Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 2

Review – The Deacon, Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

If you’re talking to me, I may only be half-listening. This does not mean I don’t like you or that I’m generally disinterested in what you have to say. It simply means that mentally, I’ve strayed into a possible scenario relative to our discussion, and I’m now trapped in an unfortunate attention-sucking downswirl of questions that is leading me to more questions.

For example, I took two of our empty propane tanks to a nearby refilling station. While the attendant, a nice fellow, labored within a small booth of levers, valves, and hoses, he struck up a conversation about new rules for reusing empty tanks—or cylinders, as he called them. By the end of the second rule, I was already wondering what I’d do first if the cylinder he deemed safe and was actively refilling had an unforeseen flaw and exploded, ultimately smearing him along the inside of the booth.

Shocking, I know. But that’s what I was thinking. From there, I wondered about product defect rates. I wondered how corporations calculate the risks. I wondered how many products make it to market each year only to be pulled because their defect rates are too high. I wondered what kept the two rusty metal propane bombs before me from exploding and how it was legal for me to be driving around town with them in the back of my Jeep.

I thanked the man for his help, paid the bill, and loaded the cylinders into the Wrangler. I drove home. Nothing exploded, and no one died. Still, I wondered.

Later that day, I skimmed a study by a Harvard Business School professor who reported that of the nearly 30,000 new products introduced each year, 95% fail and are eventually abandoned. But by fail, he meant the products generally did not meet consumer expectations, or there was no real market for them to begin with. I found another article that noted that the Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) reported 382 product recalls in 2020. It seems recalls only occur after a product is deemed defective, resulting in injuries or death. Defects typically include design flaws, manufacturing errors, and other unseen or unexpected product quirks. The defects result in “falls, fires, burns, choking hazards, lacerations, or poisoning.”

Again, more distractions. I wondered about the term “lacerations.” It doesn’t just mean the product had an unforeseen edge capable of drawing blood. It also means amputation and decapitation. I discovered the determiner “fires” includes explosions. Tangentially, these are the CPSC’s reported outcomes from propane grill explosions, of which there are, on average, 600 per year. About ten are fatal.

I also wondered about the term “poisoning.” Did they mean the kind that immediately sends a person to the hospital under threat of impending death? Does the term also include the slow and steady ingestion of less-than-pleasant chemicals—like the ones I sensed in The Deacon Blended Scotch Whisky? Probably not. Nevertheless, every product recall begins with an initial town crier, someone who announces the dangers. I shall be that someone.

The nose is fine. Let’s just start with the fact that I could sit and sniff this whisky all day, mainly because it’s more like air than whisky. Yes, it’s salty and vegetal, stirring up hints of distant peat. But none of these things are overwhelming. They’re just sort of there. They linger within good and bad’s in-between spaces.

The palate presents a slight sweetness. But it almost seems purposely hidden by a syrupy, artificial peat. Is that because the base alcohol isn’t a product of grain distillation, but instead, is really ethylene glycol, the form of alcohol used in antifreeze that makes it so enticing to pets and small children? I hope not.

The finish, a stringent sour, is the whisky’s most muscular component. It lingers longer than it should as it pries from my insides more questions than it should. As it prattles, I’m already wondering if the antifreeze manufacturers have ever thought about using a chemical that isn’t so sweet. As it turns out, some have. Some have replaced ethylene glycol with propylene glycol. However, most manufacturers remain fixed on the former, mainly because it’s far cheaper.

It’s just a thought, but maybe they should consider The Deacon.

The post Review – The Deacon, Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Pig’s Nose, Blended Scotch Whisky, 5 Years Old, 40%

Do you want to know how I know that my marriage is more secure than yours? It’s really very simple.

Before your wife kisses you, there’s the chance she’ll push you away, reach into her purse, and don flavored lip gloss. That’s nice. She cares, and she’s proving her care. But true love goes further. Pulling my wife closer for a kiss, she halts the advance, goes to the refrigerator, steals and eats a few slices of cold but cooked bacon, and then returns for the kiss.

Indeed, love is a wife’s kindly kiss. True love is a wife’s bacon-flavored kiss. Such intimacy emerges from a marital sphere that not only knows bacon makes everything better but that it’s an assuring baseline of that love’s authenticity. She makes it for me. I make it for her. This means if either of true love’s participants ever rejected bacon’s allure, it could be a sign the marriage has experienced an unknown fracture.

