Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 16

Review – John Barr, Reserve Blend, Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]Each of my four children is incredibly unique.

Joshua, my oldest, is built with a confidence that arises from an ever-increasing intellect. And while he may often be very right about whatever he’s debating at any given moment, that same intellect and confidence has the potential for getting him into trouble.

Madeline, the next in line, is beautifully graceful in both body and soul, and is so pleasant to be around that one is actually a lesser human being when she’s away. She cries at the littlest things, and not necessarily because she’s fragile, but because she cares about so much. She wants things to be good for everyone, and with that, she’s always a light in dark places.

Harrison, the third among the crew, has a brilliant mind that is, more often than not, unhindered by his own body. In other words, he will sometimes offer truthful commentary when he should be silent. But on the other hand, his empathy runs deep, and his love for his family is unbreachable. In addition to all of this, his abilities with language are so far beyond the average person. I have a feeling that when it comes time to pass along the mantle of The Angels’ Portion, he’ll be the one at the keyboard bearing it.

But I think he’s going to need his little sister’s help, and here’s why.

Evelyn, the last of the squad, is the strangest of them all.

Of course she’s the absolute stereotypical girl when it comes to girly things. She cares affectionately for her baby dolls. She loves doing her nails. She adores unicorns and Disney princesses. She bears the brightest smile when bathing in the pinks and purples and yellows of this world’s design. But she has a side that few are privileged to behold, and it causes her to respond in a moment’s notice with shockingly unforgettable words and actions, most of which revolve around using the word “butt” or talking about poop.

Take for example a most recent scene in which she received a box of Skittles. Being the tormenting father that I am, I told her that I was going to sneak a few when she wasn’t looking.

“Oh no, you won’t!” she said emphatically. “I’m going to hide them under my pillow where you won’t find them.”

“Honey,” I said, “you just told me where they’ll be.”

“Evelyn,” her mother chimed, “something tells me that putting them under your pillow wouldn’t work, anyway. Daddy will probably find them.”

“You know it,” I said, taunting her.

“Well,” she offered resolutely, “I’ll just put them up my butt. You won’t want them after they’ve been hidden in there, will you?”

There was nothing left to argue in that little exchange. She was right. I wouldn’t be in the mood for Skittles if that happened.

Another milder example…

Evelyn was in a moment of struggle in the bathroom when she called out to Jennifer, “Momma, I’m trying to poop, but I can’t!”

“Well, keep at it, sweetie,” Jen replied with a kindly voice. “It’ll happen.”

Again, stepping up to my role as an instigating father, I called back to the little girl, “Honey, do you need me to get you a spoon so you can pry it out?” A short moment of silence passed before I heard a giggle.

If you think it’ll help,” she said with a tone of faux innocence.

This is representative of the stranger stuff from which The Angels’ Portion is often squeegeed—the weirder dimensions of life’s normal doings—and Evelyn is more than brimming with the abilities to see them and deliver. I’m more than confident that Harrison has the literary skill to bring them to you personally.

[image error]And who knows which whiskies they’ll like or dislike, especially when it comes to some of the bottom shelf, fringe whiskies that you only buy while on vacation—whiskies like the John Barr Reserve Blend.

The nose of this particular dram is most certainly light, giving over hardly a wafting of chocolate malt and an even lesser measure of peat.

The palate is a little more complex. Milky in its texture, it offers a sugared grapefruit tang that’s not necessarily unpleasant, but that’s only because it’s lying just below a rescuing layer of caramel and malt that seemed a little out of place.

The finish is short. This is good, because there’s trouble in the fruit mix it’s trying to share.

My thoughts: Go ahead and hide this one wherever you want—under your pillow, in your butt, or wherever. It’ll be a long shot before I go looking for it again anytime soon.

What I didn’t tell you in the beginning is that getting Harrison and Evelyn together to keep The Angels’ Portion alive is probably a long shot, too. Right now, I think they’re both putting in extra hours to get the other arrested and thrown into jail. I’m serious. These two are not the best of friends. I’ve thought about paying to send them to a team building seminar—you know, one that has them playing paintball in the woods or climbing rock walls. But in the end, it felt more like I’d be paying to test Harry’s ability to survive a point blank shot of the paintball gun to his throat and an assessment of Evelyn’s dexterity when Harry cuts her safety rope on the rock wall.

I’d rather be hopeful that God will sort it out in time while I spend my money on whisky—even whisky that’s kind of “meh,” like the John Barr Reserve Blend.

Review – Compass Box, Great King Street Glasgow Blend, (No Age Stated), 43%

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“So, what did you bring this year, Reverend?” Vader asked dryly, unwilling to reveal his joy at seeing one of his only, truest friends. “And what took you so long?”

“The usual traffic on I-4,” I replied. Setting a bottle hidden within a paper bag onto the table, I patted his shoulder, “Good to see you, Darth. How’s Edith?”

“Edith is fine,” he said. “How are Jen and the kids?”

“Fine,” I said, I pulling a chair away from what was a round table pushed into a darker corner of the room. Vader kept on.

