Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 15

Review – Tomatin, Dualchas, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]There are three kinds of people in the world; those who are good at math and those who aren’t. As you can see, I’m in the latter group. I just never liked it as a child and even now the disposition remains.

I will admit, however, that I was relatively proud of the ability in my early years to make certain numbers so unrecognizable that I could reasonably argue they were something else entirely. What I mean, for example, is that a carefully crafted eight—one whose edges are purposefully faded—could quite easily be established as a careless three. Or with a little bit of intention, a five’s corpus could be crafted so tightly that I could convince a teacher that, no, I wasn’t off by one, but rather found six to be the answer like everyone else. Look here. See my six. Yes it looks like a scrunched five, but it isn’t. It’s a six.

If only the look in my eyes didn’t give me away so easily and so often.

Of course mathematics are a daily involvement for most of us. Whether it’s reconciling a bank statement or figuring out which whisky you can afford after that year-long snatching of coins from couches, parking lots, and pillows where your child’s tooth had previously rested, mathematics is ever with us.

By the way, in order to successfully retrieve money from beneath the pillow of a slumbering youngster, some contemplative calculations born from both physics and geometry will be needed, which means that before you ever get to a place where you can wrestle with guilt for the effort, you’ll need to wrestle with maneuvers sopping with math. Although, whatever the grappling, it might well be worth it if the outcome is the Tomatin Dualchas. This is a really great, low cost whisky.

More than affordable by way of your loose change jar, the Dualchas can be acquired in most circumstances for less than $30. I don’t know how Tomatin can afford to do this. Either their accountant is as skilled in math as I am, which means the distillery will most likely be closing soon, or he is exceptional in math and has brilliantly worked the numbers in a way that brings this remarkable whisky to the consumers for a third of the cost of others on higher shelves that aren’t even as good. I’m guessing that the latter is true. In fact, the naming of the whisky hints to such creative maneuverings. Dualchas is the Gaelic form of “legacy,” or more accurately, “cultural heritage.” Apparently, Tomatin was told they could not sell a whisky in the United States called Legacy, and so with that, they figured out how to do it anyway.

Hey, liquor control commissions of the world, put that in your pipe and smoke it! And while you’re doing that, we’ll tip back a dram or two of the Dualchas, being sure to savor the magic of a successful equation.

With a nose of honey-butter and sweet malt, the Dualchas begins on the lighter side. But in a sip’s moment, it brings to these previous addends a cluster of grains in eddying creaminess.

Like a simple exercise in addition, the resultant finish is a short and well-balanced sum of everything from the nose and palate, except here I’d say that the butter is the most prevalent of its parts.

For the cost, I’ll be keeping a few of these in my various cabinets. And I dare say I may not even need to continue my late night swipes from the Tooth Fairy’s generosity to make it happen. Speaking of, I’d better stop doing that, anyway. The Tooth Fairy in our house is pretty good at math—especially subtraction—so when the kids are beaming with excitement at a most recent gift that is a dollar or two less than what was actually placed there while I show up with a new bottle of whisky, she becomes suspicious. At this point, she’s been chalking it up to forgetfulness, but I’m pretty sure that won’t last much longer.

Review – Blanton’s Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 46.5%

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“So, do you want to take the kids to Disney Springs tonight?” Jen asked, holding herself at the edge of the pool in a float.”

“Momma!” the youngest pried.

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go after dinner. We can go—”

“—Momma!”

“—to Basin and some of the other stores that the kids want to visit.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jen replied. “Maybe we can let them swim again later tonight when we—”

“—Momma!”

“—get home.”

“It’ll be kind of late,” I said, moving from the step at the shallow end to where Jen was soaking.

“—Momma!”

“As long as it’s not—”

“—Momma!”

“—too late,” I finished, dodging an impatient splash.

“If we leave here at 6:00,” Jen suggested, “we can walk around for a few hours and then get back so that—”

“—Momma!”

“—so that they can swim, maybe until about 9:00 or so.”

“—Mommmaaaa!”

“Yeah, for the sake of the neighbors,” I said and paddled, “we’d better not let them swim much past—”

“—Mommmmaaaaaaa!”

And then in a furious turn, one so fast that not even the water around her was disturbed, Jen acknowledged the pestering child with a singular word through a primeval sound that could only be described as half human.

“Whaaaat?!” she sounded with a wide-eyed howl.

All of the pool’s commotion came to a halt. But the little girl, wholly unaffected, flipped up her goggles and spoke in as carefree a manner as she’d been asking. “Watch me do a handstand!” she said. In a moment, her toes were to the sky while her mother stood there staring silently, her mouth somewhat gaped.

I laughed so hard I nearly peed in the pool. Jen, of course, remained still. Although, even in her relatively motionless stance, she gave me a glance that more than communicated she was less than impressed with the level of joviality in my response.

The moment sort of reminded me of some folks I know in the whiskey world.

“Hey, Chris, have you tried Blanton’s, yet?”

“Reverend, you should review Blanton’s.”

“When will The Angels’ Portion do a review of Blanton’s?”

“I can’t believe that Thoma hasn’t reviewed Blanton’s.”

“I think the Reverend should try Blanton’s and do a review.”

“Hey, Reverend!”

“Whaaaat?!”

