in my best British accent something like, “Oy, mate! It’s ’ard enough I’ve to drive my motorcar on the wrong side o’ the road, but must I also be coerced into ’splaining my bloody shirt?!”

Although I didn’t remain long, I stayed put long enough to note that the surprise on his face was worth at least a couple of quid.

Returning to my previous pace, I continued my quest. I certainly didn’t want to continue the engagement, anyway, and mainly because if I found myself drawn into an actual conversation, one in which I’d have to keep the charade alive, he would’ve eventually noticed that I can’t keep the accent going for too long before it devolves into something more attuned to an Australian trying to sound Jamaican.

I can’t say for sure, but I do think he tried to apologize as I walked away. I think he said something about respecting America’s allies. Well, whatever. I turned the corner of the aisle I needed, grabbed my wall plates, and then took the long way back to the checkout lanes, traveling first among the ceiling fans and then through the outdoor garden department, all in an effort to evade my star spangled antagonist and the possibility of betraying my covert tactics.

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In a way, the sample before me of the Crown Royal Blenders’ Series Bourbon Mash that I received from my friend George reminds me of the scene I just described. It’s a Canadian whisky, but it’s pretending to be from Kentucky. And while it does a pretty good job at first, the longer you spend with it, the more you realize it’s just another syrupy edition from Crown Royal.

The nose of this whisky is splendid. It carries some pretty typical Bourbon sensations, at least enough for an initial convincing if this were a blind taste test. In addition to these particulars, there is a more notable scent of simmering butter and glazed peaches.

A taste reveals the Bourbon influence but betrays its non-native birth. Firstly, there’s a wash of creamy vanilla and a shake of the fruit from the nosing, but no sooner than this commentary begins does it turn with an aftertaste of sour artificial flavoring eased only slightly by a drop of honey.

The finish is where its attempts at being a Bourbon cease and it wholly becomes what I most recall about Crown Royal. With a short to medium fade, the whisky suddenly feels thicker than you remember, coating the tongue with an overly-sugared stratum.

For Crown Royal fans, this whisky may put forth a Bourbon flag, but in all, it will be the candy-like and velvety experience you’d expect from your homeland. For all others, I suspect that this dram will serve only to confirm a thankfulness for genuine Bourbon while reaffirming any alternate choices you may have made with regard to the Canadian whiskies you prefer. Either way, just know that it probably doesn’t matter what shirt you’re wearing while you drink it.

The post Review – Crown Royal, Blenders’ Series, Bourbon Mash, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Anchor Distilling, A.H. Hirsch, Small Batch Reserve, 4 to 6 Years Old, 46%

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I’m fairly certain that every person has those moments when the
reactive thoughts that exist in the furthest reaches of the mind have complete
access to the thoroughfare of his or her mouth. I know I do. They don’t happen
every day, but they happen enough to keep things interesting.

“What can I get for you, sweetie?” an unfamiliar voice
buzzed sexily through the drive-through speaker, its friendliness causing the
one occupying the front passenger seat, my youngest daughter, Evelyn, to lend a
look of surprise.

“I just need a medium black coffee,” I replied, slowly turning
away from the microphone to Evelyn with a wide-eyed expression that met her
own.

“Did she just call you ‘sweetie’?” Evelyn whispered, her
hands barely covering a staggered smile.

“She sure did,” I said, giving her a grin of uncertainty.

“Do you know her?”

“Nope.”

“That’ll be a dollar thirty-seven at the first window,
honey,” the voice said in the same alluring tone. Evelyn’s eyes grew wider. I
didn’t respond, but rolled forward.

With a few cars between us and the drive-through lady who my
daughter was certain was trying to seduce me (and I say this not so much
because of what the woman said, but rather how she said it), I explained to Evelyn
that some folks just talk to others this way. They don’t mean anything by it.
It’s just their peculiar way of being friendly.

“I don’t like it,” Evelyn said. “It’s inappropriate.”

“Yeah, it’s weird.”

“And Momma wouldn’t like it, either.”

“I don’t think Momma would care all that much,” I offered as
we rolled up to the window, “but either way, let’s just keep our cool and get
out of here.”

“Hey, sweetie!” came the overly friendly greeting through
the window.

“Good morning,” I returned, stale faced. My daughter leaned
forward, her weird grin having become a stare.

“That’ll be a dollar thirty-seven, hun.”

And then, even after I’d just instructed my daughter that we
were to keep our cool—and as I’d warned at the beginning of this little adventure—my
unspoken thoughts suddenly engaged with my mouth and I took the conversation to
an extreme degree in the opposite direction.

“Alas, kind lady,” I said animatedly, exchanging exact payment for the cup of coffee, “’twas a score ago that many acquaintances would respectfully call me ‘hun,’ but even so, only when rightly preceded by ‘Attila the.’”

I heard Evelyn gasp.

“Have a nice day, sweetie,” the woman said as the window
closed, maintaining her pace and completely unaffected.

