Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 17

Review – Brown-Forman Distillers, The President’s Choice, 1969 Bottling, 8 Years Old, 56.4%

[image error]As the saying goes, you win some and you lose some. I prefer to say that sometimes you land it and sometimes you end up in the dishwasher.

In Evelyn’s case, it was the former. She was doing something Evelyn-esque, most likely spinning around in circles or trying to do a cartwheel in a place where cartwheels might not be a good idea. Whatever it was, this time she got a little too close to the open dishwasher.

I turned just in time to see the tragedy’s conclusion—the little girl’s unbalanced planting of her calves against the edge of the dishwasher’s door, her hands sprawling outward in a helpless plunge, her tiny backside plopping into the stainless steel innards, her back scraping the front of the bottom basket, the entire machine breaking loose and tipping forward from the brackets that secure it to the bottom of the countertop, the resulting look of terror that her chronic disregard for her father’s instructions not to do what she was doing could very well end with that same on looking parent simply pushing her the rest of the way into the machine and closing the door.

I’ll admit that I thought about it. I only reconsidered because her mother was closer to her, and with haste, scooped her up and tended to her needs before I could break from my speechless gaze. There just wasn’t enough time for me to get to her, shove her the rest of the way in, actually get the detergent poured into the little latching basin, and close the door. I mean, being the multitasker that I am, I might as well make it so she doesn’t need a bath at bedtime, right? Let the now wobbling machine do the work.

[image error]Anyway, I retrieved some essential tools, my drill, and a Glencairn. I poured myself two fingers worth from a 1969 bottling of The President’s Choice 8-year-old Kentucky Bourbon from Brown-Forman Distillers which I’d received as a gift from my kindly friend, Kay. Dropping to my hands and knees in an attempt to examine and then fix the damage from the misadventure, with a sigh, I offered to myself in secret, Sometimes you land it. Sometimes you can’t get your kid into the dishwasher quickly enough. Eventually diagnosing the problem, but before beginning the labor, I reached for my dram, swirled its contents, sniffed, and then took a sip. My speechless gaze returned, although this time rendering with delight, Sometimes you land it, and then sometimes you really land it!

The whiskey was nothing short of superb.

The nose was that of rich cinnamon, summery raisins, and a square of Ghirardelli caramel-filled chocolate. A sip delivered a wood-spicy depth of the Ghirardelli, a batch of buttered pecans, and the faint impression of vanilla-soaked blueberries.

The finish was a medium rinse of the cinnamon and vanilla.

[image error]Once the dishwasher was fixed, I jumped online to see if I could learn more about some of the rarer editions from Brown-Forman Distillers and maybe even discover some of the particulars that went into this edition that was custom distilled and bottled for Haab’s Restaurant in Ypsilanti, Michigan. What I found was that it could very well be a variant interpretation of Old Forester.

But I don’t like Old Forester. In fact, if I recall correctly from my review of Old Forester, I determined it was probably a favorite of Satan because it tasted like cigarettes and rye toast and, for some reason, reminded me of a house in my neighborhood that I’m pretty sure is haunted.

My only guess is that if this is indeed an historical rendition of Old Forester, it was selected and bottled during a time when Brown-Forman Distillers was more interested in precision whiskey-making as opposed to mass production and wide distribution.

Knowing that this near half-century edition of The President’s Choice Bourbon is an acquired rarity in limited supply, I’ll be holding it very close, and I’ll be taking it very slowly. I certainly won’t be keeping it anywhere out in the open where it can be destroyed by a whirling and twirling little girl who sometimes lands it, but sometimes ends up in the dishwasher.

Review – Stranahan’s, Snowflake #20, Quandary Peak, (No Age Stated), 47%

[image error]Do you remember that time when you were younger and the coach of your sports team decided he was going to broadcast his half-time locker room discussion through the loud speakers, making sure that the other team as well as the spectators knew his game plan for winning?

No?

Yeah, me either. Apparently that’s only something you do if you are dealing with a barricaded gunman situation.

How do I know this? From listening to the radio today as I traveled from one location to another. The local news station buzzing, I heard a field reporter speaking with a police captain regarding an unfolding situation involving an armed man in a house who was refusing to come out. He’d already fired over a dozen shots at the police and was threatening to, in his words, “not go down without a fight.”

The reporter asked plainly about the game plan, and the captain responded with equal plainness, pretty much sharing everything they intended to do, even to the point of revealing how many S.W.A.T. teams he had on the scene, where they were positioned, the resources they had at their disposal, and when they’d most likely move in to secure the scene and what might precipitate that move.

Now, I don’t know if the gunman was listening to the news station, but I can tell you that if he was, by the information being shared, he’d all but been handed a ticket to the planning meeting with the S.W.A.T. commander, police captain, and the negotiator in the makeshift tent at the end of the street. The details being revealed over the public airwaves seemed strangely confidential, and quite possibly to the gunman’s advantage.