“And I-4 is always like that,” he growled. “It takes about hour to go four miles on that stupid road. And it doesn’t matter what time of day it is.” He took a sip from a near-empty water glass. “Every time I pass a speed limit sign at two miles an hour, I use the Force to throw a few cars in front of me into the ditch. It’s a way to cope. I always feel a little better after doing it, and it helps me feel like I’m actually getting somewhere.”

“Makes sense,” I said and thought, I wish I had your skills. Although, I probably wouldn’t use them on traffic.

“I heard that,” he said. “Who would you Force-choke?”

“Nobody,” I said, swiftly changing the subject. “Before I tell you what I brought this year, tell me why we’re meeting here at the Big Fin Seafood Kitchen in Orlando instead of our usual place.”

“It’s more for you than for me,” he replied. “Didn’t you say that one professor friend of yours hassles you for going to Florida every year and eating at Red Lobster instead of a more authentic seafood joint?”

“He also poked a little fun at me for going to see the ocean and never going in it,” I said as dryly as Vader’s initial greeting.

“You never told him what happened to you when you were younger?”

“Nah,” I replied. “And I don’t think he knows that I get a few Red Lobster gift cards here and there from folks in my congregation throughout the year. Those things help with the vacation bill.”

“Whatever.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘whatever’?”

“Dude, I use the Force on the people around us every year. We never pay our bill at Red Lobster. And we won’t pay tonight, either.”

“You’re gonna use it on someone in here?”

“Well, actually, no. At least I better not have to use it. I know the former owner—Bobby Moore—and he still has pull around here, so I get my food and drinks for free.”

“That’s really nice of him.”

“Well, I sort of tossed him into a ditch on I-4 a few years back, and he promised to let me eat at his restaurant for free if I didn’t do it again. Since then, we’ve been friends. Nice guy. Good food in this place.”

“My visit with you isn’t the only time we go to Red Lobster, Darth,” I said, attempting to return to the original premise.

“Whatever,” he said, taking another sip. “So, what did you bring?”

“I stopped by the usual place in Davenport and picked up a bottle of the Great King Street Glasgow Blend from Compass Box.” I reached for the menu. “I’ve never had it.”

“You don’t need that,” Vader said, nodding toward the menu. “I already ordered for you.”

“What did you order?”

“It’s a surprise—something authentic that you need to try.”

“Is it spicy?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t do spicy.”

“I know.”

“Then why—?”

“Don’t worry about it, Thoma,” he interrupted. “Just pour the whisky.”

I took the bottle from the bag just as two rock glasses lifted from the bar across the room. The bartender smiled, giving the impression that Vader had done this before. Weaving through a bustling crowd, the glasses hovered to our table, finally coming to rest at the center.

“Do you guys need some ice?!” the bartender called, but in that same instant, began gurgling and reaching for his throat.

“Greg should know better,” Vader buzzed in a whisper. I could see his left hand at his side clinching at nothing.

“Let ’im go, Darth,” I said. “He’s the barkeep. He has to ask folks that question.”

I poured. Vader relented. We both heard Greg’s raspy swearing through his coughs.

“It’s not a Lagavulin,” I said, pushing a two-finger dram to Vader, “but it does have a little bit of smoke to it, which I thought you might like.”

We both nosed our glasses.

“Compass Box never seems to let me down,” I said. “This is nice.”

“I smell wine,” Vader offered. “The sherry is strong with this one.”

“I get that,” I volleyed. “And the smoke is just light enough to put the sherry in the front.”

We sipped simultaneously. The Sith Lord’s mouthful was bigger than mine. A few moments of savoring and we gulped.

“Hardly any smoke in the palate,” he said, “but there is a good bit of caramel. And some of the wood from the barrel.”

“The sherry is definitely a sweet wine and not dry,” I said. “And you’re right about the wood. You can taste the char.”

We both sipped again.

“Are you getting almonds?” I asked.

“Barely,” he replied. “The smoke is definitely more evident the second time around.”

“It carries into the finish, too,” I added, “along with a little bit of what seems like sour cherries.”

“But it’s not a bad end.”

“No, it’s not. Medium finish, I’d say. And the sour cherries work.”

I reached to pour another set when the waiter arrived with our meal.

“One crispy alligator with remoulade sauce for you,” he said, setting a well garnished dish before Vader. “And the same for you,” he continued, setting its twin before me. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Vader?”

“No, we’re fine,” Darth replied. “Is Bobby here tonight?”

“Not tonight,” he answered shakily. “But he did say that if we saw you we should take good care of you.”

“Whatever. Thanks.”

The waiter turned to leave, but Vader locked him in place with a quick wave of his hand. “When you pass Greg over at the bar,” he said, “tell him to stop asking me if I want ice in my whisky.”

“I think he knows not to do it anymore, Mr. Vader,” the waiter said. Vader released him and he hurried away.

“Alligator?” I said with a look of surprise. “Is that technically even seafood?”

“Sure is,” he said. “And I eat ’em all the time down at the gator farm. When one of the older ones dies, I cook him on the grill. Gator is really pretty tasty, actually, and the crew in this place grills ’em right. Not to mention the homemade remoulade sauce here is the best—just the right amount of horseradish. I’m actually glad I destroyed Bobby’s car that day, otherwise I might never had come into this place.”

