Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 19

Review – Wayne Gretzky Canadian Whisky, Ninety Nine Proof, Small Batch, (No Age Stated), 49.5%

[image error]My relationship with Facebook is a tenuous one. Some days we get along pretty well. Other days I can’t think of anything I despise more. Today is one of those days.

Today’s reason is because Facebook has once again proven itself to be a platform for catwalking the worst about us—which in this case is the inability to admit when one is wrong.

Let me explain.

I don’t know if you really even care, but the topic was “closed” versus “open” communion. I happen to be a pastor in a particular branch of Christianity that subscribes to closed communion, which means that unless you confess the real presence of Christ in, with, and under the bread and the wine for the forgiveness of sins, you shouldn’t participate in the sacrament. This practice gets a bad rap from most mainstream protestants as being cold and unfriendly, and while I don’t have time to go into all of the reasons as to why it’s exactly the opposite, just know that I tend to agree with Saint Paul and his instruction in 1 Corinthians 11:27-30 and am therefore a closed communion subscriber.

Still, even as I take the administration of the Lord’s Supper very seriously, I won’t go out of my way to hassle you if you practice open communion. I’ll answer to God for my practice. You’ll answer for yours. Done. Let’s go get a whisky.

Anyway, open communion is as it sounds. Anyone who believes anything about anything regarding the sacrament is welcome to participate. And why? Because its chief significance is not Christ’s presence and the giving of forgiveness, but rather it is a memorial meal of remembrance for all who, at a minimum, acknowledge Christ.

So here’s why I hate Facebook…

A gentleman in favor of open communion chimed in and said that since Judas participated in the very first Lord’s Supper that must mean that Jesus was in favor of open communion.

The huge leap that it is, for some, I’m sure the argument sounds like a convincing. At the time of the Lord’s Supper, Judas was an unbeliever, a man set on betraying Jesus to the ruling council. If Jesus allowed someone to receive His holy supper even as an unbeliever, then He must be suggesting that Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 11 with regard to discerning the real presence aren’t as paramount in the practice as Paul teaches.

But there’s a problem. Judas wasn’t even there during the Lord’s Supper. He’d already left to go and get the guards and doesn’t get mentioned again until the arrest in Gethsemane. How do I know this? Because each of the four Gospels provides various pieces to the timeline. As it relates to Judas, John 13:18-30, the place where the betrayer ducks out to do his deed, occurs right between verses 21 and 22 of chapter 14 in Mark’s Gospel account. It’s the same for verses 25 and 26 of chapter 26 in Matthew’s account. It’s a very simple logging of the evening’s events. And by the way, don’t forget that logistics apply in these circumstances, too. Judas didn’t own a teleportation device, so if he stayed through until the end of the meal, and then went with Jesus and the disciples to Gethsemane, to accomplish his task he must have been a track star, because he covered a lot of ground in a very short period of time. I mean, how would he have managed to get all the way back into the city, gather the guards, and get right back out to the garden without a single one of the disciples noticing or the Gospel writers mentioning it?

That’s why we have John 13:18-30. That’s when Judas left. John tells us—rather explicitly—so that we know.

With that, Judas wasn’t there and so the point is nullified as proof that Jesus supports open communion based on the fact that He included Judas in the distribution. Now, maybe the point could be made somewhere else in the Bible that the Lord promotes open communion. But if so, I don’t know where that is. I know it isn’t here in this argument regarding Judas.

I hate Facebook, because it is a safe place for potshot stupidity in conversations that you can simply delete or abandon what you’ve said rather than apologize and admit to error. Or you can do what the one making the argument did in response. You can type something like, “Well, at least we can admit that Judas was there that night and probably ate with Jesus.”

Man, I hate that. Sure, we can admit Judas was there. But we can assume that there were bugs in the room, too, since I doubt they had regular visits from the Orkin man in first century Jerusalem. Does that mean that bugs are invited to participate in the sacrament? The point is that the sacrament was instituted for human beings—at a minimum, human beings of faith—and when it was instituted, Judas wasn’t there. With that, just apologize for being wrong about this particular proofing effort and let’s move along to a discussion point that actually has something in its middle—something that we can discuss. How hard is it?

I think it’s really hard. I’ve shared with all of you before that one of the most courageous things a person can do is admit fault and seek forgiveness. It doesn’t take much courage to defend error. Fear defends error. But it takes an unearthly measure to set oneself below another and admit fault. Those kinds of people are the ones I respect the most.

So, I don’t care which camp you’re in. I really don’t. But if you are going to argue one position or the other, you should at least be somewhat familiar with the basics of the biblical narrative—you know, the place where we get the stuff used in a debate about open or closed communion. What if the folks making whisky just started throwing useless assumptions together thinking that it would result in the perfect recipe for a fine dram? My guess is that’s how the world ended up with Scoresby. Thankfully, Wayne Gretzky’s group isn’t doing that. They seem to be carrying truth into the process, and with that, the results are worth your while.

[image error]Take, for example, the Ninety Nine Proof edition. The nose of this little gem is a wash of dark cherries, wood spice, cinnamon, and a little bit of something to singe the nostrils—although, not in a bad way, but in an enlivening way.

In the mouth, the Ninety Nine is creamy cerate of fruit and caramel. The Cabernet Sauvignon cask is more than influential, and it binds to the caramel, which you also notice has been enhanced with a dash of the wood spice from the nose.

The medium finish is one of the better conclusions I’ve experienced lately, being a consolidation of both the nose and palate. In fact, I’d say it unapologetically held the nose and palate together very well—unlike the argument from the guy who tried to support open communion by insinuating that Jesus communed Judas.