“Are you ever going to review Blanton’s?”

Sigh.

Yes. And for the record, I’ve had Blanton’s before, but I don’t remember it being all that memorable. Nevertheless, with a focused attempt this time around, I’m convinced that all the pestering was not without substance. In other words, I’m glad I finally got around to this one in official taste-testing mode. It’s really pretty good—a much more elaborately performed dance than an eight-year-old’s handstand in the pool.

The nose offers an initial wade of charred cherries and caramel. A second inhalation brings in more of the fruit.

The palate is a creamy synchronization of the nose’s cherries, a handful of vanilla chips, and some barrel spice. A little bit of water opens up the performance in a way that reveals the caramel from the nosing.

The finish is a medium splash of the barrel spice followed by the vanilla chips just as they’re about to melt.

Again, this is far better than what my daughter intended for Jennifer to behold. By the way, notice the little girl wasn’t asking for my attention. I have all four of them trained. When they come to pester me, I pretend I don’t speak English and I respond in Spanish, Latin, or Greek. If I really want to tire them out, I use Russian. Of course, Jen doesn’t appreciate the blowback from all of this, because it means that they almost always skip me and go straight to her for anything they want or need. But that’s fine for me. Although it could be bad for the swimming pool and everyone in it if I find her frustration far too amusing.

Review – Two James Spirits, Johnny Smoking Gun, (No Age Stated), 43.5%

[image error]The Florida sun was well situated in its midday position. With no clouds to be seen, it was hot. In another vacation home two doors down and across the street, something was stirring—a raucous bout of shouting that signaled a tortured situation.

“Sounds like a fight’s getting started,” I whispered, eyes wider than before.

“Do you think so?” Jen whispered in return, covering her mouth with concern. “Oh, I hope not.”

In a silent glide, I made my way to the other end of our swimming pool and lifted my eyes above the deck, just enough to peer through the lanai and see that the front door of the home was open.

“What are you doing?” Jen asked with fretful insistence.

“I’m just looking to see what’s going on,” I replied quietly.

“They’ll see you!”

“No, they won’t,” I said, sending a splash back to her.

I could see that the front door of the home was open and a woman was standing in the entryway. She was facing whoever it was meeting her in opposition and was doing so with a volume equal to his.

“You have to do it!” she insisted, arms crossed in defiance.

“But I didn’t even go!” came an angry shout. “And I warned you it would happen!”

“I don’t care!” she hollered. “I’m not going to do it! I can’t! I just can’t!”

The verbal jousting continued for a few minutes more before the man inside finally yielded. Stomping through the doorway and out to the SUV parked in the driveway, he made his way around the vehicle, opening each of its doors before finally taking a few steps back in a posture of self-defense.

At first I thought he was preparing for some wildlife to lunge out—like a wasp. Or maybe a puma. But his pause was only momentary, and in an instant, he tucked his hand up into his shirt and covered his mouth and nose. Circling the car, he reached into each of the passenger areas and tossed its contents into the front yard. It wasn’t long before he stumbled backward again as if to reassume his defensive posture, except this time he hunched over, and with his hands planted on his knees for support, he gave thick coughs that teetered near the edge of choking.

It was then that I knew the situation.

“Oh man,” I said, my words laced with terror.

“What is it?” Jen asked.

“I think he’s cleaning up puke,” I replied, unblinking and starting a lazy drift back to the other side of the pool only to make a half circle and return to my previous perch. “Yeah, I think he’s cleaning up puke in that very hot car.”

For the next twenty minutes, this lonely father traveled back and forth through the front door of the home, each time carting a different supply—a bucket, garbage sacks, various cleaning supplies, and finally a vacuum cleaner.

“I feel his pain,” I said to my wife as she started to chuckle. “Jobs like this really do take two guns. I almost feel like I should go and help him.”

“Maybe you should,” Jen said unabashedly.

“Because when there’s puke on the scene,” I continued, “I’m the guy who wades in to clean it up.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, remaining stone faced.

And she’s right. When it comes to the dirtiest of jobs in our household, especially ones that involve virally potent body fluids jetting from our children’s various orifices onto carpets and sinks and beds and bouncy seats, I’m the guy. And it doesn’t matter if I’m stricken with the flu, too. I’m the lone gunman in the fight because I’m the only one who can handle the gore.

To provide a maximum example, I remember a time about ten years ago when our oldest sent a spray down the side of his bed and out about five feet across the carpet. Half asleep, he walked through it to our bedroom to tell us he’d thrown up. I’d already been up managing my own puking and had just returned to bed. Jen started gagging even as he told us what had happened. I asked him where and how much, and he said on his floor and that it was only a little bit. Of course when I followed him to his room, it was easy enough to discover the location of ground zero, and not only because of the trail of puke prints he’d made on his way to our room—which I’d slimed through, as well—but because there was, in fact, not a little, but a lot. And because the outer edges of the human muck pond blended into the carpeting so well in the dim light, I managed a few steps into its shoreline before realizing it.

By the time I’d even gotten started cleaning up the mess, I was covered in it. Even in my exhaustion, I cleaned it up alone—the bedroom, the hallway, the bedroom, the boy—and then I bathed myself.