“Remoulade sauce is spicy, Darth,” I said, waving my hand to catch the attention of a waiter who already appeared to be en route to our table. “I said I don’t do spicy.”

“Which is why the waiter is bringing you ketchup, Reverend,” Vader replied with a half-chuckle. “I wouldn’t want your professor friend to miss out on an opportunity, here.”

“Nice. Your dark side is showing.”

I poured the ketchup.

“So,” Vader said, taking a bite, “who would you Force-choke back in Michigan?”

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Review – Straight Edge Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 42%

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“Daddy, you snore when you’re sleeping,” the little girl said, shoveling a mound of Fruit Loops into her mouth.

“No, I don’t,” I replied decisively, but also somewhat annoyed by the turn of conversation so early in the morning.

“Yes, you do,” she continued. “I got up to use the bathroom last night and I heard you.”

“Maybe you heard your mother,” I said.

“No, it was you,” she giggled through a slurp.

“Maybe it was Harrison. Or the Sasquatch living in the attic.” I set my coffee down. “And how would you know, anyway? Your bathroom is, like, two miles from our bedroom, our door was closed, and you’re like a zombie when you get up to go pee at night. Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to hear a noise, get up to check, and see you in the corner of one of the boys’ rooms with their brains in your hands.”

“It was you,” she garbled through another mouthful. “I used the bathroom in your bedroom because ours is gross.”

“Well, you snore, too,” I said resolutely, taking a sip. “And you fart in your sleep.”

“But my sleepy sounds are sweet little girl sounds,” she volleyed. “Yours are scary.”

“Well, if you think the sounds of lawn mowers at two o’clock in the morning are sweet little girl sounds, then I guess you’re right.”

“Well, you sound like a lawn mower and a chainsaw.”

“You sound like a lawn mower being pushed by a guy with a chainsaw and dragging our old noisy dishwasher… on lawn mower wheels… because that’s the only way it would probably work in the yard.”

“You sound like a lawn mower in a tornado.”

Well, you sound like a tornado full of lawn mowers—a mowernado.”

“You sound like a mowernado with chainsaws and dishwashers and bombs and garbage trucks and Godzilla.”

“Well, you sound like your brother, Joshua.”

“I’m going to tell him you said that,” she said, giving a grin.

“Good. Finish your breakfast, Princess of Snoretopia.”

“Well, if I’m the princess, you’re the king.”

“But, my dear, you and I both know the Snoretopian prophecy has decreed that one day, from among the royal Snoretopian bloodline, a master snorer will arise and take the throne. It will be a young maiden whose snoring is like none other, someone whose snoring rattles the mountains and boils the rivers in this fair province. And again, since she’ll be from the royal bloodline, she’ll most likely be a daughter of the king.” I took another sip. “Face it, honey. It’s probably you. Your snoring is the worst. I still have to replace the window in your bedroom because of how loud you snore.”

“You have to replace it because it leaks,” she argued.

“It leaks because your snoring rattled it loose from the frame.”

With remarkable skill, she rolled her eyes, gulped down the last of her Fruit Loops, and stood up from her seat. “I’m done,” she said. Having put her bowl and spoon into the kitchen sink, she skipped off and around the corner of the living room. With the thumping of her feet up the stairs, I heard her call back, “I’m telling Josh what the King of Snoretopia said about him.”

I didn’t reply this time. I took another sip of coffee and typed “ways to stop snoring” into the internet browser on my smart phone. Not for me, of course, but for the princess. I don’t snore. Just ask my wife. She’ll tell you that what I do is probably best described as choking but not dying. And this only happens when I sleep on my back. When I sleep on my side, you’d think I actually did die because I don’t make a sound.

Either way, as the ante was upped in the morning conversation, in a similar fashion, the Splinter Group from Napa, California has a better game with the Straight Edge Bourbon Whiskey. I say this because I’ve had their Slaughter House edition—which was actually released after the Straight Edge—and I couldn’t quite find the footing to ever want to buy it again. But this prequel whiskey is pretty good. In fact, it’s better than pretty good. It’s really good.

The nose of this ambered dram is a fine-tuned offering of what one might expect from a better Bourbon. In other words, you won’t question the oncoming vanilla and cinnamon. And as the palate delivers on the expectations, it also surprises. With the vanilla and cinnamon comes a gentler bit of plum and rye toast.

The finish brings everything together with a short wash of mild spice and a little bit of the barrel wood. In all, it’s everything one might appreciate in a calming nightcap that eases the throat and nasal passages for a snore-less night. It most certainly lends toward a revisiting with the Slaughter House edition to see if I missed something. Perhaps my mood for the review was affected because I’d been kept awake by the sleepy sounds of the Princess of Snoretopia roaring through the castle.

It’s possible. It’s also quite possible that the Princess didn’t make a peep and that my late evening restlessness was due to me choking but not dying.

Review – Minor Case, Straight Rye Whiskey, Aged 24 Months, 45%

[image error]“In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.”