But Jesus didn’t commune Judas. You’re wrong. Judas wasn’t there. And catwalked unapologetic stupidity makes me hate Facebook.

Review – Highland Park, Magnus, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]I drive a Jeep Wrangler now. It’s black. I named it Vader. Well, actually the kids named it Vader. I wanted to name it Drax the Destroyer.

This isn’t my first Jeep Wrangler. I’ve owned two prior to this one. I sold the first one when I lived in Levittown, Pennsylvania. I had to. I lived in a crappy part of town, and with the soft top, I just couldn’t seem to keep a decent radio in it—or anything else for that matter. Eventually when Jen and I moved back to Michigan, we bought another one. Although, not too long after that, we found it necessary to sell it and buy a minivan, mainly because I was the chauffer to and from school for four children. The Wrangler only had room for three and I didn’t think Jen would be happy with me strapping one of the little ones to the roof, although I did prepare and present to her a lottery system just in case.

Anyway, I figured the day would eventually come when one of those kids would start driving his own car and I’d only need space for three. Well, that time has come.

[image error]Not only have I missed having a Wrangler during the Michigan winters, but I’ve missed the comradery that goes with it—the two-fingered wave that Wrangler pilots flash to one another from the steering wheel when they pass on the road.

Jen forgot all about the little gesture, but I didn’t. Just today we were driving and she asked me why I waved.

“We just passed a Wrangler,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” she replied. “You guys have that little thing you do.”

“Yes, we do.”

As a side note, I should clarify that I don’t necessarily wave to the four-door Wranglers. Waving to them feels weird—like saluting an American flag with twenty-six stripes and a hundred stars.

I suppose being a whisky drinker has its Wrangler-esque moments. When you see another fellow in an establishment sipping a straight dram, well, it’s not too out of place to lift your glass slightly and give a nod. That’s the wave, and you don’t give it to folks holding a mixed drink or sipping a beer.

However, I would suggest not doing it if you notice that the whisky drinker is crying, or you notice the barkeep reaching to refill his dram with Scoresby. In either of those instances, you should probably just ignore him. He’s a four-door Wrangler. Just keep driving.

On the other hand, if you’re feeling generous, you might order him two-fingers worth of the Highland Park Magnus. Doing this, you’ll show him that no matter what has happened, it is possible for life to get a little better, or at a minimum, it’s possible to recover from poor choices.

Now, before you get your hopes up about this whisky, you need to know that at $40 a bottle in the liquor stores, there are two reasons why it’s the perfect gesture for a crying Scoresby drinker. First, it’s not top shelf, which means the markup price will be reasonable. The second is that after a sour glass of the sewage that is Scoresby, the incredibly mild character of the Magnus will serve well to wash it away—like fresh rainwater washing away a clod of muck in the gutter.

But again, don’t get your hopes up with this one. A sniff will leave you wondering if perhaps someone watered down your Scotch. There’s barely a drifting of the maltiness you might expect from Highland Park. It takes a deeper dive into the glass to find the sherry and a very distant wisp of smoke.

The palate, as I already mentioned, is exceptionally dainty. Like the nose, a sip leaves you wondering if at one time there were a few ice cubes in your glass that eventually melted away. The smoke is more noticeable, but still it remains afar off. Concentrating—and I mean really concentrating—you may discover warmed whipped cream atop cherries and dusted with chocolate.

The finish is short. In fact, it’s almost too quick to notice anything. I’d say I sensed salted butter.

[image error]I’ll admit that over the course of the years driving our minivan, I did try to start a wave between the Chrysler Town and Country owners. It didn’t work out, but not because I didn’t give it my all. It’s just that I felt that for the sake of all the soccer moms I should do something that looked a little more like jazz hands. I think I scared a lot of people. And not to mention I found myself flashing the animated pose every nineteen seconds because there are about a billion Town and Country minivans around here. By the time I arrived to my destination, I was exhausted.

In the end, I suppose I’m glad that didn’t catch on. I’m a pastor. I don’t need any more blame for anything else.

Review – Bowmore, 15 Years Old, Darkest, 43%

[image error]Because there aren’t too many things that scare me, if you ever actually see or hear me startled, it’s most likely because I came face to face with a shark, or I was surprised by one or both of the two children in my home who walk and talk in their sleep.

For one, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear my daughter Madeline is a Pentecostal vampire. In other words, it’s not all that uncommon in the evening to travel past her bedroom and hear her speaking in a conversational voice, uttering the kinds of gibberish you might hear at a tent revival. But brace yourself as you stand there in her doorway listening to her speak in tongues. At any moment, she may sit straight up and slowly turn her head toward the doorway, reminiscent of Michael Myers from “Halloween,” or the undead master vampire, Kurt Barlow, in Stephen King’s ’Salem’s Lot. Perhaps more terrifying is that even with her eyes closed, she somehow knows who it is that’s standing in her doorway.

[image error]“Daddy!” she says with a forceful whisper. “Can I have another hug and kiss before bed?”

“Go back to sleep, Madeline,” is my typical response, which is really just an evangelical way of saying to her, “No way I’m giving you hug and a kiss right now. You’re creeping me out. And besides, I’m not interested in becoming your next meal.”

Harrison is another story altogether, although a similarly creepy one. There have been times when I’ve walked by his bedroom and found him standing in the middle of his room in the dark with his eyes wide open. A distant stare and barely blinking, he’s eerily cognoscente that I walked by, and so with that, he turns toward the door to ask a question, something like, “Where are the birds for the soccer game?”