There are certain circumstances that rise to the level of ticketed invitation. A barricaded gunman situation is not one of those events. And just for the record, if I were the police commissioner, I’d be planning a little chat with my captain, one in which I’d explain to him the details of my strategy for such future engagements. And by the way, a key component of the strategy would be his absence from the scene. But as I said, there are certain events worthy of ticketed invitation, and the Stranahan’s annual Snowflake edition release is one of them.

[image error]The 2017 edition—Quandary Peak—was released on December 2, and as usual, it was done so in extremely limited supply. So limited, in fact, whoever organized the whole thing had to actually print on each ticket things like “Ticket valid only if still in line through 11 AM on 12/02/2017.” And from what I hear, with people camping outside the distillery in order to be one of the few to actually receive a ticket worth a single bottle at $99 plus tax each, this is a strictly enforced rule. You know what that means? It means don’t step out of line.

I received the generous sample for review from my friend Mike who traveled from his home in Iowa to the distillery in Denver where he not only didn’t step out of line, but was generously kissed by fate and granted the very first position nearest the front door. Good for you, Mike! And for me, too, since he was kind enough to share. Indeed, having now tried this exclusive whiskey, I more fully grasp the devotion of those referred to as “Stranafans.”

[image error]A sniff is easy and light, sending up streams of dark and meaty fruits carried on a high mountain breeze of rum spice and barely a pinch of pepper.

The palate is a down current of the rum and fruit from the nose meeting with another stream of caramel apples topped with singed almonds. It’s really quite delightful.

The finish is a medium jaunt. It dawdles along lazily with barrel spice, caramel, and a drop of salted butter. Then suddenly, it’s gone—dried up, evaporated, vanished—kind of like the chance for the guy who stepped away from the line for a moment at 10:59 to take a quick call from his wife. With that, I’d say he had plenty of time to ponder that poor decision while driving home empty handed. Even more so must we sympathize with the rage that has him holed up in a house in Detroit waiting for the S.W.A.T. team to breach his back door with a battering ram and smoke grenades.

You only get one shot at this stuff.

Review – Breckenridge, Straight Bourbon Whiskey, 2 Years Old, 43%

[image error]Ralph Waldo Emerson noted, “Nothing astonishes men so much as common sense and plain dealing.” He’s right, you know. Common sense writes the script and plain dealing performs it. The audience looks on and knows the truest heart of the story.

With this in mind, am I outside of the boundaries of common sense by believing that anyone seeking to compete in the Olympics should only be allowed to do so as a representative of their country of origin? I mean, doesn’t it seem as though the truest heart of the Olympics is for each individual nation to showcase its own pure-blooded, natural-born talent in various competitions, all seeking to be the homeland that can claim domination in any particular event? Watching the “Parade of Nations” during the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics, I learned that this isn’t so for a good number of the competitors.

For example, I learned that the three members of the Nigerian bobsled team were all born and raised in the United States. I heard the commentator say that Sarah Schleper, the downhill skier representing Mexico was born in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, and raised by her father, Buzz Schleper, who owns a ski shop in Vail. I was rather shocked to learn that the lightning fast speed skater, Ahn Hyun-soo, won three gold medals in 2006 in service to his native land of South Korea, but now he goes by the name of Viktor Ahn and competes for Russia.

Apparently all of this is perfectly acceptable because the official Olympic charter only asks that competitors be nationals of the individual countries they represent. Funny thing is, each country defines the term “national” for itself. Equally odd, if the competitors decide they want to switch countries and compete for a different team, they only need to wait for three years following their last competition before doing so. Sure, that sounds like a long time, but it sure seems awfully convenient seeing as the particular seasonal Olympic Games come around every four years.

To all of this, there’s only one thing I can think to say, and it’s, “What the—? Hasn’t anyone on the Olympic Committee seen ‘Rocky IV’?! Does anyone remember the thrill of seeing a best-of-the-best boxer going head to head with a pure-blooded counterpart?”

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I guess not. And it’s enough to leave me disinterested in the Olympics altogether. When I’m beholding such an international spectacle, I want to see the true rendering of its heart. I want to witness the champion DNA of a nation as it has been cultivated by its own regimens and ethos. I want to be found in awe of the almost superhuman abilities that one country may have that another may not. I want to be found cheering for a competitor who puts his or herself into a battlefront of sorts, not necessarily striving for “self,” but rather for a homeland, a place that is dear, a nation of communities and culture which, in that moment, deserves to be recognized because in the competition, it produced the best.

But now it just sort of seems like we have people (and I’m not saying they aren’t good at their sport) skipping town to compete somewhere else because maybe they didn’t make the cut back home; or we have nations actually buying athletes from other countries just so they can have a showing or to shore up holes in their teams. I don’t like this about the Olympics. But at least I’m consistent, because I’m not fond of it in the whiskey industry, either. It’s somewhat off-putting.