By way of unfortunate example, not long ago, while she was cooking some bacon in preparation for dinnertime BLTs, Jennifer asked if I wanted a slice. On my way to the garage to retrieve some tools, I said no. As soon as I said it, I stopped. I knew what I’d just miscommunicated. I turned to look at her. She was already examining me.

Is our marriage okay? Does he not love me anymore? Maybe it’s not even him. Are body snatchers real? Who is this man?

Yes, I’m real. And, of course, I love her. Self-bewildered and concerned for her certainty, I immediately course-corrected and said, “Yes, dear wife, for whom my love reaches deeper than this world’s oceans, I’d like some bacon.”

She gave me two slices, just to be safe. I ate them. She watched unblinking. I chewed and savored them. They were delicious. I smiled and thanked her. She was reassured. I was glad. I rejoined my trip to the garage.

Come to think of it, maybe bacon isn’t the only stability indicator in our relationship. If she ever offered me a whiskey and I refused it, she’d likely demonstrate the same bacon-type concerns. She’d wonder if I was becoming someone different—a man she could no longer love, a man who no longer loved her.

The thing is, I have refused whisky on a handful of occasions, but usually only because worship was about to begin or because it was Scoresby. There are a few I’ve nearly refused but didn’t, some to my regret and others to my relief. The Pig’s Nose Blended Scotch Whisky is one I initially refused but am glad I eventually tried. I did not try it because of some existential relationship between pigs and bacon, but because it was a gift, and because the one who gave it insisted, “It is cheap but good.”

By “good,” he meant it’s better than most bottom-shelf whiskies. By “better,” he meant it’s not just a mixer. It’s a stand-alone dram worthy of an occasional sip. He was right.

There’s an initial sour in a freshly opened bottle’s first sniff. But it only lasts a moment. It is non-existent in the glass. A swirl and snort there gives nectarines. Another insists the nectarines are salted. A sip confirms the seasoned fruit and adds a strange back-and-forth between smoked toffee and lime—which is weird. Although it’s a pleasant weirdness, the kind that makes a “Meh” into “That was surprisingly nice.”

The finish is short. The lime becomes spiced lemons. Perhaps this is related to the initial sour? Either way, it’s an enticing thing—like bacon-flavored kisses from my wife.

Come to think of it, maybe bacon and whisky aren’t relationship indicators but relatively fool-proof ingredients for the perfect marriage. Well, for mine, that is. I suppose everyone else can settle for regular lip gloss.

The post Review – Pig’s Nose, Blended Scotch Whisky, 5 Years Old, 40% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Tamnavulin, Double Oak, (No Age Stated), 40%

Like you, I have my favorite things. My Jeep Wrangler is one. Of course, whisky is another. I have a favorite spot on my living floor for napping. I have certain books I prefer above others.

Sometimes, my favorite things change. For me, it’s rare, but only because I keep things pretty much for forever. Clothing is no exception. I have t-shirts in my closet that are more than thirty years old. However, a new one was recently received into the hallowed assembly, and it took only one outing to show just how beloved it would be.

I purchased the shirt from Plath’s Smoked Meats, which is an outlying meat market and butcher shop in the relatively small, lakeside community of Rogers City, Michigan. It’s one of two Michigan stores. The other is in Petoskey.

I happened upon the market while visiting good friends who’d recently relocated to the quaint little town from Iowa. Out for a walk, we investigated the shop. Not necessarily in the mood for a pork loin, I happened upon a window shelf of swag. There it was—my new shirt.

The glorious adornment is navy blue. On its back, just below the neckline, is the store’s logo, which is a pig in a tuxedo wearing a top hat. The logo is by no means imposing. The front’s voice is, however, far different. It heralds the easy-to-read and attention-getting proclamation “I ANIMALS.” The words are white. The heart is a plump and colorful red. And yet, just below this pleasant and luring phrase is its finishing thought. Printed in a way that requires a reader’s closer examination,  its slightly smaller cursive font reads “cured and smoked.”

Now, fast forward one month.

I liked the shirt but had yet to wear it in public. Having taken it along on vacation in Florida, I decided to do so while out and around Disney Springs, which is an outdoor shopping and dining complex near Orlando. We go there every year if only to walk around, stop in a few shops, and maybe eat lunch or dinner at one of the restaurants. I donned my new shirt that day with no mind for its message. I simply picked a shirt and wore it. Had I known the responses it would generate, I’d have started wearing the shirt weeks ago.