“They’re in Nevada by that rock that looks like a coffee maker,” I might say, because it really doesn’t matter what answer I give. “Now, go back to sleep, Harry.” And then he does.

[image error]In moments like these, instants that occur after sundown, moments that involve ominously pale children stirring from motionless sleep to hover in tenebrous spaces, I’m a little on edge, and so the only darkness I’m willing to venture into is a deep ambered whisky like the Bowmore 15-year-old Darkest edition.

A gift to me from a friend visiting Scotland, the nose of this sampler dram actually entices one into a peaty shadowland of smoked citrus fruits and vegetal meats. With a sip, the dusky end-of-day somnolence turns to a crisp and wide-eyed night of smoke, sweet and sour oak, and Werther’s soft caramel chews.

The medium finish speaks in tongues—of men and of angels—with peppery washes of singed and salty fruit, it grabs hold tightly and pulls you back for another sip.

That reminds me…

I think that one of the creepiest, and perhaps most humorous, of the sleepwalking occurrences so far was when Jennifer and I were watching a movie and Harrison suddenly appeared out of nowhere—as if he’d emerged from the darkest corner of the room. He was wearing sleep pants but no shirt, and with a semi-literate mumble, he complained that he was cold. Wondering how in the world he made it down the stairs without us seeing him, I told him to go put a shirt on and get back into bed. He did. A few minutes later he emerged from the same dark space again to say he was still cold—except this time he was wearing a shirt but had taken off his pants.

It was all very spooky. Jen, of course, asked me to shepherd him back to his room.

“No way, José,” I said with certainty. “This is all a trick to get one of us alone in the darkness—like that creature from ‘The Thing.’ As soon as I’m distracted and pulling the covers up and over him, his face will split open and tentacles will fly out and pull my head clean off. I’m sure the little sleepwalking ghoul can find his way back to his room on his own.”

Getting the look, I attempted to negotiate.

“Okay, I’ll take him to his room, but just to put him in it and then close the door. How’s that?”

“I’ll do it,” the loving but foolish mother replied with a sigh.

“Yeah, you will,” I whispered, well after she had already departed, of course.

Review – Wayne Gretzky Canadian Whisky, Ice Cask, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]I arrived at the DMV around 9:30 a.m. It wasn’t until 12:21 p.m. that my number—95—was finally called.

171 minutes later.

I made my way forward to the kiosk, but before taking that final step to begin conducting my business, I turned back to the ever-increasing swarm of people, many of whom had been there just as long, and I said with my preacher’s voice, “Assuming any of you actually go to church, remember this day the next time you get the urge to drop one of those little comment cards into the suggestion box near to your congregation’s front door. Remember this day when you feel the need to complain that the worship service is too long or that your pastor should work to shorten his sermons.”

I allowed a moment for the announcement to sink in. There were a few chuckles, and maybe a few uncomfortable coughs. An older woman in the front row, bearing a slight smirk, leaned forward and said in a partial hush, “Pray for us, Father.”

“I have been, my child,” I answered. “For three hours, I’ve prayed.”

Most of the folks just stared, but I didn’t care, and so I added one last time, “Remember this day.” With that, I turned to the clerk who’d only moments before called my number. She was frowning. Again, I didn’t care. The place has twelve stations, but only two people on duty. And of those two, she was the one who managed only one customer every twenty minutes while the other accomplished two in that same amount of time.

I know. I timed them both. But what else was I supposed to do? I used up all the juice in my smartphone by 10:45. Sure, there were TVs in the place, but the only thing showing on them were PowerPoint type slideshows about traffic safety. Did you know the average time it takes to glance at a cellphone while driving and cause an accident is three seconds? There also were a few cycling news clips from well before last year’s national election which only served to enhance the rage of the people in there who were beginning to feel as though they’d already been there for a year. I should mention that I counted all the ceiling tiles—727 in all, if you’re counting the tiny triangular ones as individual tiles.

Meanwhile, I was surrounded by all that serves to remind me how devolved our society has become.

Two rows ahead of me was a man holding a one-year-old girl and talking on his phone to who I’m guessing was his boss, trying to explain to him that he was at the DMV trying to get the license he needed but hadn’t yet acquired. From what I gauged, he was dealing with a couple of DUIs as well as an arrest and conviction in Detroit sometime last year. To make the scene even more disheartening he took a moment to swear at his little girl each time she squirmed in uncomfortable boredom.

To my right was a woman. Having noticed that her number was 96, which was just after mine, I attempted to make friendly small talk.

“I’ll bet right before they call my number, the clerks are going to go to lunch,” I said, leaning slightly toward her. “That would be just perfect for us, wouldn’t it?” She acknowledged my words with a glance and an awkward grin, but then put her face even more closely to the “People” magazine in her hands in order to let me know she wanted nothing to do with me.

To this woman’s right was another woman—a mother—who tapped at her smartphone while her three-year-old son sat popping open an empty Pez dispenser and staring into oblivion. No talking. No attempt at engaging the lad. She was too busy talking to her virtual friends.

Behind me, leaning against the wall, was a heavier set man who I’m guessing ate an entire bag of Chalupas from Taco Bell before arriving. Every now and then he’d let a little fart go, and with each release, he’d shift his stance and glance around the room as if observing something important. I got the sense that he truly believed none of the people around him could hear what he was doing. Calm and cool, he stood. There were a few moments when I found it necessary to put my face into my sleeve.