I get what you mean, Mr. Blake. And your words are poetically charming. However, and unfortunately, I live in Michigan where for almost eight months of the year there is the potential for the outside temperatures to be just as cold, if not colder, than a walk-in freezer.

Maybe, William, you were speaking of a certain measure of anticipatory winter enjoyment, which is the kind of joy that sees itself come to full bloom during the spring thaw. Is that what you meant? If so, I’m guessing that just as you’ve never been to Michigan in the winter, so also you’ve never been here in the spring. If you had, then you’d know that such joy is non-existent, too. At least not on our vast expanse of highways and byways. Twelve seconds of travel and I’m more than certain you’d abandon the idea completely. In that twelfth second, it’s likely that you’d come to the conclusion that driving a major freeway in Michigan in the spring must be quite similar to navigating the cratered surface of the moon. You won’t experience joy in this, but you might experience a certain measure of exhilaration born of the ever-present possibility that a new crater might open up without notice and swallow your vehicle completely.

“Surely not!” you exclaim. Ah, well then, if not your car then most certainly the street sign to your subdivision.

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Personally, I’d say that when it comes to mindful bits about winter in Michigan, Bill Watterson of “Calvin and Hobbes” fame was closer to capturing its essence when he said, “I like these cold grey winter days. Days like these let you savor a bad mood.”

In other words, I live in the wrong state.

I say this not just because I despise winter and major car repairs, but because I’m too far away from places like Kentucky, a place where the average winter temperature of 23 degrees feels like a Sahara noontime to Michiganders, and a palled, January mood could so easily be assuaged by a spontaneous trip along the Bourbon trail, perhaps even coming to a conclusion with a visit to the place that is swiftly becoming a personal favorite in whiskey provision: Limestone Branch Distillery Company.

My first experience with this group came rather recently by way of the Yellowstone Kentucky Straight Bourbon. It was phenomenally enchanting. And with that, while I’ve experienced and reviewed more than my fair share of American whiskies—falling for a limited few, but for the majority, remaining more so inclined toward the gifts of Scotland—I figured I’d better continue to investigate, convinced that where one edition from Limestone was a joy, others may be waiting on shelves to greet me with a similar affection, too.

This proved to be true. Another of their offerings—the Minor Case Straight Rye Whiskey—is a bright-beaming array of holy things at the end of a car-munching day.

An initial nosing of the Minor Case betrays the whiskey’s sherry cask finish. A second draw speaks of warmed concord grapes and root beer.

A sip reveals vanilla cream and cinnamon imbued caramel chews; and not the kind you get in that greasy little jar at the fix-it shop trying to “do you a favor” by keeping the reassembly of your suspension to less than a two thousand dollars, but the ones made by artisan candy makers in places like Mackinac Island.

The finish takes a stranger turn, and yet, it does not swerve from the enjoyable. It has a longer stride, offering along the way a spicy pepper and a scoop of orange sherbet.

In all, the Minor Case edition is kindly enough that you might be persuaded to climb up and out of your most recent pothole, leaving your vehicle nose down in its void right there in the middle of I-96, and still say, “Alas, I’ve a dram of Minor Case awaiting me at home. I’d better get walking because things are sure to get better.”

Review – Yellowstone Select, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 2017, (No Age Stated), 46.5%

[image error]“We’re having breakfast for dinner tonight,” Jen said with her back to me at the stove. She had an earbud in one ear and was listening to something on her phone. The kids threaded between us with table settings. Glancing over her shoulder, “You can have eggs and sausage, or you can have those.” She used her elbow to point to the toaster and a box of thawing waffles.

“Eggs sound good,” I said, pulling my chair from the table and taking a seat. A plate and a fork was already in place.

“Okay,” she affirmed, moving to the toaster. “How many waffles do you want?”

“No, that’s alright,” I replied. “I think I’ll have some eggs tonight.”

“Okay,” she said, pulling a package of the waffles from the box. I watched the bag become fogged from the warmth of the stove as she opened it. She took out four waffles, dropped them into the toaster slots, and lowered the lever until it clicked into place.

“Honey,” I said with a warmth to match the cooking arena, “do you want me to make my own eggs?”

“No,” she answered resolutely. “I’ve got this.”

The kids started to giggle.

“Is the table set?” she called to the little ones. All responded in the affirmative. “Then bring your plates over so I can serve this stuff up.” They each filed to her with a plate in hand. “Bring Daddy’s plate, too. And, Harrison, you get the syrup from the pantry for his waffles.”

Harrison turned to look at me. I looked at him. We remained locked in a stare even as he made his way to the darkened pantry and emerged once again with a bottle of Aunt Jemima.

Handing the bottle of syrup to his bustling mother just as she was retrieving a portion of melted butter from the microwave for pouring onto the waffles, Harrison gently urged, “Isn’t Daddy having eggs?”

“That’s what I made him,” she said. Just then, the waffles popped up from the toaster. She put them on the plate in Harrison’s hands and then poured a little bit of the melted butter into a good number of the tiny squares. “Here, give him his waffles.” Looking to me, she added, “I put some butter on them. You can do your own syrup.”

Harrison turned to face his father. The other children stepped aside, their eyes wide and pairing with the butter-soaked waffles. They gave momentary glances to the young boy charged with delivering them to a man who didn’t want them.