Ah, this is true. Plenty of whiskey brands touting a genuine dram from a certain locale actually purchase their product from unnamed distilleries in a land far away. I can’t say for sure if the bottle of Breckenridge Straight Bourbon before me is such a culprit, although I’ve read that they will take what they’ve made on the premises and blend it with bourbons from other sources.

Still, as I parenthetically noted above, that doesn’t mean the competitor isn’t good. Indeed, this is a perfectly sippable Coloradan edition worthy of your applause.

The nose is distinctly graceful, giving over a performance of caramel apples, buttered toast, and oak barrel char. A little while in the glass and it takes a twirl toward citrus.

It’s just as gentle for the mouth as it is for the nose, setting before its judges a routine of vanilla cake with butter cream frosting, a dusting of cinnamon, and a sipper of mulled apple cider.

The finish is a spin from what I just described into an abrupt stop on the spice still hanging from the roof of my mouth. It left my tongue dried and expecting something more.

Nevertheless, it was quite enjoyable, and whether a national or actual citizen of Colorado, it represented the state quite well. And for Breckenridge’s sake, I hope this competitor decides to stay put.

Review – Barrell Craft Spirits, Barrell Bourbon, Cask Strength, 9 Years Old, 54.25%

[image error]There are certain sentences children can utter that absolutely terrify parents, causing their lungs to momentarily seize and their minds to flash petrifying scenes of dreadful aftermaths.

Consider the gurgled voice of the ten-year-old who announces while hovering above you in bed at three o’clock in the morning, “Daddy, I threw up.” In that moment, a litany of possible locations, levels of destruction, the location of your HazMat suit, and all viable isolation measures begins to churn in your barely kindled mind. “Get to the bathroom!” is your only manageable reply.

There’s also that moment when your youngest reaches out to you with an unidentifiable something in her hand that she found on the floor in the restroom stall.

“Daddy, I found this on the ground,” are her words. Again, your repulsion gland becomes inflamed as you weigh the legal ramifications for leaving her behind against the effort it will take to sanitize the scene before allowing her back into your car.

Lastly, for whiskey drinkers, there’s the following, potentially panic-inducing question.

“Daddy, can I pour your whisky for you?”

“Um, sure, honey,” you reply, walking through the front door and having already set your heart on something soothing and easy.

“Which one do you want?”

“Well, I was thinking I’d have—”

“I’ll surprise you,” she interrupts.

An uneasy moment passes as you take off your shoes and set your things near the door. You’re not in the mood for guessing, and yet your pride is in a partial swell because of the care your child is attempting.

Laying your coat on the chair, there’s a nearby clinking of glass, followed by the voluptuous lapping of what you’re hoping will be an enjoyable, ambered liquid being poured. In another second, she is before you and ready.

“Here you go, Daddy,” the little girl says proudly with an outstretched hand and a beaming smile.

“Thanks, honey,” you say, taking the dram from her hand. “Which one did you pick?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” she beams with a terrifying smile. “I want to see if you like it.”

“Well, sweetie, let’s give it a go,” you say nervously, sitting down at the kitchen table. Putting your nose to the glass, you inhale. “Hmm. Smells… a little bit… like Elmer’s Glue,” you offer in the first round, fearing you’re about to choke down two fingers worth of something you’d rather not. Taking another sniff, your heart begins to calm. “The glue is gone. Now I’m getting something fruity—like strawberries—and a little bit of cinnamon.”

You sip and savor. She watches intently.

“This is a strong one—a cask strength Bourbon, right?” She doesn’t answer you, but only shakes her head, indicating she won’t reveal her secret until you approve of her selection.

You sip again.

“This one has a thick barrel zing. And the spiced strawberries have turned into spiced peaches—sort of like the ones in those fruit cups I buy for your lunches.”

She smiles, but still keeps the name of the whiskey to herself.

A longer finish meets with your final thought. “It’s got some staying power. It’s a little syrupy, but it’s also got just the right dryness to balance things out.”

“Do you like it?” she asks.

[image error]“I think I do,” I say, but only to get a gratified hug and the revelation that she’d poured the sample of the Barrell Bourbon 9-year-old Cask Strength edition I received as a gift. In truth, had I been handed the dram by someone less interested in pleasing me, I’d have said, “I don’t not like it.”

Overall, it was interesting, but you can sort of tell that it is a farmed whiskey; that is, it’s a concoction that Barrell Craft Spirits bought from some source somewhere and then slapped their label on it. Checking into it, I could only uncover that it was born in an unnamed distillery in Tennessee.

Still, I didn’t lie to my daughter. I think I like it. And if I had a bottle of it, I’d probably drink it on occasion. In general, barrel strength whiskies are good to keep around when kids are throwing up or picking up strange objects in public bathrooms. If anything, the higher the ABV, the more one’s blood is equipped to defeat strange amoebas. Even a whiskey that you don’t not like serves well in such circumstances.