The whole experience was truly hell on earth. In fact, I’m pretty sure I read about this place in Dante’s Inferno. The only thing that could have made the experience worse would have been for me to hear my number called and then to arrive at the kiosk to discover I didn’t have all of the items required for my transaction—and then to be startled awake by one of the gaseous breezes from the man behind me, revealing that I’d only dreamt that my number had been called and I was still sitting in the plastic chair near the back of the room.

By the way, I shouldn’t forget to mention that in the midst of my transaction with the slowest clerk in the place, a man emerged from a back office and told her to take her lunch after she was done with me.

Take that, you cold-hearted-anti-social-People-Magazine-reading lady in the back of the room.

Oh my. Did I just write that? Do you see what a morning at the DMV has done to me? Oh, these poor people.

The next time I need to purchase transportation, I’m buying a horse instead. Or a goat. Or even some ice skates. I’d rather strap ice skates to my feet and struggle against the pothole infested pavement we call roads here in Michigan—anything to stay the hell out of the DMV. And besides, as a means of transportation, ice skates would probably work here in Michigan since we experience winter’s frigid darkness for at least eight months of the year. We certainly have a lot more of winter than we do summer.

[image error]Speaking of ice skates and “more than less” circumstances, I wish I had a lot more of this Wayne Gretzky Canadian Whisky Ice Cask edition than what’s in this kindly sample I received from my friend, George. This served as a fine calming agent following the experience I described above.

A swirl and a sniff reveals the whisky’s impending sweetness. Essentially, it’s honied cognac and some concord jam.

It’s easy on the palate, too, carrying along the sweetness already described. But then in that moment between the savor and swallow, a heftier dough-like batter arrives, bringing along with it a dash of nutmeg and rye.

The finish—a pleasant sweet cream married to the concord jam from the nosing—totters in length between short and medium.

Unlike my purgatorial time at the DMV. By the way, forget about the ice skates and instead think on a name for my goat.

Review – Tomintoul, 10 Years Old, 40%

[image error]“You’d miss me if I was gone,” Jennifer said playfully.

“Indeed, I would,” I replied to my lovely wife with just as bright a smile as her’s. But, I should’ve stopped right there. And yet, I didn’t. My mind kept working and I kept talking. “If I ever lost you,” I continued, “you know what I’d do first?”

“What’s that?” she asked, plopping down on the couch beside me.

“I’d buy a little TV and set it where you’re sitting right now, and every time I go to watch a movie, I’d turn it on a 24-hour news station.”

“Why?” she pried, looking somewhat bewildered.

“Because you always talk during movies,” I said. “I’d miss that a lot. I’d have that TV there to make it harder to concentrate on the movie, and every time I turn to look at it—to tell it to stop talking knowing that it won’t—I’ll think of you. I’ll probably cry through the whole movie… which will be a scary movie… because you won’t watch scary movies with me.”

“You know, you can lose me to more than death,” she spoke, inferring divorce. Her voice was steady and her face equally void of emotion. “Or I could lose you,” she concluded. “You could die in your sleep.”

Like I said, I should’ve stopped. And over the course of the next few days, I’ll be sleeping with one eye open, as the saying goes. She’s a good woman, but she’s more than capable of making whatever happens look like an accident.

“Ma’am,” the officer might say, “it looks like your husband died peacefully in his sleep.”

“Oh dear,” she’ll respond, wiping at a dry eye. “You know, I’ve been telling him for years that I thought he had sleep apnea.”

[image error]Do you think it was an accident that, if it ever departed from this world, the Tomintoul 10-year-old is one that folks would miss more than its 16-year-old sibling edition? Well, that’s at least how I feel about the whole situation. The 16-year-old was a mess, and with a tagline on the bottle referring to it as the gentle dram, I was uncertain what was meant by “gentle.” If I recall, my review of the 16-year-old mentioned tiny sharks attacking my tongue, so if by “gentle” they mean gradually being devoured by little sharks as opposed to being bitten in half by a big one, then the tagline fits. Still, they miss the truer definition of the word.

The 10-year-old is indeed gentle. The nose is warm butter and medium roasted coffee with cream. I also sensed a little bit of what I thought was a lime, but I didn’t get that until I added the tiniest drop of water after having already taking a straight sniff and sip.

The palate is unquestionably a browned and buttered English muffin with a thin, crowning layer of sweet mandarin marmalade.

The finish is very close to matching the palate’s details, but it adds to a light, but otherwise lengthy wash of the butter, something slightly spicy. My guess is cinnamon.

In all, if I were to make an attempt to connect the dots in this little jaunt, I’d say Jennifer is the 10-year-old Tomintoul. If she were ever suddenly absent from this world, she’d be missed. The 16-year-old, on the other hand, would never compare, and yet would only ever serve as a reminder of what you so desperately miss in the better edition.

Now, I realize there are loopholes in my logic as it meets with the scenario on the couch—plenty that have the potential for making my current hole a little deeper and the next few nights of “eyes wide open” a little longer. Just know I love my wife more than anything in the world, and with that, I’ll stop right there.

Review – Grand Traverse Distillery, 100% Straight Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]I had a dream last night that I was driving a Dodge Viper painted liked Bumble Bee from the Transformers. I’m pretty sure this is the result of having seen the very same car for sale along the side of the road on my way to a nearby hospital to visit a parishioner.