For some, the shirt prompted a vocalized, “I love your shirt, man.” For others, it stirred an initial smile followed by near-immediate disgust. A few passersby were moved to whisper things like, “That’s terrible.” Still, what a joy it was to prompt and then behold humanity’s truest inner dimensions. Perhaps best of all, how interesting it was to see someone’s split-second shift from agreement to disagreement, his or her public self having very little time to bridle the genuine self.

I don’t like to shop. And yet, it made the day enjoyable. Even as the occasional commendations were pleasant, I absolutely loved experiencing the conversely bipolar circus for hours on repeat. I was enthralled, and I didn’t want to leave, praying all along the way that a pale-skinned and sickly vegetarian would attempt a fuller denunciation so I could evangelize the meat-eater’s gospel, telling them just how much I love eating animals.

As such, an obscure t-shirt from a relatively unsung but incredibly deserving meat market in Rogers City, Michigan, is now my favorite, and I wear it as often as possible. When it comes to other favorites, the Tamnavulin Double Cask edition induces similar affection.

Mostly unfamiliar and out of reach to guys like me (like Plath’s), Tamnavulin’s various elixirs have primarily been sourced to blenders. Only by traveling to Scotland and then meandering from the well-traveled roads would an enthusiast have access to its stand-alone uniqueness. That changed in 2016 when the distillery decided otherwise, eventually bottling and distributing their fantastic drams to the wider world. Looking for something different, I stumbled upon and purchased two of Tamnavulin’s unique releases—the Sherry Cask and Double Cask editions. The Sherry Cask was exceptional. In a way, it was the first alluring glance at the “I ANIMALS” phrase—attention-getting and pleasant. But would the Double Cask, my purchase’s finishing phrase, provoke a scowl?

It didn’t. Instead, like my new shirt, Tamnavulin has become a favorite, and the Double Cask clinched it.

With a malty nose of toasted almonds and what seemed a little bit like the faint sizzling of a grilled ribeye drenched in butter and marinated in sherry, the whisky washes into a gentler sip of charred molasses, salt, mild spice, and distant strawberries. The shift from one to the other is stark but thoroughly enjoyable. The medium finish collects these things, allowing each to linger. Although, it pushes the steak and spice to the forefront, most certainly coaxing a carnivore’s return for another pour.

I haven’t had this whisky for very long, and it’s already nearly empty. That’s because, as I said, it is a favorite and I visit it often. I need to purchase another one soon. I may need to do the same with my favorite shirt. I’ve been wearing it a lot. As a result, it’s aging much faster than all the others. It just so happens I’ll be in Rogers City visiting my friends next week. I think a few souvenirs will be in order. The Tamnavulin Double Cask is one (if the tiny town has it), and a fine t-shirt from an outstanding meat market is another.

The post Review – Tamnavulin, Double Oak, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Brothers of the Leaf, Straight Bourbon, Batch 2, Finished in French Oak Casks, (No Age Stated), 58.1%

“She’s not very attractive. Look at her face. It’s not even symmetrical.”

So said the loud, unkempt, and grossly overweight 30-something man in the theater row before us wearing a ratted hat in the actual shape of the Disney character “Stitch” (ears, nose, and all) while shoveling massive handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, some falling to and collecting on a well-worn Pokémon shirt adorning his rotund frame.

The film trailers had not yet begun. We were watching the pre-movie advertising meant to promote local businesses. The woman on the screen—a well-dressed and relatively youthful blonde—was marketing her new real estate business and doing so eloquently. By contrast, moments before the commercials began, the man before us had complained to an accompanying friend how he’d have worn his “Deadpool” t-shirt if only his mom had washed it. Mere minutes before that, the same friend asked him what the two should do after the film, to which he replied nasally, “I don’t know. You’re driving.”

The irony—the embodied contradiction—was palpable. A sloven, overweight man apparently living with his mom, wearing cartoonish clothing, and having no car was quick to criticize a woman who, by all objective measures, appeared polished, professional, and accomplished. Attractive or not, when all the finer details are considered honestly, compared to the man in row F, seat 6, the woman on the screen was a rock star.

I’m not a psychologist, but my guess is that this was a classic case of projection. This man’s life is a mess, and for a moment’s relief, he deflected to someone else, projecting his own insufficiencies upon someone who was clearly outpacing him in the game of life. Unfortunately, these unwanted qualities and insecurities blind him to his or anyone else’s deeper value and potential, thereby trapping him in a surface-level life. If he never gets past this, he’ll be forever hitching rides from friends and living in his mother’s basement.