The guy across the way seemed to be having the same lonely trouble, except I’m guessing that the exceptional heat was amplifying the scent and causing him to choke back his own unexpected reflex. I’m also guessing that his wife had already traveled some distance with the scent, was at her wits end, and just wanted to be get away from it. Still, her husband muscled through. Good for him. Sure, two guns would have been better, but he was already proving his mettle. He didn’t need me. And now was not my time, anyway. I was watching in hygienic safety from the pool with a whiskey nearby.

By the way, that is, in fact, the key to any such effort as was unfolding before me. A man can set anything in order with a dram of decent whiskey in hand to sniff and sip. The sniffing abates any smells and the sip wages war against any microbe-sized bodily invaders.

I live by this practice, and it works. And in this particular instance, I’d have suggested a whiskey I added most recently to my collection—the Johnny Smoking Gun edition from Two James Spirits in Detroit.

Meant to compliment Japanese cuisine, which includes the spoiled sushi I’m supposing that the neighboring wife and children ate on their way home to dad, the Johnny Smoking Gun is a stranger breed of whiskey, most certainly giving over pieces of the orient.

The nose offers barely a hint of smoke and sour citrus. The palate is a weird but wonderful jab of sweet tea, honey, and mild oranges. I cannot over-emphasize the oriental nature of this dram. The folks at Two James did some serious work in devising a whiskey that would absolutely serve well to wash down yakitori and a side of warmed udon.

And the finish is sublime—sensual in its sweetness, and careful in its shorter burn.

Now, I should clarify that it’s not that Jen, my lovely wife, doesn’t want to help in times of vomitous crisis. I know she does. It’s just that she can’t. Like so many in this world, the sights, sounds, and smells of such things cause her to gag so much that by requiring her assistance, I’m setting myself up for double the damage. With that, it’s better to just go it alone and let her keep her distance. She can take the kids’ temperatures, give them baths, and make the toast and chicken noodle soup. I’ll handle it when it all comes back up.

Review – Wild Turkey, Longbranch, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, Small Batch, (No Age Stated), 43%

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For us non-celebrity folks, I think that Facebook sets the cap at 5,000 as to how many friends you can claim. I have about 1,600. Wait, let me say that again. I had about 1,600. I just spent most of the morning unfriending right around half of them.

I’m almost ashamed to say that I felt a little like Thanos and I liked it. Almost.

The reward in the exercise is that I’m down to a much more realistic number. Even so, I’m hoping that I can cut into that one, too. In my opinion, it still feels a little too big. I just don’t know most of the people and I’m not so sure they’d even notice my absence from their news feed, anyway.

“So, what criteria did you use for jettisoning these digital relationships?”

Well, first of all, you need to know that it’s really no big deal if you didn’t make the cut. It’s not like anyone was on a waiting list to be my friend. I just needed to make the list a little more manageable and a little less stressful. But since you asked, I did employ a few critical filters.

For one, if you are a huge, over-the-top fan of a few political positions in particular, you were one of the first to go. Beyond that, if you had a tendency toward excessive foul language in your posts, you’re probably gone. If over half of your posts are scantily clad, narcissistic selfies, I excused you from my room. I’m no master of grammar, but if you’ve shown a consistent lack of knowledge regarding the simpler things, like the usages of there, their, and they’re, you’ve probably been banished—unless, of course, you are one of my friends from overseas. You got a pass on this one.

These types of things played into my decision-making.

“But, by doing this, aren’t you lessening your own opportunities for helpful dialogue regarding some very important issues?”

Are you being serious? Facebook is no committee table at the United Nations, my friend. It isn’t about dialogue. It never was. When it comes to the information being shared, it’s about the distribution of agreeable things that make for friends. Unfortunately, even that has become an incredibly fragile premise. When it comes to differences of opinion, it has become a field for planting snarky bombs and throwing digital punches. I mean, honestly, when was the last time you got into a discussion on Facebook about a casual or critical issue and found yourself able to convince or be convinced by an opposing side?

Never, that’s when. But still, it gets worse.

Even within the relatively like-minded circles in which I swim, I’ll sometimes find myself paddling with blood-thirsty predators. For example, I just viewed a post from a kindly Lutheran friend who shared a non-denominational pastor’s video about keeping children with their parents in worship instead of sending them along to something called “children’s church.” I’ve been writing about this very topic for over twenty years, and so the video was refreshing to see, even though I don’t fully appreciate the person in it. But what’s interesting is that my friend had to preface the shared video with a defense that she is staunchly Lutheran and is by no means a supporter of non-denominational theology. Why did she do this? By posting the video, she was merely expressing a gladness that the cookie cutter hipster in the video had finally decided to swim upstream toward truth in this particular issue. This is a good thing, right?

But her words betrayed the need to prepare for a typicality. She’d let out a little blood by agreeing with a premise from a representative opponent, and she felt the need to have her spear gun at the ready lest any sharks be lurking in the Facebook reef. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough if they were.

It used to be that I’d preface certain discussions in the whiskey world in the same way, but I don’t anymore. Over the years I’ve learned that while so many in the whiskey fabric have differing opinions on so many things, very few in this particular part of the digital ocean are ever willing to let differing opinions about most things be the absolute reason for cutting ties. It pretty much takes a stingingly venomous rant against a person as an individual, and even then, the target of the attack is more likely to put it aside until a later date, assuming in the moment that you were drunk. It sort of seems like we’re all just cruising around on rafts, each with its own wet bar, and we’re lifting our drams of the moment in salute to others as they float by.