In the dream, I was driving very slowly through a parking garage, making my way to the top deck. As I crept along, winding my way skyward, making one left-hand turn after the other (which if you have ever been in a parking garage is opposite to the typical flow of traffic) with the convertible top down, I discovered on each new level massive crowds of people dressed in tuxedos and gala gowns. Being careful to weave through the gatherings, the people turned to stare. Some pointed. Others leaned to their partners to whisper. After a little while, I remembered that I was wearing my clerical collar, and with that, a familiar feeling washed over me as I rolled along—a sensation I recall experiencing the first time I found myself in Washington D.C. sitting across the table from a handful of our nation’s political leaders.

It was the unblunted mood of being in a place where I did not belong.

In terms of my time in D.C., who is this lowly parish pastor to be sitting here with us and challenging our efforts at leadership? With regard to the dream, how is it that a man of such lowly vocation would be found driving a Dodge Viper? And not only that, but how is it that he thinks he can drive past us on his way to higher levels in the structure?

Needless to say, I kept driving. Eventually I arrived at the top level, but when I did, I discovered a very thin crowd—perhaps only a handful of people. Among them, at first, I recognized only two. The first was C.S. Lewis. He was leaning against my minivan laughing while smoking his pipe. It was then that I noticed my wife, Jennifer. She was talking with him. In that same moment, I realized she had our youngest daughter on her hip, no longer seven years old, but a toddler again. On the periphery of the conversation were my other little ones—Joshua, Madeline, and Harrison—all much younger than they are now.

When the kids saw me approaching in the Viper, they ran to greet me. Lewis motioned to Jennifer to go, too. Joshua, the first to arrive, wanted to sit in the driver’s seat. Hearing his brother, Harrison asked if he could, too. Madeline just wanted me to pick her up, and so I did. And I held her close. Jennifer balanced Evelyn and gave me a kiss.

That was pretty much it.

Like most of the dreams I have, if when I awaken I’m able to retain much of what transpired, I do so wondering if the imaginings have any particular meaning. In other words, what is my mind doing while I’m sleeping, and how is it trying to sort out what I can’t seem to categorize while I’m awake? Most often, I don’t know the answer to that question. But this dream left me thinking that even as I find myself in different places with different people—sometimes even ending up at events reserved for those we would consider the societal elite—in the end, the highest stratum of the structure in this life is found among those for whom you’d give up everything to keep with you for eternity. It’s found in the familiar embrace of someone who loves you, not because of what you’ve done, but because of who you are—a husband, a father, a friend.

Now, why was C.S. Lewis there, and why was he getting so friendly with my wife? That I don’t know. I do admire him. A lot, in fact. I’ll have to think about that one.

So, what does this have to do with whiskey? Well, I suppose the dream I shared—which in a sense was one that teaches to be happy right where you are—could lead toward valuing the whiskies created in one’s own state. As a Michigander, I’m discovering that even as I could shell out Dodge Viper dollars for a nice bottle of Scotch, I can find myself just as smiley with a bottle of whiskey from one of my own home’s distilleries for a lot less. Michigan whiskey manufacturers are creating some really good drams.

Take, for example, the Grand Traverse Distillery’s 100% Straight Bourbon Whiskey. This is some great stuff.

Even while gathering closely to the sample as it was being poured into my bottle to take home, the scent was foretelling an exceptional sipper. And when I arrived home and transferred the elixir to a Glencairn, giving it a swirl or two before lifting scents of sweet corn dotted with black pepper, sea salt, and paprika, again, I knew I was being led to something exceptional.

The palate confirmed my expectations, first ushering along the sweet corn and the sea salt, but then adding to the jamboree a little bit of the smoke from the fire below the pot that’s boiling the cobs.

The finish was a medium relenting of barrel spice and baked beans mixed with brown sugar. Yes, you read that correctly—baked beans—something you’d never be served at an elitist gala in Washington D.C., but would most certainly discover simmering beside a plastic bowl full of potato salad and a plate of sweet corn on the deck table in July. Scooping it onto your paper plate, and stealing a bite with your plastic fork, you realize that while it wasn’t delivered in a Dodge Viper, it’s no less transient or precious, and that’s because you are right where you belong.

Review – Bowmore, Darkest, 15 Years Old, 43%

[image error]Even as Autumn is upon us, my front yard looks great. Its grass is plush and full, rivaling any professionally cultivated yard in town. My backyard, not so much. There aren’t any bare spots, but the grass grows thick and full in a limited number of island-like spots. Everything else remains thin.

I think it may have something to do with the deer that pass through fairly regularly. Over the years, as I’ve mowed, I’ve learned that there are certain locales I should tread with care because that’s where they do their business.

Speaking of mowing, I should set up a video camera and share the experience with you.

Seriously.

You know how most folks will mow in straight lines, gradually making their way across the yard until it’s finished? Yeah, that’s not what you’d see in my video, at least not in the backyard. I pretty much just wander around, going from patch to patch until I get them all. I figure it’s a waste of time and gasoline to mow a yard that doesn’t necessarily need it, and yet, if I don’t regularly mow those portions that get fuller than the others, it starts to look pretty crazy.

That second or third time I decided to do it this way, I noticed my southern-most neighbor peeking through the blinds of his door wall, and I imagined the conversation he was having with his wife at that moment.

“Honey, come take a look at this.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“I think Thoma only mows his yard when he’s drunk,” he replies.

“His poor wife,” she says, gently nudging aside one of the blinds to observe.

I suppose the next I see them spying, I’ll just go ahead and wave. And the next time I have a chance to talk with them, I already know what I intend to say.

“Hey, John!” I’ll say, waving excitedly.