Rolling away, we both laughed. And I suppose that’s why I did it, because I wanted to give Evelyn a good story to tell at school. I’m guessing that the words coming from the drive-through window were meant for the same. And by them I realized two things. First, that people are people, and taking them in stride is a better bet; and second, if my marriage were ever to dissolve, no matter how friendly the woman was at the McDonald’s drive-through, she’s not all that interested in me and probably wouldn’t be a rebound possibility. She spoke as she did to sell me coffee. That’s it.

When it comes to whisky, I’ve learned similar things over the years.

First, whiskey is whiskey. No matter the distillery, region, or whatever, taking each edition in stride is always the better bet.

As it meets the second point, I say these things revealing a somewhat penitent heart. In my earlier days with Bourbons, there were some distilleries, both big and small, that I’d been less inclined to appreciate because they seemed to be speaking a drawn and sensual word, but in the end, were really just exchanging my money for a business-as-usual bit of booze in a unique bottle with a decorative label. I’ll admit to having had that sense when I bought the Hirsch Small Batch Reserve Straight Bourbon, which is eloquently presented by Hotaling & Company and Anchor Distilling as having a connection to A.H. Hirsch and the moth-balled Schaefferstown Distillery in Pennsylvania. Admittedly, there’s some magic to this chronicle. But when you read that the whiskey is merely a celebration of “the Hirsch heritage through a range of sourced selections,” the intrigue dissipates into the realization that there’s not much about the whiskey itself that’s connected to the story. They needed a name for some whiskey they contracted from MGP in Lawrenceburg, Indiana—just like a billion other American whiskey labels on the market have done.

Having said all of this, I liked this whiskey. It’s really quite good.

The nose is a little stringent at first, suggesting
something chemical in nature. A few minutes to sit, the chemical scent fades
and becomes something along the lines of simple syrup in its cooling stage
poured over tangerines.

The palate is similar. There’s a decent bit of souring
citrus. But along the way, a heavier barrel flavor is introduced. I’d say it
translates into the simple syrup being overheated, some of it having been
scorched in the pan. I think this works well, personally. It adds some depth to
something that could’ve been thin.

The finish is a medium draw of straight cinnamon and what
seems a bit like over-toasted bread, not burnt, but real crispy. This may sound
bad, but with ever-present lapping of the citrus, it puts flavor and texture
together successfully.

Now a word of clarification. As you can see, a sourced
whisky does not mean a bad whiskey. Read my stuff. You’ll discover that I’ve
had many sourced whiskies that were good. It’s just the in-between sales pitch
that bugs me. It feels wrong to make a connection with something or someone where
no real connection exists.

In other words, don’t call me sweetie unless you mean it.

The post Review – Anchor Distilling, A.H. Hirsch, Small Batch Reserve, 4 to 6 Years Old, 46% appeared first on angelsportion.

The Angels’ Portion in Collaboration with Ad Crucem!

This particular post is a little beyond the borderlands of the whisky universe, and yet I share it because I had the wonderful privilege of collaborating in the design of a rather exquisite pectoral crucifix now being sold at one of the finest—if not the premier—of online merchants in Christian handiwork, Ad Crucem!

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Simply, Ad Crucem deals in the higher tiers of artisanship when it comes to churchly merchandise. As they offer on the website, the effort “grew out of our frustration with the tacky Christian gifts market that doesn’t look a whole lot different from the local party or dollar store.” And they’re right. The usual sources in this arena are nothing to herald, and in comparison to these supply houses, Ad Crucem more than takes the market to a higher level. Whether it’s liturgical artwork, decorative christmons, certificates and banners, or this new pectoral crucifix, Ad Crucem stands apart. I dare say what they offer, in many instances, is very nearly regalia.

It’s for this very reason that I reached out to Wanita, both a friend and the proprietor, when I was in search of the item you see here.

Essentially, the story is that of a kindly family in my parish, having heard I’d always wanted a pectoral crucifix, they decided to gift one to me for my birthday. Over the years, I’d searched, but I was never able to settle on one from the typical retailers that didn’t appear cheap, and most importantly, wasn’t a cross absent the corpus. “We preach Christ crucified,” Saint Paul said. If it doesn’t have a corpus, I’m not interested. As far as the pectoral crucifixes I did discover, it seemed that most were far too avant-garde in their designs, so much so that they looked, well, stupid. I suppose I might’ve been interested in wearing them if my regular preaching duties took place in the Jackson Pollock or Andy Warhol wings of the museum, but until that happens, I’m a classics kind of guy and more likely to be found doing mission work over by Caravaggio and Rembrandt. But whatever. Together with Ad Crucem, a classical pectoral crucifix was designed.

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The item, comprised of sterling silver, is itself 3 inches tall by 2 inches wide. It weighs 25.5 grams. The corpus is scaled to a truer rendition of the Lord’s frame rather than being flattened as on most crucifix jewelry. Equally, incredible detail was achieved. The rib wound, facial features, crown of thorns, toes and fingers are all visible. Also, unlike most corpus’ you might find elsewhere, this one is a solid piece and not hollow. Finally, the titulus crucis is one with the cross and not attached as a separate piece. There’s no chance of it ever breaking free and being lost.