Review – Ardbeg, An Oa, (No Age Stated), 46.6%

[image error]Relatively speaking, we live in a small town. We have two traffic lights, one gas station, one small grocery store, a hardware store, a barber shop, and a “downtown” that includes a small restaurant, a Mason’s lodge, and a dealer in antiques—although in my opinion, it’s really just a shop full of the stuff left at the proprietor’s door, except now, the items have price tags. We also have a Chinese restaurant right beside a pizza place—Little Caesar’s—and both are housed in the same building that keeps the grocery store. Right across the street is a McDonald’s, and as of last fall, a Taco Bell. Let it not be under spoken that when Taco Bell came to town, for many of our citizens, the announcement alone was like winning the lottery.

So, where is all of this going? Well, the point is that anything we might need is only two or three minutes away, especially when it comes to an easy meal. For the Thoma family, as it is for many in our society hurrying toward exhaustion, pizza is quite often the mealtime solution. And with the latest trend of ready-to-go pizzas for five dollars each, you don’t have to call in an order, nor are you to be concerned with the ideological turmoil that might unfold at your front door when faced with a fifty-five minute delivery snafu resulting in cold pizzas being handed to you by a driver who believes he should still receive a tip.

Here’s a tip. Keep the pizzas, give me a refund, and make sure you use the GPS app on your phone to find your way back to the store. And while you’re tapping on your phone, do us all a favor and delete your drug dealer’s contact.

Anyway, many such establishments are adding to their services the ability for patrons to place an online order. This is true of the pizza place the next township over, which I am yet to mention serves the pizza we most prefer but rarely buy because it’s more expensive and it takes longer to acquire, sometimes due to the delivery issues previously mentioned. Still, Jennifer took a chance and, for the first time, gave the online portal a try.

She tried it once. It didn’t work. She tried it again. The same. A few more times and finally it took her order. But this minor obstruction was not the conundrum at the heart of this story.

Gladdened by her final success, and after about fifteen minutes of waiting, she called me over to take a look at the follow up webpage she’d been provided for tracking the progress of her order. That’s when I noticed something strange, something that concerned me—the guy who won’t take a sip of water from a glass that’s been touched by one of his own children for fear of catching some rare and incurable disease.

I was terror-stricken. Do you see why?

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Click the image to enlarge.

Flavor check? What the heck is that? I don’t want these guys flavor checking my pizzas. How do they do that? Do they take a bite? Do they lick it? I’ll bet that one kid I see there from time to time—you know, the one who looks like he hasn’t showered in about six weeks—I’ll bet he licks the pizzas.

Time passes. Fifty-five minutes to be exact. The doorbell rings and I rush to the door. Jennifer hides out of sight because she knows what I’m about to do. My eight-year-old daughter, Evelyn, is standing beside me with her arms crossed, and as it so happens, she wearing a fake mustache she received at school. And I’ll admit that in her stance, she looks more intimidating and cop-like. Good.

“Hi,” I say straight-forwardly.

“Hi,” the delivery boy replies.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Here’s your receipt. Just sign the bottom.”

“Okay,” I say, having first taken the pizzas and set them on the bench seat near the door. Mid-signature, I ask plainly, “Did anyone lick my pizzas?”

“What?”

“Did anyone lick these things?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“We ordered online. The progress tracker on the website indicated that our pizzas passed the flavor check. How do you guys check the flavor of the pizzas, exactly?”

“Um. I dunno what that is. I don’t go to the website very much.”

“So, no one down there at the store is the official flavor tester—you know, charged with licking the pizzas before they go out?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No one licks the pizzas, sir.”

A prickly moment passes, and with an interrogative stare, Evelyn hands him an additional three dollars.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Um, have a good night,” the kid replies and disappears into the night.

The door still closing, Evelyn offers, “I don’t trust him.”

“Me either,” I account. “These pizzas have been licked.”

“So, what do we do?”

“I think you’ll be okay to eat them,” I say. “You’re young, and your immune system is strong. Me, I’m older and more susceptible to illness. I’ll need to chase each bite with a sip of whisky. That’s the only way to make sure whatever amoebas landed on these things get handled.”

And so, to my whisky cabinet I go, having first called to the family to assemble for dinner. Evelyn delivers the pizzas to the kitchen counter. My preemptive dram, something with a reputation for laying waste to everything in its palatable path: Ardbeg. In particular, the An Oa edition.

I shouldn’t say that this stuff lays waste to palates. An Islay distillery known and respected for bottling peat smoke “oomph,” Ardbeg is not for the faint of heart, and for this reason, I selected it as an ally in the fight against licked pizzas. Nevertheless, the An Oa, for all of its smoky armament, is reasonably smooth and really rather light-hearted.

The nose is a sweet-butter wash of Ardbeg’s moniker peat, mildly so, with undercurrents of lemon cake and maybe even a little bit of something nutty—roasted almonds, perhaps.

In the mouth, there’s a certain serenity that arrives, ushered along on a similarly lapping tide of sweet-butter and burn. Just behind it comes a gentler wave of warmed citrus and a little bit of pepper.