“Hey, Chris,” he’ll reply uneasily from the mouth of his garage.

“So, did you see those bright lights in the sky last night?” I’ll ask in all seriousness.

“Bright lights?”

“Yeah, the lights. I sure hope they didn’t wake you and the dogs.”

“I didn’t see them,” he’ll continue puzzled. “What was going on?”

“Oh, nothing,” I’ll continue. “Just a couple of alien spacecraft hovering over my yard.”

“Alien spacecra—?”

“Yeah,” I’ll interrupt. “I’ve been doing the ‘crop circle’ thing in the back yard—you know, to help coordinate the invasion. They promised they wouldn’t eat me or my family after the war. Not really sure what they have planned for you and everyone else. They did say that I could be governor of the east coast territories. Let’s hope you’re left in my jurisdiction, right? Anyway, I think with my latest attempt at the language, I may have misspelled something. They stopped in last night to help with the conjugation.”

“Yeah, okay,” he’ll say and take a step back.

I have to admit that when I’m done mowing this way, I get a kick out of going into my upstairs bedroom which overlooks the backyard in order to better view my handiwork. The results are always rather spectacular.

The best part is that what used to take me about an hour, only takes thirty minutes.

The second best part is that the neighbors think I’m crazy, which is okay by me. It makes the solitude of my home all that more enjoyable. After a typical, and very long day, when I get home, I don’t need to be fearful that anyone from the neighborhood is going to stop in for a visit when they see the Millennium Falcon… I mean, the minivan… pull into the driveway. Although, I suppose if the “alien invasion” idea gets around and people start believing that I’m actually in line for a prominent position in the new world order, I may get more visitors than ever before, all putting their hopes in my benevolence.

I should probably rethink that strategy for explaining my strangely-mowed backyard.

[image error]I suppose I could go back to the intoxication idea, except I would qualify the booze part by saying that I’m not actually drunk, but rather performing a pre-mowing ritual that involves taking a sip of the 15-year-old Bowmore Darkest Sherry Cask Finished edition that results in a form of stunned ecstasy, ultimately causing me to wander around the yard.

I really like this whisky. The smoke, the sherry, the bite—it’s all good.

The nose is masterful, almost otherworldly, at least in the sense that the sweeter sherry and the smoky character take equal turns steering the craft. What I mean is that both are so crisp that it’s not difficult to concentrate on either. The smoke sets the scene beside a salty inlet from the ocean. The sherry is just beyond the mouth of the waterway, and as the smoke dissipates, the sherry takes over.

There is an oily nature to the palate. In it there is the suggestion of smoked berries, frosted pastry dough, and a wood spice bite. A second sip sees the smoke prevail.

The finish is absolutely delightful, rendering a semi-longer fade into something spicier, almost rum-like.

In all, this is a delightful dram, and it’s certainly worth your dollars—coming in right around $70. Actually, it might even be worth ritualizing, as I posited even if only for the sake of excuse, in order to explain away whatever strange behaviors you perform before observing neighbors.

“So, Bill,” your neighbor might say reservedly, “I couldn’t help but notice yesterday when you were doing yard work that you dug up some of the flowers from my flowerbed and planted them in yours.”

“I did?” you’ll pretend.

“Um, yes Bill, you did.”

“Oh, gosh, Tom. I’m truly sorry,” you’ll say in return. “Well, there’s no reason to dig ’em up again. That could kill ’em. And I should probably tell you about my pre-yardwork ritual, just in case I ever do that again.”

Review – Rebel Yell, American Whiskey, 24 Months, 45%

[image error]THE SECOND OF TWO REVIEWS I DID LIVE AT THE BOOK RELEASE PARTY ON  SEPTEMBER 19, 2017. PHOTOS FROM THE EVENT ARE AT THE BOTTOM.

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The world has lost its mind.

If it isn’t official already, it’s at least in the pipeline toward making it official. I’m sure there are people somewhere sitting around in committee meetings right now, maybe in someplace like Oslo, Norway or Paris, France. They’re writing stuff, debating, setting parameters, establishing dates—getting ready to make the announcement that the world has officially lost its mind.

The evidence? Hobby horse competitions in Finland.

Yes, you read that correctly. Right now there are over ten thousand girls in Finland between the ages of 12 and 18 who spend hours each week preparing routines, practicing form, and grooming their steeds for competition.

“So, what’s the big deal with that?” you ask.

Do you know what a hobby horse is?

“Yes.”

[image error]Oh good, then you know it’s the replica of a horse’s head made from various materials and attached to the end of a stick—or a “dowel rod” to the people who still ride hobby horses and are easily offended—and the stick is placed between the legs of the rider who prances around attempting to mimic the movements of a real horse. From what I know, it’s something that’s been around for centuries. It was used in theater, festival parades, and as a child’s toy. I’m pretty sure my sister, Shelley, had one. I just leaned over to my wife to ask her about them and she said she had one, too.

“Again, so, what’s the big deal?”

Well, I don’t normally find myself moved to criticize child competitions. Gymnastics, soccer, and even Comic-Con events—these all have their value in the lives of human beings inundated with the challenges of everyday existence. But when these competitive lifestyles become all-consuming, overshadowing attempts by parents to live vicariously through their children that ultimately result in the snatching away of childhood and other more important things in life, it’s then that I tend to offer commentary. In other words, when these things cause you to skip school and dodge Sunday morning worship, I’m annoyed.