I suppose the most exciting thing for me in all of this is not only that I finally have the pectoral crucifix I’ve always wanted, but that I had a hand in imagining it. Perhaps even better, I own the original handcrafted edition used to make the mold for all others of its kind. They’ll all be born from this one. Of course to celebrate this gift, you know me. I first gave thanks to the Lord for the benefactors who showed me such love, and then I popped open one of my better whiskies and poured myself a dram… or two.

The sterling silver crucifix is available for $250, and in my opinion, that’s a steal. I say this because if I were running Ad Crucem, based on what’s available through other sources, I’d add $100 to the price tag.There’s nothing else like it out there, which means it’s certainly worth every penny and then some. A 14 karat gold version is being fashioned, too. It’s considerably pricier, coming in for a landing at $1,950. But whichever you choose, I’d say it’ll be more than a lasting treasure that silently proclaims the Gospel to both those who wear it and those who view it.

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Visit www.adcrucem.com to learn more or to pre order. It won’t be long before it’s in stock and ready to ship.

Cheers and blessings,

The Reverend+   

The post The Angels’ Portion in Collaboration with Ad Crucem! appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Knappogue Castle, Single Malt Irish Whiskey, 12 Years Old, 40%

[image error]Slowly but surely, things are landing over at Bourbon and Banter. Click the link below to see the latest from The Angels’ Portion… especially if you are interesting in knowing why Darth Vader doesn’t appreciate spicy salsa while at the same you desire to learn of a really great Irish whiskey that is well worth your while. Trust me. All true.

KNAPPOGUE CASTLE 12 YEAR OLD SINGLE MALT WHISKEY REVIEW

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The post Review – Knappogue Castle, Single Malt Irish Whiskey, 12 Years Old, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Hang in there…

[image error]My friends,

“Our patience will achieve more than our force,” wrote Sir Edmund Burke. He was right, and I feel I must bolster this trait within some of you.

Fear not. I’m getting your messages. And as some of you are eagerly awaiting something—anything—from me, know that the process with Bourbon & Banter is indeed unfolding and that I have a few “somethings” in the proverbial hopper. The hang up is that it is quite the arduous task to bring everything I have here over and into their embrace. The other curve ball is that September is Bourbon month, and that means a very special focusing of efforts for the whole B & B crew.

In the end, know that a “Grand Opening” event of sorts for the partnership between The Angels’ Portion and B & B is planned for October. Hang in there, and in the meantime, my “somethings” will be let loose upon the whisky planet as Bourbon month allows.

Cheers and blessings to all!

The Reverend

The post Hang in there… appeared first on angelsportion.

Newsflash! An Announcement from The Angels’ Portion!

[image error]My dearest friends here at AngelsPortion.com,

I wanted to take a quick moment to share with you what I think is some pretty great news. But before I do, I first want to tell you just how much I’ve appreciated your growing support over the years. Along the way, so many of you have reached out to me to let me know just how unique my efforts here are—in the sense that I don’t just give you a mechanical review, but rather I try to lead you into a narrative that fosters a more memorable experience with each and every whisky being considered. No one else in the whisky world does it this way, and it means a lot that you would not only take notice, but that you would take the time to follow and enjoy my literary efforts while at the same time sharing with others and encouraging them to do so, too.

And so, the news…

As of today, I’ve entered into a partnership with one of the finest whisky websites on the internet: Bourbon and Banter. The essentials of the partnership are that everything here at AngelsPortion.com, over the course of the next few months, will be migrated to and under the umbrella of B & B, ultimately and eventually resulting in, among other things, the existence of a “The Angels’ Portion” column on the main site’s navigation header.

As far as things go literarily, in one sense, I’m not necessarily going anywhere. I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing all along—which is writing the most entertaining whisky reviews on the web. I’ll just be doing it over at B & B alongside some high class ladies and gentleman who are emblematic of the best things about the whisky industry. Patrick “Pops” Garrett, the proprietor of the site, is a top tier noble, and so are all of the writers he has under his wing. I’m truly looking forward to being a part of it all, and I hope to be a valued asset to an already successful effort.

There are, of course, several important points to the partnership that I won’t get into, just suffice it to say that one of the expectations is that my current library of reviews—principally my superabundant collection of Scotch narratives—will be moved from here to there with the goal of helping to expand B & B’s current Scotch offerings exponentially, resulting in making a much bigger dent in the larger whisky mission field.

Having said all of this, I encourage you to take some time to visit Bourbon and Banter, being sure to subscribe to their email list so that you get regular updates. Again, it’ll take a few months before you see my stuff fully materialize over there, but it will happen. And of course, I want you along for the ride!

— The Rev.

P.s.

I should mention that AngelsPortion.com will remain in existence, although as each of the reviews is carried over to Bourbon and Banter, it will disappear from here. With that, over the course of the next few months, I’ll be redesigning the layout, most likely using it as a springboard to B & B and a homepage for author/guest speaking information.

Or maybe I’ll use it to post photos of baby otters.

Or kittens.

Or zombies.

Or baby otters and kittens fighting zombies. Whatever. I suppose any one of those is capable of generating some traffic.