Of course, I could be completely wrong about him. He could be some eccentric billionaire who owns half the city, and the guy in the Ironman shirt beside him is his chauffeur. After twenty-five minutes of listening to him through the commercials and previews, I seriously doubt that scenario. Nevertheless, anything is possible.

Either way, the encounter served as a two-fold reminder. First, our unprotected self’s behaviors toward others are often descriptors of our inner world. In other words, the way we feel inside inevitably becomes visible through human interaction. Second, superficial judgments can be supreme inhibitors. It’s essential to investigate beyond one’s initial perceptions. For all that man knows, had he met the onscreen woman in person, he might have fallen in love and discovered, through the relationship, a motivation toward self-betterment that would lead to a hopeful future.

These principles apply to whiskey, too. My former self—a snob who limited himself to Scotch only—often protected an inner ignorance of the broader spirits world by ridiculing Bourbon. I just couldn’t get past its seemingly lesser nature. I also couldn’t have been more wrong. That said, once I eventually emerged from this basement, I encountered some less prominent but finely crafted drams I’d been missing. Brothers of the Leaf’s Straight Bourbon edition toasted in French oak casks is an example.

A kindly gift from my longtime friend Tony, this particular whiskey is quite sturdy. A swirl easily coats the glass with tenacious amber. The nose is just as determined. Inhalation isn’t required. It climbs from the glass, ready to serve. And it does, bringing strict spices—black pepper and cloves stirred into a cup of charred coffee.

A waterless sip, while biting, is quite delightful. The aforementioned spices nip and endure among sweeter hints. A few drops of water and spices are tamed, which allows the typical caramel and vanilla sweets a good Bourbon might deliver to arrive.

With or without water, the finish is long, leaving different spices—cinnamon and, perhaps, even ginger—in its wake.

Like the man in the theater row before us, if you encounter this relatively obscure edition, don’t make the mistake of projecting anything foreign upon it. Give it a chance, being sure not to dismiss it superficially. It has layers worth discovering. Beneath its initially robust exterior lies a complexity that rewards those willing to meet, greet, and explore it. At a bare minimum, it’s classy enough to ask Mom for a clean shirt and a friend for a ride to the liquor store to acquire it. I’m betting that the first sip may even prompt the desire to trade your Stitch hat for a fedora and your Pokémon shirt for a button-up and tie.

The post Review – Brothers of the Leaf, Straight Bourbon, Batch 2, Finished in French Oak Casks, (No Age Stated), 58.1% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Brothers of the Leaf, Straight Bourbon, Batch 2, Finished in French Oak Casks, (No Age Stated), 58.1%

“She’s not very attractive. Look at her face. It’s not even symmetrical.”

So said the loud, unkempt, and grossly overweight 30-something man in the theater row before us wearing a ratted hat in the actual shape of the Disney character “Stitch” (ears, nose, and all) while shoveling massive handfuls of popcorn into his mouth, some falling to and collecting on a well-worn Pokémon shirt adorning his rotund frame.

The film trailers had not yet begun. We were watching the pre-movie advertising meant to promote local businesses. The woman on the screen—a well-dressed and relatively youthful blonde—was marketing her new real estate business and doing so eloquently. By contrast, moments before the commercials began, the man before us had complained to an accompanying friend how he’d have worn his “Deadpool” t-shirt if only his mom had washed it. Mere minutes before that, the same friend asked him what the two should do after the film, to which he replied nasally, “I don’t know. You’re driving.”

The irony—the embodied contradiction—was palpable. A sloven, overweight man apparently living with his mom, wearing cartoonish clothing, and having no car was quick to criticize a woman who, by all objective measures, appeared polished, professional, and accomplished. Attractive or not, when all the finer details are considered honestly, compared to the man in row F, seat 6, the woman on the screen was a rock star.

I’m not a psychologist, but my guess is that this was a classic case of projection. This man’s life is a mess, and for a moment’s relief, he deflected to someone else, projecting his own insufficiencies upon someone who was clearly outpacing him in the game of life. Unfortunately, these unwanted qualities and insecurities blind him to his or anyone else’s deeper value and potential, thereby trapping him in a surface-level life. If he never gets past this, he’ll be forever hitching rides from friends and living in his mother’s basement.

Of course, I could be completely wrong about him. He could be some eccentric billionaire who owns half the city, and the guy in the Ironman shirt beside him is his chauffeur. After twenty-five minutes of listening to him through the commercials and previews, I seriously doubt that scenario. Nevertheless, anything is possible.