At the end of his carefully reverent pace, Harrison set the waffles in front me and said, “Daddy, here are your eggs.”

“Thank you, Harry,” I said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “And those are some fine looking eggs. Now, can you do something else for me?”

“Sure.”

“Fetch my phone, dear boy.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to call an ambulance for your mother. I think she may be stroking out.”

The children started to laugh, all of them looking to their mother.

“What’s so funny?!” Jen said, pulling the earbud from her ear and turning.

“Daddy kept saying he wanted eggs,” Evelyn said tittering, “but you made him waffles.”

“No, he didn’t,” she insisted. “He said he wanted four waffles!”

“Harrison,” I interrupted, “get my phone, please. Joshua, get started on cleaning up the kitchen once everyone’s done with dinner. Evelyn, get your mother’s coat for her. It’s chilly outside tonight. Madeline, before we go, I’ll trade you for your eggs.”

Now, I tell this story not necessarily to reveal a mother of four’s occasional insanity, but rather to highlight one of those times when you were expecting one thing but got something else.

The Yellowstone Select Kentucky Straight Bourbon is a whiskey as such. Although, I should say that my expectations were reversed in this particular instance. A relatively unknown whiskey to me, I wasn’t necessarily expecting much, and yet what I received was pure joy. In fact, I dare say that this may be one of the best bourbons you’ll find. I am certainly willing to say that I count it as a favorite among the very few I would consider most worthy.

The nose of this delightful dram is one of cherry coke and a crisp tag of wood spice. The palate is a warmed crème brûlée topped with dark cherries, a mild dosage of white pepper and allspice, and a splinter of rye-kissed oak. Yes, it is. Don’t doubt me.

The finish allows a medium moment for gathering all of the sweeter notes and well-tempering them by the spices. In one sense, I suppose the only unfortunate thing about this whisky is that, like all other whiskies, it has to have a finish. A finish signals a sip’s end. And I don’t want it to end.

Just as I don’t want waffles. I want eggs.

Review – Jura, 18 Years Old, Travel Exclusive Edition, 42%

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From among the many threads that form the fabric of this universe, there are things that appear to pair very well. Take, for example, doughnuts and milk. What a joyful combination and generous gift of the Creator!

There are others, of course, such as hotdogs and baseball games, the morning sun and a cup of coffee, a toilet and bad Mexican food, shoes and socks, movies and popcorn, my wife and her camera, and me and ibuprofen.

But there are things that do not go together, things like my kids and a tidy house, pastors in black clericals and glitter, plumbers and pants that fit, me and ibuprofen, and snow and the month of April.

Ah, yes, snow and April. Here I sit this springtime morn in the aforementioned month with a cup of coffee in hand and observing an effortless sun rising in a cloudless sky casting its bright beams of love upon my snow covered yard. Oh yeah, and the morning news caster just announced that we should expect one to three inches more sometime this afternoon.

The thing is, I just moved the lawnmower from the shed to the garage, and I put into its place a cleaned snow blower. I put the shovels in the shed, too, being sure to situate them all the way in the back where they’d be out of the way and most difficult to reach, figuring I wouldn’t need them again until next winter.

You know, my mower has a side chute that blows out the grass clippings. I wonder if it would work similarly with snow. I suppose it might, that is, as long as I get to the snow before it gets too deep. Although, I wonder what folks in the neighborhood would think of such things. On second thought, who cares? When it comes to my yard, they already think that either I’m a little crazy or I’m conspiring with aliens. Just know that if I decide to try to mow my snow today, it’ll be in style—shorts, boots with tall black socks, and an AC/DC shirt pulled over my winter coat. And maybe even a motorcycle helmet so that when I’m asked about it later, I can say that it wasn’t me, but one of my alien friends doing me a solid.

Anyway, rest assured that before venturing out into the tundra-like landscape, I shall be pouring myself a short dram of something that pairs well with an arctic Michigan springtime. The Jura 18-year-old Travel Exclusive edition is perfectly suited for the task.

With a nose of chocolate, warmed caramel, and a distant but not unpleasant hint of vinegar, a deep intake stirs the body’s warming element and sets one ready for the frigid task at hand. A sip does the same, giving gingered coffee and a citrus side that suggests warmer climates, but at the same time, reminds you that you don’t live in Florida.

The finish is long, like a Michigan winter. But unlike the coldest and darkest of seasons, it’s an enjoyable savoring of sour citrus and the promise that, while it feels like it might last forever, it won’t. Eventually it will get warmer.

With that, I’m off to gas up the mower, although I need to try to find my boots. I’m pretty sure Jen may already have packed them away in the basement storage—because last week’s warmer weather suggested doing such things.

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April 4, 2018… for the record.

Review – Warenghem, Armorik, Single Malt Classic, (No Age Stated), 46%

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I watch very little TV, so when I do, you can be pretty sure that whatever I’m watching is something I made plans to view. Usually it’s a presidential debate, or something like that, which should tell you just how often I schedule my preferred TV time.

There is something that I don’t have to schedule as it relates to the TV, and it is iconic of a true if/then conditional statement. What I mean is this.