I like that. In fact, if I was considering deleting you from my list of Facebook friends for any of the previously mentioned reasons, it’s likely that I relented because you are a part of the fabric and you get the whole “friend” thing.

And so the dram I lift in salute to you today is one that I believe is worthy of your time, and it’s one that I’d be happy to send along to you when we drift past one another in our rafts: The Longbranch Small Batch Kentucky Straight Bourbon from Wild Turkey.

Having never been a big fan of the standard release from Wild Turkey, the Longbranch is an exceptional gem delivered from this well-known distillery. With a nose of cinnamon atop a sliver of pumpkin pie, the Longbranch teases a deeper well of flavors just below the vessel. And it delivers.

With individual sips, the palate calls up variant levels of spiced cream and vanilla—some samples peppered a little more than others. There’s also a fairly generous helping of citrus, barrel char, and salt. These carry over into a milder finish, one that makes for an easy afternoon down the lazy river.

Again, I like that. I like it almost as much as Thanos-like mass deletions in the virtual universe of social media.

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Review – Tamdhu, Batch Strength, Batch No. 002, (No Age Stated), 58.5%

[image error]I think the four smaller versions of my wife and I are more so aware of our culture’s absurdity than I may have suspected. I say this because while they appear to understand the insanity, they have managed to focus its irrational energy in ways that will benefit them during opportune moments.

For example, are you familiar with the game “Slug Bug”? Perhaps it has other names in other countries, but no matter where you go, I’m guessing it’s played the same. Essentially, when someone sees a Volkswagen Beetle, that same person is to call out its color and then give the person beside him or her a moderate thump to the arm. We parked beside an olive green Fiat in a gas station parking lot when one of the younger children mistakenly calls out “Slug bug, green one!” and punches the nearest sibling in the arm. In a fury, that same sibling protests that the car isn’t a slug bug, but is, in fact, a Fiat.

“Well,” the offender replies, “it identifies as a slug bug.”

A little further down the road and at home, I’ve just dropped a handful of potato chips onto a plate to eat as a snack. A nearby observer, the youngest in the pack, turns to her mother to ask if she, too, might have some potato chips.

“No, you may not,” the mother says. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

“But Daddy’s having some,” the little girl responds in a whine.

“Well,” the gentlest parent offers in return, “when you’re a forty-five-year-old man, you can have potato chips whenever you want.”

“Okay,” the little girl says, reaching for the bag on the kitchen counter. “I’m going to have some chips, then.”

“Your mother just told you no, you little fiend,” I say with a crumbling mouthful of salt and vinegar goodness.

“I’ve decided that I identify as a forty-five-year-old man,” the eight-year-old grins, shoving her hand into the bag.

“Don’t even try it!” I return, swatting at her forearm. “I’ll stuff you into that bag. And when no one can find you, I’ll tell folks you self-identified as a potato chip and may want to look in the cabinet.”

Since we’re talking about self-identities, I have no idea of the age of the whisky in the Tamdhu Batch Strength No. 002 edition. But for a NAS dram, it sure has the complexity of something relatively experienced—something well past the 18-year-old mark—and I sure do like it.

With a nose of grains, light fruits, and butter pecans, this is a heavyweight with some charm.

The palate is proof of its tender charisma. Even as a batch strength Scotch tagged at 58.5% ABV, this whisky is careful and caressing. In fact, you might feel the urge to put a little water into it, but don’t. This whisky successfully self-identifies at a lower ABV. The alcohol is never an issue. And water, while it might open up something else for you, in my experience seemed to thin the enjoyment. This whisky is just fine by itself, giving over a warmed mix of tangerines and blueberries sprinkled with a grit of pecans and brown sugar.

The nuttiness stays until the very end, leaving on a medium to long trail of pecan pie.

Okay, for the sake of Child Protective Services stumbling across this review of the Tamdhu and somehow coming to the conclusion that I’m an abusive father, I’ll first offer the disclaimer that I would never put one of my children into a bag of potato chips. Such a bag would be far too small, anyway. I’m more likely to put them into a sleeping bag and swing them around until they throw up on themselves from laughing too hard. I mean, what father hasn’t done that, right?

Disclaimer #2: I haven’t. Not ever. But don’t ask the kids if I’ve done it. Remember, they’ve got some messed up self-identification issues already. Their realities aren’t to be trusted in a court of law.

Review – James E. Pepper, 1776 Straight Rye Whiskey, Barrel Proof, (No Age Stated), 57.3%

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The sun is down. The popcorn is made. The drinks are poured. The blankets and pillows are in place. The Discovery Channel is on and everyone is in their usual places on the couch. It’s time for the Thoma family to do what it does every year while on vacation in Florida. It’s time to re-establish and reinforce a healthy fear.

It’s time to watch Shark Week.

The problem this year is that Shark Week isn’t actually scheduled to premier until the middle of July, and here we are in the middle of June. No matter. We’ve downloaded episodes yet to be watched from a previous year, and with that, we’re all set to wipe our brows, clinch our teeth, and be reminded why none of us—no, not one—will ever go into the ocean.