[image error]Beyond this, and as it meets hobby horse competitions, I certainly wouldn’t think to criticize the playful activities of children. I have four, and it is always a bright-eyed event when they are carried away into imaginary spaces—realms where cardboard boxes are castles and hobby horses are majestic steeds, sometimes even with wings that lift them into the open expanse above the clouds. The castle is called “Eleanor’s Realm” and the horses have names like William, Lance, and depending on the child, sometimes Steve. I know the importance of such play. But again, when imaginary things cross over and into the realm of more important things, I begin to question. Again, in other words, when I listen to an interview with a little girl who speaks of her hobby horse as though it were a living horse, I begin to wonder. I get concerned when she talks to it while practicing her routine, telling it, “When we go into the jump, I’ll kick and you lift your head.” Or when she gets visibly frustrated and near the edge of tears before the interviewer as she explains that she’s doing her part, but she feels like the horse is having trouble learning its part. This should bother folks. God forbid the glue that’s holding the hobby horse’s head on the stick gets weak and the head flies off in the middle of a jump. On the other hand, maybe that’s all it would take to get the child into the therapy she so desperately needs right now.

Who knows? I sure don’t.

[image error]In the end, I wonder if this is merely an emanation resulting from life in a world where many of our relationships are virtual. We are connected to others through digital devices, and eventually, the device becomes the reality, the thing we can’t live without, rather than remaining the means of representation or communication of someone real.

Once again, who knows? I sure don’t. I just know that when I watch these hobby horse competitions on YouTube, I can’t help but feel like shouting out rebelliously against a world that has lost its mind. But in order to keep from raising my voice and frightening the nearby children in the cardboard castle, I pour a drink instead—one that’s calming, but can also do the shouting for me. The Rebel Yell American Whiskey, if only in name, is certainly an acceptable partner.

A rather nicely balanced blend of Bourbon and rye, the Rebel Yell American Whiskey is a warming dram, offering scents of cola, bubblegum, and rye spice. Disregarding an initial sour, a sip brings what tastes a little bit like Raisin Bran Crunch cereal in vitamin D milk.

The finish is a medium jaunt that maintains the raisins and nuttiness from the palate while bringing back the cola from the nosing.

In all, the whiskey was much more complex than I expected. And apparently, with the ever-increasing insanity—I mean, popularity—of hobby horse competitions, ESPN might just end up needing one more channel to make sure you experience the thrill in your own living room.[image error]————

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Evelyn and Harrison hocking raffle tickets.

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My daughter, Madeline.

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Yeah, this guy won the Rebel Yell American Whiskey. Congrats, Ryan!

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Madeline choosing the raffle winner.

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Joshua hiding in a corner.

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Evelyn had fun. But she also wore herself out.

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Review – Old Heaven Hill, Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, Bottled in Bond, (No Age Stated), 50%

[image error]THE FIRST OF TWO REVIEWS I DID LIVE AT THE BOOK RELEASE PARTY ON SEPTEMBER 19, 2017

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There is the well-known adage which speaks to the making of an assumption and the often unfortunate fruits it produces. The powerful little proverb, like a guardian angel wrapped in splendor and might, has protected so many in our society from doing or saying things to make themselves look foolish.

But is there such a proverb for sign keepers? I mean, is there a little nugget of ancient wisdom that a sign keeper might have readily available, an easy rhyme or an artless saying that he or she could pitch against before venturing up the ladder with those little plastic letters to spell out the message they intend to communicate to the masses?

If one is ever discovered, we’ll need to make haste in releasing it to the internet, because here on earth, amongst our own ranks, there exists a particular gathering of people charged with signages who desperately need shepherding before being allowed to interface with the public.

Consider the following message very carefully and you’ll understand my concern.[image error]

The keeper of this sign either needs to be fired, or should be heralded as a hero for managing to reveal a terrible and two-fold secret. In only eight words, we learn what goes into the restaurant’s hamburgers and why they need to hire a few more people. And perhaps, there’s still more to the story. Maybe this sinister recipe was there in the beginning with Dave Thomas, the restaurant chain’s founder. Perhaps all those years ago, Mr. Thomas chose to name his new restaurant, not necessarily to honor his daughter, but to tell us what (or who) was in his first round of sandwiches. And why would he do this? Because as many psychologists will tell you, secretly, some psychos want to be caught.

Do you see how far astray poor signage can lead someone? Well, it certainly didn’t lead me to the drive-thru.

Another example might be this:[image error]

Yes, long yellow things—or as humans know them—bananas. Again, either the creator of this sign needs to be fired, or he needs to be captured. My guess is the latter. The sign suggests that an otherworldly creature is working at this particular grocery store, and while it may have mastered its appearance, allowing it to live among us while formulating its plan for world domination, it has yet to master the English vernacular. The description of a rather basic fruit betrays its presence and identity.

Call in the men in black suits and be ready with a mop. I’m pretty sure there’s about to be a clean-up in aisle two.

Then there’s this sign on the exterior wall of a gas station near my office.[image error]

The maker of this sign not only needs a sign keeper’s proverb—if one is ever found—but he or she also needs to return to where we started with this little yarn and learn the one about making assumptions. First of all, how do you know the person’s ex-spouse is to blame for the divorce? Perhaps the ex-spouse tirelessly sought reconciliation and the one standing before the sign was the bringer of the marriage’s demise. Second, let’s say the ex-spouse is completely to blame. If this is true, how do you know he or she actually has a heart to which the beer might be compared? I know quite a few folks who’ve thrown their marriages away, and my guess is they don’t even have hearts, but rather a mass of blackened evil pumping oily and bubbling tar through their veins. Bubbling tar is not cold. The sign is full of assumptions.