If there is smoke, then there is fire. Where there are rain clouds, rain will follow. If I sit down to watch something important to me, then all four of my children will have sudden, personal problems that must be met by the help of a parent lest the world come completely undone.

Seriously. I sometimes feel like there’s a button on the remote control that I’ve pressed by mistake, and it signals some part of my children’s brains. I do all that I can to press only the button which reads “POWER” followed by the buttons clearly marked for controlling the channels and volume, but somehow in my non-texting and technologically unskilled manner, I manage to hit the “INTERRUPTING CHILDREN” button. And of course, there are mere seconds between the moment I’m situated and the moment the first child comes running in to tell me the toilet is backing up. And even as I’m still gathering enough energy to rise from my chair to seek out the plunger, I can hear the next in line charging down the stairs to announce that the hamster has escaped. The other two children are out in the garage, and while I don’t know it yet, it will only be a moment before one will need to tell me that the other’s shirt got caught on the garage door and he was pulled up into the rafters when it opened.

I think I’m going to scratch off the word “PAUSE” on the DVR portion of the remote and write “WHY BOTHER” in its place. That certainly seems more appropriate.

Well, at least when it comes to if/then conditional statements, I’m learning that if I have a dram of Warengham’s French whisky in hand during these tumultuous events, then they are sure to be much less traumatic to my own inner stability.

Tonight’s edition: the Armorik Single Malt Classic.

A quick sniff of the delightful vanillas, blood oranges, and warmed barley and I’m ready to meet with a stubborn toilet bowl’s contents swirling at its uppermost edge. A sip from the Armorik—one which reveals creamed barley stirred with a sauce of honey and lemon—and I’m prepared to reach into the ductwork to find Fernando, the hamster who considers his benevolent keepers as no better than prison guards at Alcatraz.

The finish—fine, indeed. Its medium cling of lemon zest and cinnamon gives me just enough time to set the folding ladder in place in the garage that I might ascend and work to dislodge my son from a ceiling truss.

And then back to my chair where I press the “WHY BOTHER” button in order to continue in peace.

“Daddy,” the little girl says, tapping on my shoulder. “I accidentally put all of the Crayons into the microwave and cooked them for nine minutes on high. A fire started right around the eight minute mark and now the kitchen is burning. Can you help me?”

“Honey,” I say, sipping my whisky and maintaining my lock on the TV. “The fire extinguisher is in the pantry.”

Review – Glenfiddich, Experimental Series #01, India Pale Ale, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]I don’t claim to understand the deeper trails that connect one email database to the next. In other words, I don’t know how my primary email address might end up on this or that list, except to say that because I watch over it like I watch over my own children, it stays pretty secure. I use three other email addresses for the more risky communications in my life, and so far, they’ve been the ones to take the brunt of the email spamming barrages that pretty much anyone who uses email experiences. So, if I get some sort of message sent to my primary email address trying to sell me something, while I may not have signed up to receive the communiqué, it is usually hocking something that is in some way relevant and might be of general interest.

Knowing this, I’m not sure what to make of the message I received today, one offering a six-month free membership in an online dating service and adorned with the subject line “Meet Other Seniors over 50.”

“But, I’m not a senior, yet,” I whimpered sheepishly, taking off the eyeglasses that hardly work for me anymore because I’m in desperate need of bifocals. Setting them aside, I dropped a multi-vitamin and some ibuprofen into a down flow gulp of coffee and added, “I’m only forty-five years old, for crying out loud. I’m practically a spring chicken.”

The multi-vitamin is something my doctor forcefully recommended. The ibuprofen is for my knee and my terrible back, which both start their daily routines of throbbing pretty much as soon as I get out of bed.

Sigh.

Well, okay, so maybe the only things shattering the relevancy of this particular email are the facts that, first, my wife is still alive, and second, even if she weren’t, I’d have to dig really deeply to find any interest in ever engaging in the dating scene.

Nope. No interest whatsoever.

Leave me with my laptop, my books, and my whiskies. No need to go outside. I’d be just fine being the pasty old man in the neighborhood you rarely see, except when he’s out mowing the yard in his black “I WHISKY” t-shirt and blue-gray plaid shorts, all trimmed out quite nicely by his favorite red “Texas Towing” hat and black dress socks. I’d be pleased enough to be the pale widower who walks on his treadmill in the dimly lit basement, and even as he does, types away at sermons, articles, and whisky reviews for all of you.

Speaking of pale, in that digital moment of dreadful revelation, the Glenfiddich Experimental Series #01 India Pale Ale Casks edition was awaiting, tenderly inviting and willing to enliven me even as the sun of my body and emotions appeared to be setting.

With a fanning scent of a more lemon-like citrus, hardly a nudge of hops rises in the mix, carrying along in its stream a nip of unseasoned oak.

A sip reveals far more rivulets of the typical whisky flavors than beer, and for that, I’m glad. The whisky is doing what it’s supposed to do—which is be uniquely accentuated by the pale ale casks and not completely rerouted by them. There is the distant sense of carbonation, which I found intriguing, and I’m thinking it’s brought on by the ale’s specter combined with the citrus noted in the nosing. There’s even a little bit of something sweeter at the end—warmed honey, perhaps, and maybe even some brown sugar.