Either way, the encounter served as a two-fold reminder. First, our unprotected self’s behaviors toward others are often descriptors of our inner world. In other words, the way we feel inside inevitably becomes visible through human interaction. Second, superficial judgments can be supreme inhibitors. It’s essential to investigate beyond one’s initial perceptions. For all that man knows, had he met the onscreen woman in person, he might have fallen in love and discovered, through the relationship, a motivation toward self-betterment that would lead to a hopeful future.

These principles apply to whiskey, too. My former self—a snob who limited himself to Scotch only—often protected an inner ignorance of the broader spirits world by ridiculing Bourbon. I just couldn’t get past its seemingly lesser nature. I also couldn’t have been more wrong. That said, once I eventually emerged from this basement, I encountered some less prominent but finely crafted drams I’d been missing. Brothers of the Leaf’s Straight Bourbon edition toasted in French oak casks is an example.

A kindly gift from my longtime friend Tony, this particular whiskey is quite sturdy. A swirl easily coats the glass with tenacious amber. The nose is just as determined. Inhalation isn’t required. It climbs from the glass, ready to serve. And it does, bringing strict spices—black pepper and cloves stirred into a cup of charred coffee.

A waterless sip, while biting, is quite delightful. The aforementioned spices nip and endure among sweeter hints. A few drops of water and spices are tamed, which allows the typical caramel and vanilla sweets a good Bourbon might deliver to arrive.

With or without water, the finish is long, leaving different spices—cinnamon and, perhaps, even ginger—in its wake.

Like the man in the theater row before us, if you encounter this relatively obscure edition, don’t make the mistake of projecting anything foreign upon it. Give it a chance, being sure not to dismiss it superficially. It has layers worth discovering. Beneath its initially robust exterior lies a complexity that rewards those willing to meet, greet, and explore it. At a bare minimum, it’s classy enough to ask Mom for a clean shirt and a friend for a ride to the liquor store to acquire it. I’m betting that the first sip may even prompt the desire to trade your Stitch hat for a fedora and your Pokémon shirt for a button-up and tie.

The post Brothers of the Leaf, Straight Bourbon, Batch 2, Finished in French Oak Casks, (No Age Stated), 58.1% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Benriach, The Smoky Ten, 10 Years Old, 46%

Most marriage therapists agree that the best way to keep the matrimonial bond sturdy is through good communication. No matter life’s scene, whether big or small, when a husband and wife are communicating, longevity and relative joy are the relationship’s promise.

My wife and I are pretty good communicators. At least, I think so. She hasn’t left me yet. I consider that partial proof. Still, we do experience the occasional communication breakdown. But for the most part, excluding pastoral confidentiality, we tell each other everything.

There are times, however, when the openness is, well, teeth-grinding. For example, if I need to step out, I’ll tell her where I’m going and why. Some husbands just hop in the car and go. I don’t do that. I let her know. Doing so comes with risk. In other words, a quick trip to the hardware store can easily become a trip to other stores nearby to retrieve this or that item she wants or needs. Popping in at Walmart for a single something can very easily result in a shopping cart of groceries. If she is distracted, and I do manage to get into the car and drive away without an additional list, there is the inevitable text message that delivers it during checkout. It’s then I must decide just how good of a communicator I want to be.

Shall I answer the message? Shall I pretend I didn’t see it?

The answer is always the former rather than the latter. I reply to the message, and then I venture back into the labyrinthian aisleways to retrieve and purchase whatever she needs. Why? First, because I love her. I’d drive two hundred miles to get something if she asked for it. Second, she’s trying to maintain a household, and she knows far more about the family’s particulars than I do. Whatever’s on the list is probably essential. Third, if I did the same thing to her, she’d help me. Fourth, as I said at the beginning, the best way to keep the matrimonial bond sturdy is through good communication.

Relative to a happily married man’s errand—the typicality of seeking one thing only to return with far more than anticipated—Benriach’s “The Smoky Ten” is a nuptial allegory in a bottle. The nose is, of course, lightly smoky and by no means overwhelming. It’s more aura that attribute. I didn’t expect this. I sought smoke’s distinction but returned with so much more,  including singed fruits, melted butter, and cookie batter.

A sip put lightly peppered pears into the smoky basket. A second sip emerged in the breakfast cereal aisle, forecasting honey-sweetened barley in a toasted oak bowl. Somewhat medium, the finish completes the forecast, all things held together by the nose’s aura. If only every whisky errand could be this way.