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The episode in particular that we’re watching right now is one that includes a particular South African gent named Dickie Chivell. He’s a marine naturalist in his mid-twenties, and he’s quite the character. I’d say he’s more so reminiscent of a stunt man than a budding scientist because he has the tendency to do some pretty risky things to get great white sharks to come in for a close up with the camera. In a previous episode, he fashioned what he considered would be, for the sharks, a nearly invisible dive box. It was comprised of panes of Plexiglass glued together.

Yes, glued.

Sheesh.

In tonight’s episode, Dickie has climbed into a homemade, one-man device called the “Wasp.” It looks a little like an oversized garbage can made of bars and is designed to rest on the sea floor so that its top can be opened for photography opportunities while its bottom allows the operator to actually use his or her legs to move it around.

Watching Dickie being circled by six or seven massive great whites, my wife asks from across the way, “Would you ever get into something like that?”

“Sure,” I reply, “but only after they show me the buttons for the underwater rocket launchers. I’d need to be able to turn anything that decided to get too close into a swirling mass of chum in an instant.”

So in other words, no, I wouldn’t. And I’m glad the Discovery Channel is trying so hard to teach us that sharks aren’t as scary as the movies might suggest while my children watch Dickie being rammed and snapped at in his little contraption by huge creatures fully intent on eating him if they can knock him loose.

“Would you ever get into something like that, Maddy?” I ask, lobbing Jen’s question along to my eldest daughter.

“No way!” she says without breaking her stare from the television. “I’m never stepping foot into the ocean!” The other kids echo her sentiments.

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Check and mate, sharks. And once again, thank you, Discovery Channel. You have succeeded in putting the right amount of terror into the right people. With that, I’m going to pour myself another dram, and then afterward, sleep very well knowing that my children will never purposely put themselves into the midsection of the food chain.

Tonight’s celebratory dram is the James E. Pepper 1776 Barrel Proof Straight Rye, which for its “midsection of the food chain” price, was relatively enjoyable and well worth the effort to smuggle it within a tiny vial in the suitcase.

With a nose of warmed toast and brown sugar, the 1776 presents itself as a kindlier whiskey. But with the first sip, it circles back around, picking up momentum. It opens up and takes hold with a sturdy grip of the rye, raspberries, spicy oak, and a smidgeon of caramel.

Its finish is longer than expected, being sure to nip at you with the barrel spice and hints of citrus.

In all, the 1776 is doing all of this for play, and not for predatory purposes. It invites a whiskey drinker into its waters, reminding the swimmer that the best things aren’t necessarily in the boat on the top shelf. There are other things down in the reef worth exploring, too… unless we’re talking about a real ocean where real sharks exist. Then it’s better to view them from the boat. In fact, because boats sink, it’s better to just stay on land. It’s even better to be sixty-eight miles from the ocean, on a coach, eating popcorn, and covered in blankets and pillows while watching Shark Week.

Although, one significant gasp while eating popcorn during a scene with a shark thrashing against Dickie’s cage and you could end up choking to death. Then I guess it really doesn’t matter.

Review – Țuică, Homemade Romanian Plum Whisky, (No Age Stated), (ABV Unknown)

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It’s the same every year while on holiday, and its timing is predictable. At some point during the time away I have a terrible dream, and it usually happens sometime around the half way point.

I’m not sure what this means, but I would imagine somebody out there knows the answer. My only guess is that when I reach the vacation’s midpoint, my body and mind both know that I’m not so much moving further into a much needed time of rest as I am passing through and out of it.

The days are numbered, and very soon everything will begin again.

Last night I dreamt that an unrecognizable couple showed up at the church on a Sunday morning right before worship expecting me to perform their marriage ceremony. I was vested and ready to begin the regular service when I came down the hallway from my office to the church’s entryway and discovered them with a large party of family and friends. They approached me and thanked me for scheduling the event, but also revealed a concern that so many people were already in the church but were not a part of their scheduled event.

I was at a loss. Of course the church was full. It was Sunday. And I didn’t know who these people were. I didn’t remember anything about the event—which means I couldn’t recall the typical pre-marital counseling sessions, the service planning, or any of the other detailed conversations that go into scheduling a wedding.

Our Sunday morning service begins at 9:30 AM. I looked at my watch. It was 9:20.

I apologized to them, doing what I could to offer that since I apparently scheduled the event, I would perform the wedding, but it would have to happen after the regular service and Bible study, which means they’d need to wait until about noon.

The situation grew heated. The bride began to cry. The groom tried to console her. The bride’s mother—who I didn’t recognize, but for some reason was the only one I sensed as familiar—stormed away. Her husband remained behind and worked to convince me that it was only right to tell the rest of the congregation that the church had been reserved and they needed to leave.

I apologized again and again for the mix up, but assured him that I was not going to tell the congregation members they had to leave their own church to accommodate a wedding ceremony for a couple that none of us knew, even if I had mistakenly scheduled it.

I looked at my watch again. It was still 9:20.

The bride’s father was furious, and in his rage, he belittled me, being creative with his disgust that a man like me could ever be a Christian pastor.