The finish is ashy and dry, leaving a behind an oily lick of the peat smoke. And it’s a good lick.

In all, the An Oa is just strong enough to bring a sense of security, making one feel as though, after a few swigs, any undesirable bacteria that has found its way into the stomach will be rendered impotent. In this light, even if the label offered that each bottle had passed a flavor check, I wouldn’t be concerned. At 46.6%, Ardbeg has it handled. In the current circumstance, the dram pairs well with a slice or two of licked pizza, and that alone makes it worthy of your time and money.

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Review – Pike Creek, 21 Years Old, 45%

[image error]As the saying goes, chance favors the prepared.

But not his time.

There are two things you need to know. First, when I’m ill in a way that affects my voice, before a worship service begins, I’ll put a glass of water into the pulpit so that if I need to relieve vocal irritation during a sermon with a sip, I can.

Second, there’s one particular problem that I would imagine many churches struggle with: flies. With the constant opening and closing of doors at various ends of the building, vaulted architecture adorned with massive lighting fixtures, and less-than-insulating stained glass in the windows, during the colder months of the year, you can almost guarantee that flies will find their way in. Once inside, they’ll buzz skyward to keep warm—and to multiply—in or near the sconces of the light fixtures. It is also expected that most will, at some point, go out to explore the boundaries of their new resort, and as they do, they’ll meet with the colder temperatures near the windows and they’ll spin into a frozen coma, ultimately coming in for an upside down landing on a sill, the altar, or some lady’s hat.

Because no one wants to share his or her space with what can only be described as a break dancing fly buzzing around on his back and doing all that he can to get back to his feet even in the throes of death, before every worship service, it’s quite necessary for our elders or ushers to traverse the worship space with a little hand held bug vacuum equipped with an inner electrocution wire and designed to suck up the dizzy little buggers and introduce them to the afterlife.

But just because you clear the scene of flies before the service doesn’t mean the overall process has ceased, and with that, I think you know where I’m going with this. Chance favors the prepared, that is, unless you reach for your glass during the sermon only to observe a sputtering fly being overcome by the waves within. In that case, chance has laughed at both the fly doing what he can to survive his arctic locale, and the preacher who sought to prepare accordingly for a sermon’s delivery.

“Sorry, guys,” chance giggles, “but this time you both lose.”

Thankfully I saw the fly in there, because I’m guessing that jetting a spray of fly infested creek water from my mouth across the finely dressed people in the front row isn’t very churchly and could be interpreted as offensive. Although, now that it comes to mind, and depending upon who’s in the front row, I might catalogue the excuse for future use.

“Oh, yeah, Sam,” I’d say. “Sorry about spitting that mouthful all over you during the sermon this morning. I took a sip and discovered a fly in my glass. What? Oh, no, I didn’t do it on purpose. And besides, thankfully it was only water and it will dry up and disappear quickly, unlike those nasty, but untrue, things you said about me to Mark.”

[image error]At this point, I must shift gears and admit that some creek water is worth savoring, and that neither troublemaking flies nor seditious humans would cause me to eject a sip of the 21-year-old Pike Creek edition. Seriously, if a fly landed in a dram of this Canadian prize, while it isn’t necessarily the best I’ve ever consumed, it is worth the effort to scoop him out. And yet, if I were unsuccessful, I stand on the conviction that you don’t want to waste what’s been poured, and so down the hatch he’d go.

Let me tell you why.

A swirl and a sniff of the Pike Creek opens the front doors to barely a hint of smoke that immediately carries upward into a holy space of spiced and simmering honey and ripened strawberries. A sip brings what I’ve described to a more graspable plane where you not only experience the honied fruit, but you are given the opportunity to lie back and consider the spices mixed into the honey—cinnamon and cloves, and maybe even some thyme.

The whisky exits in medium fashion, leaving cinnamon applesauce behind.

No, you won’t find yourself desiring to spit this stuff out. In fact, you preachers out there may be tempted in your preparations to forsake the transparent glass of water for a more opaque coffee mug of this stuff.

I probably don’t need to explain why you should choose a coffee mug as opposed to a glass, right?

Review – Forty Creek, Confederation Oak Reserve (2015), Lot 1867, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]“It’s time to convene the gummy bear council,” the younger of the two girls announced, having just finished making several miniature Play-Doh bears from a mold.

“Yes, it is,” the older one replied. “We have much to discuss.”

Rarely do I intervene in such fanciful moments, but I had a pressing matter that involved me sharing the content of an article with the boys who were upstairs worshipping at the PlayStation altar. Apparently, the World Health Organization announced recently that video game addiction is now officially being considered a mental disorder.

Anyway, as I rose from my chair preparing to employ my best, most annoying dad voice for my sons, I asked Madeline, “What exactly does a gummy bear council discuss?”

“Plenty,” she answered. “We talk about waging war on other groups, accepting their peace treaty offers pretty much after we’ve conquered them, and building a bridge over the river of tears. We need more bridges from Gumdropolis into the wastelands. It’s depressing over there.”