I forgot to mention the upside to the outings I previously described. One might think that the longer the texted shopping list is, the poorer it is received, especially since the trip’s original intent was to be swift. Not so. The more items I gather, the higher the expense and the easier it is to slip a mid-ranged whisky like “The Smoky Ten” into the receipt’s scrolling drudgery without being noticed.

With that, let me clarify: I tell my wife almost everything.

The post Review – Benriach, The Smoky Ten, 10 Years Old, 46% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – The Glenlivet, Double Oak, 12 Years Old, 40%

Bringing a baby to a movie theater should be a punishable crime.

Allow me to explain. As I do, keep in mind what I said. The people who bring babies to movie theaters, not the babies themselves, are the focus of my ire.

First, anyone who knows me can attest to my love of babies. Planned or unplanned, normal or abnormal, I’m pro-life through and through. Babies make the world and its spaces, even its movie theaters, better.

Second, every conceived child is a gift of God and inherently worthy of a parent’s strictest attention and devotion. When a person becomes a parent, the gravity of human existence changes. For as selfish as one might have been, the child now occupies the universe’s center. In every decision, the child is every calculation’s heftiest variable. Into and through every opportunity, the child’s upward trajectory and welfare remain constant. Self-sacrifice is and must be every parent’s first inclination.

Third, babies are future adults. Their course toward adulthood requires modeling. This is forever a variable in parenting’s calculations, too. Parents continually recalibrate their lives, aware that they’re creating adults—people who, even as they’ll be self-centered on occasion, won’t be overcome by the inclination in all circumstances. Instead, they’ll be capable of mindfulness for others proven sturdiest when they, too, become parents.

Parents who bring babies into movie theaters demonstrate converse to what I described. They’re self-centered in the worst way. They want to see a movie, and that’s that. The babysitter canceled? They’ll just take her along. Why is she so restless and inconsolable? Could it be the massive screen flashing and its terrifying images? Could it be the Dolby sound system’s chest-rattling explosions and the ear-piercing screams? Well, no worries. She’ll be okay. Beyond this, what care is there for anyone else’s movie-going enjoyment, even as the little human continues doing loudly and consistently what little humans are supposed to do during such moments of intense overstimulation?

Well, at least they didn’t leave the child at home unattended, right? I suppose that’s a good thing. It stirs hope.

However, beyond hope’s tiniest particle, these are the types of people with the potential to leave their children in cars while they blow a few hours in the casino. They’re the same folks in public spaces who, instead of interacting with their love-hungry little ones, spend their time faceplanted and scrolling on their mobile phones. Indeed, they produced something but do not necessarily care for that something. It’s a product and nothing more.

The parenting I’ve described couldn’t be any further from The Glenlivet 12-year-old Double Oak edition’s upbringing. An entry-level and relatively youthful dram, this whisky was conceived and then shepherded by those who care.

With a surprisingly malty nose edged by tropical fruits, an initial sniff is delightfully full. A sip continues to prove The Glenlivet a dutiful parent. Alight with malted peaches, the palate slips away quickly, like a beautiful child with a short attention span. The swift but mildly fruit-filled finish remembers its youthfulness. A few more years in the barrel and it would’ve likely matured to become something even better.

Although, it’s more than sufficient for soothing an onlooking parent of four’s aching heart.

Indeed, whenever I observe the behaviors I previously described, I experience disgust combined with a desire to adopt. In the movie theater, I experienced the same, with an additional urge to offer my babysitting services so that my fellow moviegoers—people who, just like me, likely spent mortgage-sized dollars on tickets and snacks—could view the film uninterrupted. I’d gladly take the little one into the lobby to read her a story, play peek-a-boo, and so many other beautiful things a parent only has so much time in a child’s life to do.

I might even give the child back.

The post Review – The Glenlivet, Double Oak, 12 Years Old, 40% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Rabbit Hole, Dareringer, Straight Bourbon Whiskey, Finished in PX Sherry Casks, (No Age Stated), 46.5%

Is it me, or are people getting weirder by the minute?

To be clear, I don’t mean the obviously weird stuff. There will always be someone ready to defend the Flat Earth theory. There’s always going to be that guy who indulges in a strange fetish each day after work—like taking a bath with his goldfish. There’s always going to be that one relative at the family reunion telling prison stories to the children.