The finish is short, but still quite delightful, handing over a rather precise dosage of the hops you were expecting in abundance on the front end. It reminded me of what follows a glass of Blue Moon accompanied by the trademark orange slice.

The lighter nature of this dram, while it isn’t enough to put hair on your chest, is well and good for reinvigorating a humble gent for confronting the fact that while he is, indeed, getting older, he isn’t going to do so without a fight—which includes hiding this email from his wife, because the truth is, he’s probably going to die long before her and he doesn’t want her getting any ideas about remarriage.

Okay, full transparency. The real reason I don’t want my wife thinking about remarriage is because I have several cabinets full of whisky, and odds are, I won’t get through all of it before I breathe my last. Like any self-respecting whisky sod, I certainly don’t want her meeting some guy who might end up picking through all of it. With that, all of you can now serve as witnesses to my last will and testament.

I, Reverend Christopher Ian Thoma, do hereby request that the one who prepares my mortal remains for burial, rather than using the traditional mixture of formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, and other solvents for post mortem preparation, would instead use all—and I repeat ALL—of my remaining whiskies as embalming fluid lest they fall into the hands of a less-than-appreciative deadbeat who claims devotion to my surviving wife and begins squatting in my house. And if for some reason my remains are incapable of receiving all of the said whiskies, I hereby authorize the opening of each and every reasonable cavity in my body for housing what cannot be included in the embalming process. And if still there isn’t room, I request a Viking funeral. Douse me in the whisky that remains, put me on a kindling boat in the pond behind my house, and light me up.

Addendum: The one bottle of Scoresby hidden in the mixer cabinet is to forbidden from the process.

Review – Shackleton Blended Malt Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]As the saying goes, “Kids will be kids.” And yet, is that proverb still legitimately allowable for explaining away the behaviors of the current generation of children?

I’m not so sure, especially after what I observed in the checkout line at our local grocery store.

The line was short. It included a group of three vibrant but unkempt kids in their early teens, followed by an elderly woman, and then myself. The kids each had a 20 ounce bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red. The woman bore a basket on her arm that she’d not yet unloaded onto the belt for scanning. In it she had a box of crackers, two cans of soup, coffee filters, a box of spaghetti noodles, and a snack pack of stringed cheese. I had two gallons of milk, one in each hand.

The three kids jostled and laughed, pushed and spoke crassly, consuming more personal space than was necessary, ultimately ending with one of them, a young girl, bumping into the lady and causing her basket to tip just enough so that several of her items fell to the floor. And what did the culprit do in response? She didn’t apologize, but rather laughed—admittedly it was a laugh of momentary embarrassment—and then she finished the transaction and scuttled away with her cohorts.

Setting her basket on the belt, the woman went to pick up her items, although I got to them first. She thanked me, and in the gentlest of grandmotherly voices, began a short commentary on the growing disrespect she’s been observing in kids, and how what just occurred was another certified example.

“How has it gotten to this?” she said, bringing her speech to the man in the clerical collar beside her to an end.

“I have my suspicions,” I replied, putting the last item on the moving belt. “Although, no matter how far out of line these kids get,” I continued, “it’s nothing that a sewer clown probably couldn’t handle for us.”

“What?” she asked.

“Those are the kinds of clowns that eat kids,” I said. “A handful of sewer clowns with red balloons here and there in America and I’d bet things would change. One thing’s for sure,” I continued, “they’d probably stop protesting the NRA.”

“Red balloons?”

“Never mind,” I said, realizing she’d completely missed the reference to Stephen King’s novel It. “It was just a joke. I guess just know that as a parent, I agree with you and I’m doing everything I can to steer my own kids in the right ways.”

“Well, at least someone is,” she answered and then went into how, unfortunately, her son’s kids are proving to be entitled brats in need of a significant course correction, and had her husband been alive today, he’d have provided it.

The moment ended and I made my way home. I put the milk into the refrigerator and then sat down to open a fresh bottle—the Shackleton Blended Malt Scotch Whisky—which is a deliberate attempt at recreating the Mackinlay’s edition that accompanied Sir Ernest Shackleton and his crew on their infamous survey of the Antarctic in 1907.

I suppose the Shackleton edition was perfectly suited to the previous narrative, especially since both the elderly woman and I would do everything in our powers to recreate particular aspects of bygone eras, times when kids spent their days riding their bikes, playing outside, doing some chores here and there, and then taking the extra bit of spending money to the local grocery store to buy a candy bar, and never for one second believing it acceptable to exhibit wildly disrespectful behavior in public lest parents discover and exercise swift judgment.

The odds that we’ll ever return to such societal standards are slim, just as I’m suspecting that it’s anyone’s guess if this Shackleton edition truly met its mark in the attempt to return to something that would have been preferred by an intrepid and discerning explorer of the highest class.

Now, having said this, the whisky is pretty good, just not exceptional.