There was that moment when even though I knew that my opponents had somehow made a serious error or were simply at the wrong church, I felt like I was in the wrong and should do what I could to accommodate. Working over the shouts of the bride’s father, I even tried to suggest that it wouldn’t be entirely inappropriate for the ceremony to serve as the beginning of the service.

But he wouldn’t have it, and he assured me that if I didn’t ask the people of my congregation to leave in order that the wedding ceremony could take place, I would be hearing from his lawyer.

I looked back down to my watch. It was still 9:20.

I told him I couldn’t do it, that I was sorry, and that if he wanted to speak more at a later date, I’d be more than willing. The mother of the bride returned. I told her the same, even as she motioned and shouted to the whole group, “Let’s go folks. This ungodly reverend is kicking us out.”

With taunting scowls, the whole group filed through the church’s doors and into the parking lot. I looked at my watch. It was 9:20.

Feeling like I wanted to throw up, I gathered myself and then made my way into the narthex where I was greeted by the ushers and the Elders on duty.

“Hey, pastor!” they all said exuberantly. “How ya doing this morning?!”

Apparently, none knew what had just happened.

“Pretty good,” I replied. “Everything ready in here?”

“Oh, yeah,” they said. “The candles are lit and we have two youth assistants. We’re all set.”

“Great,” I said, proceeding to gather the group for pre-service prayer.

Just before we bowed our heads, I heard the prelude begin. I looked at my watch. It was 9:29.

I’m not sure what any of this means, but what I can say is that in order to break free from the trepidation it stirs, a kind word or a warm embrace from someone who doesn’t hate you—like a spouse, a child, or a good friend—will do the trick. Even better, life has a softer hammer when one of those folks reaches to you with a bottle of something they fought hell and high water to get to you, like the bottle of homemade Romanian whisky my good friend Paul delivered to me this past spring in a plastic bottle (which I hastily transferred to a glass one). In such moments, you know that you’re never truly trapped at 9:20, but rather are but a few seconds from 9:30.

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Țuică, the whisky at hand, is the traditional spirit from the land of Dracula. It’s made from plums and usually runs at an octane of about 25% to 65% ABV. Again, the stuff I’m trying was crafted by someone in a village in the Carpathian Mountains. And from its initial nosing, I’m guessing this stuff is most certainly at the upper end of the ABV scale.

It’s rough to take it in at first—very chemical, very medicinal, with only a minor hinting to dark fruits—and almost certainly something its distiller sells as an all-purpose tonic in the village medicine shop. In fact, the whisky’s fumes were so potent, I had to tape the cork to the bottle lest it keep popping up. I get the sense that this stuff would be a standard potion for dealing with pneumonia-like symptoms in the midst of a frigid Carpathian night.

The palate of this beast was as bitter pine, scalding raisins, and acidic solvent. The plums were there, but in vampiric fashion, were more so dead than alive.

All of these things together made for a long and sour finish, one that tells me that while I’m incredibly grateful for this gift, it’s going to take me a long while to consume it. I’ll most likely only turn to it for the same reason the villagers from its birthplace do, and that’s to fight back any invading hordes of sickness-inducing germs that could ultimately snatch away life lest the bloodstream be preemptively teaming with tiny Romanian soldiers that can hold them back.

Or I’ll keep this incredibly potent cocktail at the ready in a hip flask so that when I’m confronted by crazy and compassionless people in the church’s entryway demanding things of me that I cannot provide, in a stealthy effort toward peace, I can offer them an almost instantaneously immobilizing gulp, put them on a cart, and roll them down the street to the neighboring church that I know will pretty much give them whatever they want. That’s probably the place the meant to visit anyway, and so when they wake up, they’ll be pleased.

Yeah, I think that sounds like a good idea.

Review – Jameson Irish Whiskey, Caskmates IPA Edition, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]I heard that Play-Doh trademarked the scent of their product. My first thought was, Can you really keep the smell of wet dirt all to yourself?

I heard a few years back that the infamous jewelry company Tiffany’s did the same thing with the color referred to as robin’s egg blue. Again, I’m surprised it was possible for a company to secure for itself the image of Cool Blue Gatorade mixed with whole milk.

A couple of days ago while sitting beside the pool on vacation, I was staring at what I think was a magnolia tree and reciting to myself the Ten Commandments and their meanings from Luther’s Small Catechism. As a Lutheran pastor, I do this sometimes to keep these things sharp in my mind. If you are at all familiar with Luther’s words in the first of the Six Chief Parts in this handy little volume, then you’ll know that he first provides the biblical text for each commandment and then begins its meaning with the words “What does this mean? We should fear and love God so that we do not…” There beside the pool, I remember thinking, If Luther were writing in the 21st century, he probably would have offered something like: Honor your father and mother. What does this mean? We should fear and love God so that we do not take forty-five minute showers, leaving the room with water dripping from its ceiling and no hot water for mom and dad. Or how about this: You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor. What does this mean? We should fear and love God so that when our parents ask if we’ve cleaned our room we do not say something like, “Um, Yeeaaah,” which really means we just crammed everything, even the stuff that was in the right places, under the bed.

I suppose I’m breaking the previous commandment relating to truth-telling when I share with you that my daughter asked how waffles were made and I told her that they grow like fungus on the sides of trees in the Everglades. When she asked about the syrup that goes on the waffles, I told her that we get it from the same trees that give us the waffles—which is why they go so well together.