I’m talking about the subtle, but seemingly oblivious, weirdnesses. I’m referring to the unknown woman who sat so close to me on an empty bench that we were nearly touching. I’m talking about the man at the grocery store arguing with a store manager near the self-checkout kiosk. Having removed a can of Coca-Cola from a 24-pack, he just couldn’t seem to figure out why the machine was charging him so much. I’m thinking of the man in the bathroom watching a TV show episode on his phone and laughing as a line forms just beyond the stall’s door.

Coco Chanel once said, “In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.” I get that. There’s only one of you. And you have irreplaceable value. But is it because you’re a living human being and life has innate value, or is it because you insist upon being standing apart as uniquely different? It seems we live in a time when life is devalued while disjointed weirdness is heralded. This meme and that advertisement foster superficial individuality, the kind that breaks from community, making it so that, ultimately, our society cannot function for the betterment of all.

But here’s something to keep in mind: we’re all unique individuals, just like everybody else. Get it? Sometimes, being similar is far better than laboring to amplify one’s distinction. There’s broader certainty in our similarities, and certainty is comforting. Truth be told, that’s one reason why I appreciate Rabbit Hole whiskeys. Each is unique. And yet, none are weird. Each serves a distinctive role in a community of consistency, and the resultant familiarity stirs levels of enjoyment unattainable to the minute-by-minute replaceability of today’s weirdness.

The Dareringer edition finished in sherry casks exemplifies my premise. One sip is enough to reveal its Rabbit Hole origins. Another sip, carefully examined, sees into the community and discovers the individual’s valuable role.

With a crisp nose of sherry, almonds, and raisins, a gentle swirling offers delightful warmth while coating the glass in thick, syrupy auburn. The first sip reveals familiar oak char and cherries. The second is alight with spicy licorice and the nose’s almonds. The whiskey’s finish teeters between medium and long, all the while maintaining its traditional bourbon undertow.

Indeed, the types of behaviors I previously described appear to be on the rise. Unfortunately, with the increasing level of self-centered obliviousness comes an increase in pushback from both man and nature. I, for one, refused to move away from or acknowledge the woman who sat beside me. At the grocery store, I decided to step in behind the man arguing with the manager, cancel his order, scan and purchase my cereal and ice cream, and depart. I also chose to find another public bathroom, electing instead to wet a sizeable wad of paper towels and toss them over the stall’s door in a sploosh before leaving.

In other circumstances, nature is far less accommodating. Just ask the permanently disabled folks rolling around among us who thought taking a selfie with a wild bison was a good idea. The beast revealed the boundaries of their weirdness, reminding the rest of us why it’s better to remain among the much larger community of distant bystanders.

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Review – Bothan, Lowland Single Malt, Sherry Expression, (No Age Stated), 43%

I went to see the film Longlegs. A number of acquaintances in a Fangoria Magazine forum recommended it. Admittedly, the movie was a prolonged burn. Nevertheless, a singular treat was offered at its midpoint, making it well worth the price of admission. Before telling you what it was, I should offer some explanation.

If there’s one thing a clergyman like me finds annoying, it’s the film industry’s absolute inability to get biblical things right. It wasn’t always this way. But it is now. And it’s not so much Hollywood’s need to rearrange accounts to fit whatever narrative they’re telling. It’s that they can’t even get the book’s essentials straight. For example, I once heard Genesis referenced by a supposed supernatural expert in a film as “the first chapter in the Bible.”

The Bible is a collection of sixty-six books. Genesis is the first book in the collection. It has fifty chapters.

Another ear-clawing mistake often heard or seen is the pluralizing of the Book of Revelation. It happens constantly. Driving Along in the Ectomobile in the 1984 film Ghostbusters, Winston Zeddemore asks Ray Stantz if he remembers something in the Bible about the dead rising from the grave. Before reciting the applicable text, Stantz says, “I remember Revelations 6:12….”

Ugh. Still, it gets worse.

Apparently, thirty-seven years and a budget of $75 million wasn’t enough to fix the mispronunciation. The same thing happened in the 2021 sequel Ghostbusters: Afterlife. Not only is Revelation pluralized in dialogue, but it’s slathered in giant print on a sign in front of Spengler’s farmhouse.

Why only hear it when you can read it, too?

Then along comes the low-budget horror film Longlegs. As I mentioned, right around the film’s midpoint, a gem is discovered. It happens during a quick bit of dialogue between the lead character “Lee Harker,” a younger female FBI agent portrayed as mildly autistic, and the character “Browning,” a more experienced female agent with a supportive but get-to-the-point demeanor. The interaction occurred like this:

Harker (reciting Revelation 13:1): “And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy….”
Browning (interrupting): “I know. The Book of Revelations.”
Harker: “Revelation. It’s singular. There’s no ‘s’.”