The nose is buttery—the salted and oily kind—and it offers a mere tap of peat followed by an even lighter wash of malt. The palate agrees completely with this assessment, although as the peat’s efforts increase, along with it comes a subtle citrus and a drop or two of vanilla.

The finish, I’d say, is medium, but also steadily warming, which I’m guessing would have been more than acceptable in -50 degree temperatures at the bottom of the world. And as it warms, it invites thoughts of singed barley bread—not unpleasant in the conditions, but certainly not what you’d expect to enjoy back home.

On the other hand, when considering the current state of affairs in our culture, “back home” might be all the more reason to become an explorer in Antarctica. At least the natives—the penguins—dress respectably.

Review – Glengoyne, 18 Years Old, 43%

[image error]The dishwasher was empty. The countertop was uncluttered and clean. The stainless steel sink glistened in the sunlight. Even the dish soap bottle had been wiped spotless of its water pocks.

I like it clean.

An empty yogurt cup in hand, a well-licked spoon in the other, the little girl shuffled across the kitchen floor and set both on the counter at the edge of the sink and skipped away.

“For crying out loud,” I growled, having just hung up the dish towel, “at least put your spoon in the dishwasher!”

“Sorry!” she chimed, changing course and making her way back to the scene of the crime.

“No, you’re not,” I said.

“Yes, I am,” she whined, beginning to open the dishwasher door.

“No, you’re not. You do this every time.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” I insisted. “And do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too lazy to put in the extra bit of effort it takes to throw the yogurt cup into the garbage and put your spoon in the dishwasher.”

“I’m not too lazy!”

“Yes, honey,” I said adamantly, “you are, and it’s not just with spoons and yogurt.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” I said resolutely. “And do you know how I know this?”

Assuming she already knew the answer, her words got softer and slower, “Because my room is always messy?”

“Nope,” I returned. “Because of your mother’s side of the bathroom upstairs.” The little girl’s face donned a look of confusion as she wondered how her indolent habits had anything to do with her mother. I think I heard a collective breath from others in nearby rooms as they, too, awaited the logic in my statement.

“Come with me,” I said, taking her by the hand. Arriving at the bathroom door, I pointed to the difference between the two ends of the countertop. One is very messy and the other is pristinely neat.

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“When your mother lets you guys come in here to get ready for school or before bed, apparently you only have enough energy to go as far as your mom’s sink. You don’t have the strength to go another three feet to mine, and so all of the things you feel you need in order to brush your teeth—a toothbrush, some toothpaste, a few toys, some cat stickers, a rubber ball, and whatever else is essential for success—all of it piles up on her side of the bathroom.”

“It does?”

“See for yourself,” I said “I feel bad for her. In fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t asked me to set up a mirror near the pond in the back yard so you guys can start getting ready out there.”

Dropping to one knee, I looked into the little girl’s eyes. “I know it’ll be exhausting, and with such exertion, you’ll probably need a glass of water halfway through the effort just to stay hydrated, but go downstairs to the kitchen and put your spoon in the dishwasher and throw your yogurt cup in the garbage, please. ”

“Okay,” she said with a half-smile and turned to go back downstairs.

“Give it all you got, honey,” I called to her. “You can do it.” She said something in return, but I couldn’t quite hear it. I can almost guarantee it was something snarky. But even as I strained to hear her words, I could hear in my head what I surmised would have been my wife’s words in the moment.

I let them use my side of the bathroom because the first time they would’ve left a half-dried glob of spit and toothpaste in your sink, you’d have spun out with a stroke. That’s why they don’t use your side of the bathroom.

I could hear my inner response, too.

Well, my dear, while you do put up with a lot around here, that particular truth didn’t fit the lesson at hand. The little ne’er-do-well needed to learn more about ditching her sloven tendencies and less about my germipaedophobia; that is, my fear of coming into contact with the general grossness of children, namely, my own.

As a pastor of a church with a school, I’m around kids a lot, so in one respect, you have to give me some room with this one. I shake hands with a lot of people and I get hugs and high fives from countless numbers of kids. Not even my office is safe. My side of the bathroom serves as an innocuous space of sorts, a place where there’s no chance of coming into contact with a miniature human who just mined something from his or her nose.

Go ahead and use mom’s side of the bathroom, I say. I’ll be over here having a drink and fearlessly interacting with all of the available space.

When it comes to cleanliness, I try to keep things at a certain level, which is one reason why I think I like the Glengoyne whiskies so much, especially their 18-year-old edition. It is a crisply sparkling rendition of a fresh and flavorful dram.

With a nose of sherry-sopped apricots, milk chocolate, roasted almonds, and a mention of coffee, this whisky tempts the idea that highland whiskies are the best. Of course no true whisky drinker would say that. Nevertheless, the purity of the breeze arising from this edition is close to being as good as it gets.

The palate is just as fine, offering the same sherry and chocolate, a pinch of ginger stirred into vanilla, and a silky lather of overly buttered caramel.

The finish—a short to medium wash of spiced apple rings and vanilla—confirms that while there certainly are some whiskies only worthy of being used to clean bathroom countertops caked in desiccated toothpaste and drool, there are indeed others to be held in the highest regard and enjoyed in one’s safe space a few feet away from the sordid scene.