“Anything else?”

“We talk about our alliance with the frog people and the ginger bread people. They were fighting, so we conquered them both and then forced them to be friends.”

“Why were they fighting?”

“Because the ginger bread queen got mad at her husband about something, and then she did something that made the frog people really mad.”

“What did she do?”

“I don’t remember,” Madeline said, tapping a slender finger to the side of her head and bringing her story to a pause. “But I remember that all of her servants died in the war.”

“How many servants died?”

“About a thousand.”

“Wow. Sounds like a brutal place,” I said. “So, what’s the council going to talk about today?”

“We’re going to talk about who else we should conquer,” she replied with pep. “Maybe plan out some stuff. Or figure out what color to make our new gummy bear clone army. There are a few more places around us we want to make really happy.”

“Remind me never to vote for you, Madeline, if you ever run for office,” I said very plainly. “Although, if at some point you do manage to seize power in America, I’d like to be your Minister of Whisky.”

“Why would I give you one of the most important roles in my kingdom if you didn’t vote for me?”

“I’ll wait and watch the polls,” I said. “If it looks like you’re gonna win, I’ll go ahead and pull the lever for you.”

“Good,” she said with a smile and finished arranging the gummy bears at the plastic plate serving as the council’s table.

“Just promise me the position,” I said, begging confirmation of my soul’s sale. “And that you’ll outlaw video games.”

“Yes to the position,” she said. “But I’ll think about the video game idea.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“You’ll like that I’m already planning to move the White House to Florida.”

“Girlfriend, you sure know how to sell your candidacy to the undecided voter,” I called from half-way up the stairs. “I’m definitely voting for you, now, honey.”

[image error]I took a moment to share with my sons that their mental disorders had now been officially recognized and then I made my way back to my unopened whisky stash to choose what would be forever remembered as the celebratory dram for the day I was pledged a place in my daughter’s cabinet. Today’s choice: The Forty Creek Confederation Oak Reserve.

Unfortunately, my memory will be forever seared by a lack of enjoyment with this one.

Initially, the nose gave a vinegary trail, one that just couldn’t get far enough out of the way to let shine what I suspected were caramel and fruity undertones. They’re there, but I’m guessing they’re in chains in the gummy bear dungeon below gumdropolis.

For the most part, the palate was fine enough, offering some peace-keeping morsels at the foot of the gummy bear queen’s throne—nibbles of chocolate, lemons, and whatever that stuff is inside of a Cadbury egg.  The problem, however, is that everything is overly peppered with cloves and wood spice, causing the overall balance to be off.

The finish was short and dry, offering only a fingerprint of the alcohol and a pinch of barrel spices.

As prophetic as the selection was, I suppose I should have chosen a differently. I’m guessing that if the time ever comes for my daughter to impose her happiness upon the rest of us, many among us may be thinking the same thing.

P.s.   Let the reader know that after my review, I let this whisky sit for about an hour before coming back to it to finish it off. Apparently, this was just enough time for the dram to rid itself of the sour that seemed to be hiding it’s better qualities. The problem, however, is that no one opens a bottle, pours a dram, and lets it sit for an hour. That’s dumb. The positive side to this as a prophetic dram is that perhaps after some time ruling over all of us, my daughter will get better rather than worse.

Review – Dewar’s, The Ancestor, 12 Years Old, 40%

[image error]For the sake of the children, Jennifer had better not die anytime soon. She’s their best, most caring advocate. I say this after engaging in a few mid-Christmas-break scuffles over simple things like brushing teeth, taking showers, cleaning up bedrooms, and basic back-to-reality chores.

If Jennifer dies, there will be certain things that die with her.

For one, we own a number of various digital devices—iPads, iPods, both the PlayStation 3 and 4, a Wii, and a few other gadgets—all of which will be going into the casket with her. The kids will no longer have to worry about experiencing the tortuous symptoms of withdrawal when I tell them to turn them off and get ready for bed.

The next thing that will go away is the use of devices for listening to music while taking a shower. We’re going to start giving the water heater a break. You’re already in there thirty-five minutes longer than necessary. The last thing you need is a soundtrack to your little naked dance party. When your mother passes on and is no longer in place to coax me in other directions, you’ll have ten minutes to get in and get out. After that, I’m turning off the hot water and the power to the room and you’re going to have to finish in the icy darkness.

Another thing, I’m putting a much tighter cap on Christmas gift expenses. You’ve got too much stuff already, half of which you don’t ever even play with. From here on out, you get three gifts at Christmas. And if you don’t provide me with a list, you get nothing. Your mom’s dead and I don’t have a mother’s intuition, so no list equals no gifts. Also, you will no longer be receiving gifts at other holidays. I always thought that was stupid. So, no more gifts on Valentine’s Day, or Easter, or your birthd… well, okay, I’ll get you a gift on your birthday, but remember, you need to make sure you give me a list. I don’t know that much about you. I just know that I had a hand in making and naming you. Other than that, as far as I’m concerned, when your mother dies, you’re a squatter in my house and I’m being benevolent. No list equals no gift.