I turned to look at my son, Harrison, who was with me. He was already looking in my direction. He knew to expect my glance. We both grinned widely, doing all we could not to shout “Yes!” into the theater’s darkness. But what should you expect? When something’s creator is mindful of even the tiniest details, how could the eventual creation not be jubilation-worthy?

Consider the Sherry Expression edition from Bothan. Like Longlegs, this whisky is low-budget. And yet, it does not disappoint, if only for its care with the details.

The whisky’s most outstanding achievement is that it’s uniquely consistent compared to so many others. The palate does not mispronounce what’s pledged in the nose. Indeed, the wafting promise of spicy citrus becomes peppered tangerines in the mouth. The hovering sense of buttered toast crosses both boundaries, too. But before the carefully crafted scene can change, honey is added, and the spice is partially subdued. From there, the finish is swiftly pleasant, eventually revealing the concoction’s epicentral plot—which is to entice toward another pour.

A relatively inexpensive whisky, the Bothan Sherry Expression is worth your dollars.

To close, I should draw your attention to a relative detail concerning what I do here. I’ve mentioned in my whisky writings that each edition has its individual story. When I first purchased this one, a particular line of dialogue from Return of the Jedi kept casually falling from my lips. It was Mon Mothma who spoke concerning the second Death Star’s weakness and the Emperor’s location, saying, “Many Bothans died to bring us this information.”

I fully expected my review of this whisky to connect with this familiar and seemingly applicable utterance. But it didn’t. This is proof once again that each whisky—good or bad, carefully enunciated or poorly pronounced—has its own story to tell.

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Review – Lagavulin, 11 Years Old, Offerman Edition (IV), Caribbean Rum Cask Finish, 46%

Admittedly, I’ve had a few moments of lost interest in moving to Florida when I retire while on vacation. This is true if only for the ruder disposition of the native drivers. I thought Michigan was bad. Florida is far worse.

Let’s say you want to merge into a line on the freeway in Michigan. It may take some time for the kindlier person to appear and let you over, but eventually, the time comes, and the person does appear. In Florida, minutes would be days if not for the out-of-towners. The natives will see you waiting, and lest the promising space between each other’s bumpers tempt you, several feet quickly become only a few inches.

The access roads among the strip malls are no exception. Just yesterday, I left my credit card at a restaurant in such a location by mistake. Even though the establishment and its parking lot are not on a thoroughfare, its intersection is equally unnavigable. I was tempted to call the bank and cancel the card rather than drive back to a lot from which it took almost a half hour to emerge the first time.

Another reason to avoid retiring in Florida is that my wife, Jennifer, is a nervous passenger, and with that, I already more than struggle as her chauffeur. Her tolerance for roadway shenanigans is exceptionally low. In Michigan, she closes her eyes and tilts her head downward when things get hairy. She escapes to her happy place—wherever that might be—preferring not to see what’s happening around her. In the same way that cave-dwelling animals eventually lose the ability to see, if we lived in Florida, she’d likely go blind from closing her eyes too much. Of course, if she were to go blind, I’d care for her. And yet, why be the direct cause for it?

But the thing is, the year-round sunshine, palm trees, and pools are incredibly enticing. Michigan does not offer these things. The climate only allows them, at most, three months of the year. Florida, on the other hand, isn’t so stingy. Its tropical embrace allows one to drift around the pool with a scotch in hand most every day of the year. The 11-year-old Caribbean Rum Cask (fourth edition) from Lagavulin’s “Offerman” lineup is a whisky worthy of such day-wasting leisure.

Mild smoke in its nose, the dram’s humid breeze nudges the sipper toward its rum-soaked planks and the distinctive palate they produced. The eventual sip it tempted is not disappointing. The rum’s sugarcane molasses is strict but still generous and kindly. It’s not like Florida traffic. It lets others merge, allowing peppery vanilla and pineapple in its lane.

It isn’t stingy like Michigan, either. In Michigan, summers begin and end in haste, the cold eventually overpowering its landscape. This fourth edition’s finish is a long, salty-aired, and heat-filled season, the kind capable of remaining beyond August all the way through to Christmas.

Apart from what I initially described, I suppose Florida could still be the preferable place to live out my twilight years. So long as the grocery stores continue to deliver, and I have reasonable access to a nearby and decently-stocked liquor store, life with a blind wife and the occasional need to rebuild absolutely everything due to a hurricane seems doable.

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