“But isn’t maple syrup made from maple trees?”

“Yes it is, honey. And maple trees grow in swampy regions like the Everglades… and Washington D.C.”

“But don’t we have a maple—”

“—Just eat your swamp tree fungus.”

I’m sorry if my wandering in thought is annoying you. It annoys me, too, sometimes. It certainly keeps things interesting with my kids, although my wife would probably be able to use it successfully against me in court.

“Mrs. Thoma, why should I give custody of the children to you?” the magistrate would ask.

“Your honor,” Jennifer might reply, “he tells them that garbage cans are predatory creatures that roam in the wetlands behind our house and that waffles grow on swamp trees in the—”

“—And pizzas, Momma,” Harrison would chime. “He said pizzas grow on trees, too.”

“Is this true, Reverend Thoma?” the judge would turn to me and ask.

“You know,” I’d say resolutely, “I have a black vestment just like the one you’re wearing. I got mine from C.M. Almy. Where’d you get yours? Although—and I’m just being honest—you should liven it up a little. The solo black might fly for trials during Lent, but beyond that, it’s awfully—”

“—Bailiff, get him outta here.”

The Jameson Caskmates IPA edition is a little like what you just read. It has a heart for creativity, but as it shares its fanciful ideas, it does so by going from one thing to the next with only the slightest thread to tie it all together. It’s somewhat unbalanced.

There’s fruit in the nosing, but it’s hard to tell what it is at first. My guess was oranges. But then I took a sip. It’s definitely something from a citrus tree, but the tree is growing mutant oranges that look like pineapples and taste a little like kiwi and sea-salted potato chips. It’s a confused tray of side dishes. For all I know, this strange tree also has waffles growing at its base.

There’s a little bit of hops in there, betraying the IPA on the label, but not enough to convince a beer drinker that this is a viable alternative to his favorite home brews.

The finish is nice enough, lasting a little longer than what you might expect from a fruiter concoction, and then receding with mouthy hues of ginger, salt, and peppercorns.

Again, if you are at all familiar with Luther’s Small Catechism, then you’ll know that his explanation of the Ninth Commandment deals with coveting other people’s possessions. After sipping this particular dram, I’m thinking that the reverend doctor might have scribed, “We should fear and love God so that we do not covet our neighbor’s whiskies that aren’t the Jameson Caskmates IPA edition…”

Review – The Macallan, Edition No. 3, (No Age Stated), 48.3%

[image error]“Are you okay, Daddy?”

“I’m fine.”

Apparently my youngest son noticed my eye twitching and got a little concerned.

Not to worry, though. I’m okay. My body is just reacting to the conversation occurring at the table over my right shoulder. Yes, the one with the tattooed, bleach blonde twenty-something telling a gathering of smartphone-tapping friends how her generation is leading the way in saving the world from so many terrible things like bigotry, guns, pollution, and general disharmony. My eye was twitching because my body was rerouting its stress impulses to prevent me from saying anything. I think it was also fighting a stroke in progress.

Really? Your generation is leading the way? Leading the way toward what? The complete dismissal of anything objectively true while delivering imbecilic ignorance gift wrapped in the standardization of lifespan-shortening behavior?

Um, don’t you guys eat laundry detergent packets or sniff mounds of cinnamon for fun and then share the experiences on the internet? And didn’t I just read an article this morning about a member of your generation getting her head stuck in an oversized tailpipe at a music festival?

Maybe I’m being overly critical when I say that I’m struggling with the fact that you have the right to procreate and vote let alone operate devices with tailpipes.

How about this, instead? Let’s agree that you’ll just do what your friend is doing. And while you’re texting one of your virtual friends in complete silence, I’ll go ahead and eat my linguine and shrimp. Let’s also agree that the chances are good that a handful of folks will probably arise from your generation who will help to lead the human race forward into better harmonies. But at the same time, let’s admit that these few will be doing this from a mantle that has definable contours and is a carrying forth of something that was around long before they knew what a Tide Pod was.

In other words, your generation isn’t going to save the world. If anything, it’s dumber than pretty much all of the generations before it and it very well could be making the world worse. You definitely need the expertise from previous generations before even considering taking your first step. I say this having read another article in the New York Times suggesting that over 70% of millennials cannot sew a button, change a tire, or iron a shirt. Well, of course you can’t do these things. Such things are almost completely unachievable with your head in a tailpipe and choking on cinnamon. God forbid we need any of you to defend our homeland from invaders. You’ll be fairly useless in most combat or survival scenarios, but you’ll certainly be able to tell the enemy how to upload their victory photos on Instagram while serving them an absolutely magnificent latte.

I’m just glad that, for the most part, the artisans of the old guard are still at the helm of many of the distilleries I prefer. I don’t know what laundry detergent tastes like, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want anyone from the current generation making sure I can identify its presence in the nose, palate, or finish of any whiskies crossing my path.

I’ll admit to my nerves being a bit seared before trying The Macallan Edition No. 3. Its label tells the tale of a cooperation between Bob Dalgarno, a master distiller at The Macallan, and Roja Dove, a world-renowned perfumer. In short, it sounded kind of gimmicky to me, like I was about to sip a whisky that I could also splash on my neck before going out to dinner with my wife. But I was wrong. This is a fine dram, one that was made by a couple of gents who can not only sew a button, but they could probably do so on the shirt of sprinting Olympian.