A couple of other things to keep in mind.

On the day of your mother’s death, Legos officially become contraband. If you’re caught with Legos, you get a week in the sweat box in the back yard. If I step on a Lego, you get two weeks. If I step on a Lego and no one fesses up to the smuggled goods, all four of you forfeit your birthdays for the year. The same goes for dirty dishes left in the sink or on the kitchen counter. Any dirty dishes found in either of these locales will be dumped into the perpetrator’s bed. And while I’m at it, if I go to use the bathroom and there’s no toilet paper on the roll, any remaining rolls in the house will be locked in my bedroom closet, where they’ll be available for my use only. But recall that I am a benevolent overlord. I will provide each of the other bathrooms in the house with a sufficiently stocked bottle of hand sanitizer. Do what you must, just don’t touch the curtains, towels, or hand towels.

Lastly, everyone is responsible for their own laundry. If you don’t do your laundry, you’re going to have to wear dirty clothes. Dirty clothes stink. And guess what, even with dirty clothes, you’re still going to school, and you’ll most likely be labeled as the stinky kid. And because ninety-five percent of the clothing your mother has bought for you has to be hung up to dry, I’m selling the dryer. Seriously, I don’t know why we shelled out the cash to buy the stupid thing. It’s practically new, and on a day when laundry is being done, while it sits there idly staring at us all, the place looks a little bit like a terrorist blew up a laundromat. Right now, we only have two drying racks, which for a family of our size means that clothes are hanging everywhere—chairs, doors, on the bannister—everything is prime real estate for princess t-shirts, khakis, Under Armor sweatshirts, and polyester pajamas.

So, again, the kids had better pray that their mother outlives me, because if she doesn’t, they’ll have a whole lot more to worry about than the five stages of grief.

And let me tell you one more thing, if they… What?

No, I don’t.

What do you mean I sound like a grumpy old man? I’m just…

No, I’m not being too harsh. When have I ever shown myself to be too harsh?

Well, okay, maybe you’re right about Dewar’s. Maybe I have been a little harsh with them. But I only say that now that I’ve tried The Ancestor 12-year-old edition, which I’ll admit is actually pretty good.

It has a politely malty nose, one with slight impetuses of nougat and red papaya. There’s even a dig of smoke deep down at its base.

In the mouth, the whisky presents peaches and cream along with the tiniest pinch of ash stirred into some warmed caramel. All of this departs hurriedly through the malt from the nosing.

Okay, so, if Jen dies, I’ll go a little easier on the kids. How about this? How about they can each have four presents at Christmas instead of three, and they get fifteen minutes in the shower instead of ten? That seems kinder, don’t you think?

And their Legos. They can keep their Legos.

Sheesh. Okay. And they can keep the digital devices.

But I’m still selling the dryer. That’s a few hundred dollars worth of whisky money just sitting there in the laundry room. That’s just poor stewardship with the finances of a family that would be struggling with grief, and if there’s anything about this particular write-up that’s harsh, that’s it.

Review – J.P. Wiser’s, 35 Years Old, 50%

[image error]Thirty-five.

Just in case you needed to know, thirty-five has its own Wikipedia page. Yep. It says pretty dryly, “35 (thirty-five) is the natural number following 34 and preceding 36.”

Looks like someone has some time on his or her hands.

I’m not interested in following this person’s trail of boredom, although I’m guessing it has been happening for some time because a lot of other numbers have pages, too. I can tell you with certainty that there’s no page for 2,005,017. I looked. Although, typing that number into Google will bring up IRS Notice cc-2005-017, which speaks to the topic of “Interim Procedures for ‘Ballard’ Type Issues.” Now there’s a reverse-the-earth-on-its-axis effort on the part of the federal government, wouldn’t you say? What is a ballard, anyway? I suppose I could read the document and find out.

Nah. For the moment, I’d rather stay focused on the number thirty-five.

Did you know that thirty-five is the atomic number of bromine? Of course you did. Everyone knows that. But I’ll bet you didn’t know that 35 mm film is actually 34.98 mm wide, and it was first introduced by Thomas Edison and William Dickson back in 1892, although apparently it was noted at the time as 1.375 inches.

I was thirty-five years old when I was ordained. It’s also the last time I remember being relatively pain free in my body. Now I have back and knee pain like crazy, and I also get pretty severe migraines.

The BBC offered an article in 2017 suggesting by data collected from a few various surveys that one is officially considered boring and old sometime in the mid-thirties. Thirty-five, to be precise, was marked as the critical age for no longer being considered young. I was glad to read that, because I was under the impression that the pastoral office was killing me physically. Turns out it’s the number thirty-five.

The results from a University of Kent study suggested that at age thirty-five, men reach “peak loneliness” and women reach “peak boring.” It’s also noted as the age when folks are more likely to begin hating their jobs.