[image error]Speaking of signs and assumptions—the Old Heaven Hill Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey has the words “Symbol of Excellence” on the label.

Excellence. What are we to make of such a term being used to announce a whiskey that’s good for little more than weed control in the driveway? Seriously, this stuff is a ground clear solution that kills to the roots. In fact, I’ll bet if I took the time to read the fine print on the whiskey’s packaging, I’d find instructions on usage, area coverage per gallon, and other notes touting that it becomes rainproof in thirty minutes and shows results in as few as twelve hours.

Ortho and Roundup have nothing on Old Heaven Hill. That should be the sign on its label.

The nose of this $8 whiskey is one that suggests its standard of excellence is something between rotting grass in the compost and rotting grass caked under the lawnmower’s carriage. Either way, it’s rotting vegetation of some sort. There is a little bit of something sweet in there, but my guess is that it’s either the Glyphosate or the Diquat dibromide, both of these being sweeter smelling components in most popular weed killer products.

After smelling the whiskey, the palate is shockingly better than expected. At first, it’s a bit sour, but then it takes a swift turn toward being a normal and drinkable Bourbon, giving over rye spices and a little bit of caramel.

The finish kills any chances of a long-term relationship. The vegetal sour returns, and in tow is the feeling that you should probably dump the rest of the bottle into a pump sprayer, being sure to add six fluid ounces for every gallon of water, and then make your way out to the pond to spray the algae. The frogs and snapping turtles will get a nice buzz, the pond will once again glisten in the sunshine, and you’ll have saved about $50 in comparison to the typical vegetation killers suitable for such a use.

After the job, perhaps a sign would be appropriate, something like: This Pond Maintained By Old Heaven Hill.[image error]

Review – Crown Royal, XO, Canadian Blended Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]There are certain words that carry an innate potency. When you hear them spoken, the mind immediately begins to stir, and in due course, the particulars associated with the words are brought to remembrance.

For example, if I were to say “double-decker bus,” right away you might imagine a giant, candy-colored transport filled with tourists and navigating the narrow streets of an ancient and gray city, stopping along the way at places like Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, and the Tower of London.

If I were to mention the R.M.S. Titanic, perhaps it is that your mood would change as you contemplate the icy waters of the northern Atlantic consuming more than 1,500 people aboard the infamous ocean liner heralded as the ship that not even God could sink. Or maybe your mood turned sour because you thought of Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslett, and a certain song by Céline Dion. If this is more the case, then I’m truly sorry for bringing it up. Allow me to make haste toward a different image.

What comes to mind when you hear the word “gumbo”? For me, I see a product born in Africa but raised in Louisiana. I see images of the coastal American south beginning to coalesce like spirits conjured by a voodoo priestess. I see snakes winding through patches of swamp grass, Spanish moss hanging from primordial trees, well-used and rusting fishing boats tied in harbor, and open fires cradling kettles filled with simmering stews of shrimp, chicken, or beef and the holy trinity of southern vegetables—onions, bell peppers, and celery.

You know what doesn’t come to mind when I say “gumbo”? Canada.[image error][image error]

Now don’t get me wrong. Canada is a wonderful place. It’s just that eating gumbo made in Canada is sort of like flying an American flag made in China. For purists, it’s tantamount to sacrilege. I’m led to assume that the folks at Campbell’s know this, but they found themselves in a bind. Like any business savvy company, they intended to market their product as “authentic,” but when the labels rolled out, the lawyers stepped in. Pointing to the fine print of the trade agreement, the lawyers reminded Campbell’s of the requirement to prominently display the product’s Canadian origin.

And so they did.

Along the same lines, I used to feel the same with regard to Canadian whisky as I do now regarding Old Glory being produced and sold by a communist state. In other words, I used to think that Canadian whisky could never be considered as authentic as other whiskies—at least not as legitimate as Scotch or Bourbon. But that’s because my only interaction with the country’s booze was with the likes of Canadian Club. But over time, I tried others, and in so doing, I became aware of my incredible wrongness. Canada does indeed have some really great distilleries producing some really great whiskies.

Then there’s Crown Royal. I’ve tried several different renditions from this well-beloved distiller, but I’ve not found love for any of them. And yet, today has delivered something altogether different—the XO edition—and it is changing what comes to mind when I hear the words “Crown Royal.”

[image error]The nose of this delightfully creamy dram is one of toffee edged with dark chocolate and sprinkled with toasted oats. This much concentrated sweetness would typically cause me concern because it suggests a syrupy character that I do not prefer and yet have found to be characteristic of most Crown Royal editions. But here, the nose is not heavy, but lighthearted, and such lightheartedness communicates something crisp will follow. And it does.

The palate is oak spice, baked apples, oats, and vanilla. There’s a tad bit of nip near the end of the savoring, but it comes along at just the right time with a measure of dryness that helps to keep the syrupy character at bay.

The finish is quick, almost hurriedly so, leaving behind a trace of the oak, apples, and oats.

I know this stuff has been around for a while, but with every invocation of the Crown Royal name, I’ve shrunken from any desire to give it a whirl. I thought I knew what to expect. Good or bad, I’ve arrived to the party—or better yet, a sample of the XO was brought to me from the party. Obligated, but still giving it an honest go, I realize now that Crown Royal deserves its status as an authentic favorite for many. And since this is true, then maybe, just maybe, we should try a spoonful of Canadian gumbo, because you just never know.