The nose of this collaborative dram teases a carefully crafted packaging of chocolates, buttercream, and sherry. There’s a hint of barrel spice, but its moment is fast-fleeting.

The palate delivers on the buttercream and chocolate while adding a slice of glazed orange bread.

The finish is heftier than one might expect, being a little more than long, but not on the burn. It keeps its legs with a bit of allspice and caramel.

The Macallan No. 3 is definitely a product of skill born from experience in varying fields. When it comes to the craft of finer whisky-making, Dalgarno chose to combine the truths he already knows with the aptitude of Dove, a man of class who was willing to do the same. In so doing, they’ve created a dram that is surpassingly better than anything an overly confident millennial bemoaning previous generations might ever deserve.

Review – Peerless Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, Barrel Proof, 2 Years Old, 54%

[image error]One of the greatest things about our annual summer vacation, at least when it comes to fulfilling the expectations of our children, is that the home we rent has a private pool. This means that each day, from sun up until sun down, the Thoma family is free to enjoy a pastime that is typically out of reach to us the rest of the year. It also means that once a year for about twelve days, the people in the surrounding homes have the opportunity to enjoy a few things, too.

It is most certainly true that our neighbors get a very real sense of what it’s like to live on Luke Skywalker’s home planet of Tatooine, which is a world with two suns. I say this because as a fair-skinned family from Michigan, we are pretty white. This means that as we emerge from the home having stripped from regular life and now donning our more minimal swim suits, the bright beaming rays of our planet’s singular sun now reflecting from us, it is as though a second sun has risen in the sky. It’s really quite the sight. Even the neighborhood flora seems to, so strangely, lean toward our locale while we’re in town.

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Another aspect of our visit I’m sure the neighbors enjoy is the constant screeching from our eight-year-old hoarder who loves to swim, and yet cannot seem to enter the water without twelve flotation devices, three pairs of goggles, some diver fins, and some sort of sharp object that, when she accidentally drops and loses it, is surely to be rediscovered by her father’s foot. And she cries because someone has accidentally splashed her or because one of the other children passed by one of her stray possessions and decided to use it—perhaps a paddle board or water wing that has ended up at the opposite end of the pool.

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“Harrison,” she’ll call in a whine, “I’m using that!”

I can’t even begin to tell you how many times this clergyman has re-baptized that little girl in full immersion mode without her momma knowing it. I mean, someone has to fight the evil, right?

I suppose the most enjoyable time for the neighbors comes when we erupt into full “Death Ball” mode, which my more familiar readers will recall, is a bloody spectacle of tidal thrashing that involves throwing a rubber ball as hard and as fast as one is able.

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Agonizing screams are expected during the event, and they only go silent when someone gets jammed in the pool filter, is knocked unconscious, or we need to take a break to refill the pool because all the water has ended up in the yard.

Yeah, it can get pretty crazy. But it’s fun. And not only does the raucous splashing hide our blinding whiteness, but it’s a time when you actually crave the disposition of a screeching, demon-possessed hoarder for your team. Don’t take the ball from her. She’ll eat your soul.

Of course, as the neighbors will most likely look back on these days with a frown, we’ll continue to smile and look forward to so many more. In every way, they’re unmatchable for this weary family, especially when the fullest burdens of fall, winter, and spring are upon us, pulling us along in tow throughout the rest of the year. And yet, somewhat in pace with these few, peerless days in the sun, there exists the year-round opportunity to enjoy an appropriately-named dram in the barrel proof Peerless Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey from the Kentucky Peerless Distilling Company.

[image error]With a nose of dried apple chips and vanilla, the Peerless leads one away from the humdrum of typical bourbons to a more sunlit scape of memorable whiskey sipping. The palate proves a landing at someplace uniquely uncharted, giving over a wash of richly sweet ryes that almost immediately turn to the apples from the nosing that have been sun-soaked in spicy vanillas and a dash of pepper.

The finish is as remarkable as any of its other qualities. Medium in length, its burn amplifies the spice without lessening the lurking sense of the dried fruit.

Speaking of “lurking,” I almost forgot to mention one other thing that the neighbors surely enjoy about our visits: Lizard hunting. Geckos—or whatever they are, maybe anoles—are everywhere in this place, crawling on the screens of the lanai, running along tree branches, and taking their lives into their own little hands by entering the pool area and crossing paths with a group of fascinated vacationers. At the time of this writing, it hasn’t happened yet, but it did last year and we’re only a few days into our vacation, so I’m sure it will again. Very soon, like these native lizards, the children will be found slinking around the outer perimeter of the home, lurking in bushes, barely blending into the landscape because of their whiteness, eyes peering through the branches with hands at the ready to snatch one of these little critters and give it a relatively uncreative name like “Lizzy” or “Gecky” or “Steve.”

I’m absolutely certain that the neighbors will miss this less-than-stealthy but always startling activity occurring just beyond their kitchen window. What more does one need in the morning to get the adrenaline flowing than a fresh cup of coffee and an ear-piercing scream of “I got one!”?

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