[image error]None of these aforementioned particulars much matter in the case of the J.P. Wiser’s edition before me. Having “35-years-old” on the label communicates anything but lackluster or deleterious. Instead, the number thirty-five heralds a numerological vantage of depth and experience that many whiskies might covet but few can claim. And when it comes to this whisky, the envy is merited.

The nose is a sweet and creamy custard of vanilla and tangerines stirred into a cup of light-roast coffee. In the mouth, the cream continues, but adds to the regimen a spryness of cinnamon and oak.

The finish is a medium draw of overly ripened pineapple, cocoa powder, and cinnamon.

J.P. Wiser’s has done a splendid thing here, and if anything, they’ve given those of us noticing the wheels beginning to fall off a trophy dram to celebrate the accomplishments that come along in the years following thirty-five—careers, a little more money for better booze, lasting love, a few kids, a little less money for better booze, a few more kids, a lot less money for booze, wisdom, and so many other things that the club-hopping twenty-something millennials are flittering away to a much more distant future under the fleeting guise of “youth.” Personally, I look back on my twenties and remember them as friend-filled and interesting, but from my current perspective, I now recall them as lonely and, in most circumstances, less than inspiring. It’s only in the current time that life is about as interesting as it gets. With four kids running around, I’m never alone. And with everything else involved with marriage and parenting, I’m rarely bored.

So, call me old if you’d like. Just know that in the grand scheme, a good many things get better with age. The J.P. Wiser’s 35-years-old Canadian Whisky is iconic of this truth.

Review – Ninety, Decades of Richness, 20 Years Old, 45%

[image error]I’m sitting on a bench in the waiting area of the dojo where my son, Harrison, only recently began learning Tae Kwon Do. A moment ago, there was a young girl a few paces from me talking to a friend’s parent and telling him the tale of her brother who was bullied at school today.

As the story goes, the young boy tried to walk away, but the bully kept pushing him, ultimately landing a thrust to his chest that caused him to fall backward and hit his head on the floor. Apparently, all of it was caught in a pretty lengthy video and has since been shared with school administrators who are promising to do something about it. According to the young girl’s mother, who was standing beside the young girl as she told the story, when she and her husband saw the recording, they were furious, and rightfully so. But in light of the situation, the expression of their fury was curious.

I know the boy. I’ve seen him here at the dojo. He’s not a big kid, but I’m pretty sure he’s one of the students preparing to test for a black belt. In other words, he has some skills that could easily dispatch a bully on the playground. And yet in their anger, the advice mom and dad gave to their son was to take a stand against the bully by matching action for action. She fervently reported that she’d told her son that if the bully pushes him, he is to push back. If the bully calls him a name, he is to call him one back. If the bully takes something of his, he is to take something from the bully.

I’ll admit that I don’t know the fuller history to the situation, but from what I do know, I was stunned by the advice because it seemed as though they were pressing for their son to deliberately escalate the problem. The only thing I could think was, Have you forgotten where you are right now and what your son has been learning for the past few years? He hasn’t been coming here every Tuesday and Thursday for who knows how long to train for a black belt in Tae-Learn-How-To-Make-Things-Worse-Do. And he certainly isn’t preparing to demonstrate the proper technique for falling and hitting his head against the floor.

My advice: Forget returning malice for malice. Be humble and controlled, but put your skills to work. With the first shove, warn him. With another shove, warn him again. After that, landing one of those round-house kicks you’ve been perfecting against his teeth should just about do it. Certainly we don’t want anyone to get hurt, but if pain infliction is going to be a part of the unfortunate equation, let it be used for bringing the situation to a speedy conclusion, and let it be leveled against the bully and not the victim. And besides, your kid will probably end up being a YouTube sensation and maybe even land a spot on The Ellen Degeneres Show.

[image error]In summary, what’s the point of taking the time to gather the necessary tools for success if when the time comes to employ them you don’t? Such context is reminiscent of the Century Distillers’ 20-year-old Ninety edition. At such an age, and with such experience, this whisky should be taking out schoolyard bullies left and right, but instead, it’s more of a confused amalgam that wants to be caught off balance.

The nose of the Ninety is a syrupy sauce of alcohol-soaked caramel apples. A follow-up sniff reveals salt and stale caramel corn.

The palate is the nose’s identical twin, although the two are easily discernible by the fusty animal cracker mole on the palate’s chin.

The finish is a medium stroll of sullenness through the schoolyard, one in which the tongue is oppressed by bitter rye and wood spices. There’s a sense of depth waiting to be discovered, and a couple of drops of water offer aid toward its revelation, but in the end, the whisky just won’t dig any deeper to become what it could be. Instead, it falls back and hits the floor.

As I already mentioned, my son Harrison is currently a student of Tae-Kwon-do, and as far as I know, he isn’t being bullied at school. But I assure you that if he was, I have a small stack of monthly invoices from a dojo down the street that both assumes my permission to dig deep while forshadowing a swift end to the situation.