Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 20

Review – Traverse City Whiskey Co., American Cherry Edition, (No Age Stated), Batch 006, 35%

[image error]“When I get older,” Evelyn said unprompted at the breakfast table, “I’m going to get a motorcycle.”

“Really?” I asked, not knowing why the thought came to her mind. “I used to have a motorcycle,” I added to the conversation. “But I sold it before Momma and I got married.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t really like it, and I wanted to make her happy.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. And I also needed the money to help pay for our wedding.”

“Oh,” she said, giving a look to show she was pondering my words. “Well,” she began again, “when I get a motorcycle, I’m going to get one with a sidecar.”

“A sidecar?” I asked, although my questioning was purely rhetorical. Based on the experience with her mother that I’d shared the moment prior, I expected her answer to be one designed to include her future husband in her two-wheeled adventures.

“Yep. I want a motorcycle with a sidecar.”

“Why a sidecar?”

“For my duck,” she said plainly.

“Your duck?”

“Yes. I’ll need one for my duck.”

“You lost me,” I added just as plainly and took a sip of my coffee. “I don’t know where you’re going with this.”

“That’s okay,” she said, putting her hand on mine. “You’ll probably be dead before any of this happens, anyway.”

And there you have it. Except this time, instead of the little girl’s yarn of thinking making a single twist, it made two. She’s getting a duck, and I’ll be dead before it happens. Both of these declarations were unexpected.

I’ve learned to expect the unexpected from all of my kids. Every time I think one thing will happen, something entirely different transpires. It’s often the same in the world of whiskey, which ended up being the case with the Traverse City Whiskey Company’s American Cherry Edition. I expected this lower proof dram to be a syrupy disappointment, perhaps only suitable as a dessert drink for newbies attempting the nightlife in the whiskey’s namesake city. But with each phase of the conversation, there were twists in its story, and each was surprisingly pleasant.

With the cork on the table, a nosing straight from the bottle gives in to expectations—thick, sugary cherries. Nothing but cherries. A moment in the Glencairn and a little bit of Bourbon spice arrives on the scene. This was unexpected. At such a low ABV, I expected nothing more than the smell of artificially candied water. But it wasn’t. It was just lively enough to remind you that it’s whiskey.

I experienced the same with the palate. With the first sip, the cherries rose up and attacked my tongue like troops storming a beachhead. But in a moment’s notice, the candied fruits faded and gave way to a more prominent troupe of subtle oak spices and salt. Again, I was surprised by this turn, primarily because it took what could have been an over-the-top sweet and brought it more into balance.

The finish is a bit sharp, medium in length, and in its initial departure, leaves behind a tang confirming that flavoring was added. But again, as a secondary stage ensues, there’s a memory of the Bourbon spices from the nose and palate. It speaks to discussions on barrels and aging rather than so-called infusions. This certifies the dram’s worthiness for exploration by more than just the nightlife seekers.

Now, looking back over what I’ve written, I’m startled. I rarely side with flavored drams such as this American Cherry Edition. Knowing this, I’ll bet a good number of my readers are equally astonished, as well.

That’s okay. You let me have my occasional Traverse City Whiskey Company cherry whiskey and I’ll keep my mouth shut about the duck in your sidecar. That is, if I’m even alive to see it.[image error]

Review – West Cork, Original Irish Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]Crossing the clothing store parking lot, my twelve-year-old daughter, Madeline, stepped into stride beside me and slid her hand into mine. Her thinly fingers only slightly arched, she barely gripped my palm. Her grasp was awkward. But it was beautifully awkward in that the gesture was unprompted.

We strolled along, and as we did, had I not kept hold, her hand would’ve fallen away. She was letting me lead. She was letting me do the holding—as if she were little again.

Once we arrived at the store’s entrance, the sliding glass doors parted to reveal a busy row of clerks serving lengthy lines of back-to-school parents shepherding their own lambs—some of whom were teenage boys. Madeline gave a gentle tug. I knew why, but I didn’t want to let her go. And yet, I did. The defectless moment, as easily as it had come, dissipated into the fluorescent noise of the crowded store.

Still, it was a moment I’ll never forget.

It’s not that I don’t hold either of my daughter’s hands, making this an otherwise odd occurrence. In fact, my youngest daughter, Evelyn, is still found hurrying into such times with her father. Madeline, however, is becoming less inclined to offer herself this way, and so when it happens, it’s most certainly intentional, and thereby affecting. It’s in these moments with my children that I feel the weight of Marcus Aurelius’ words when he meditated: “Some things are hurrying into existence, and others are hurrying out of it; and of that which is coming into existence part is extinguished.”

A most unfortunate verity.

A few evenings later, I was stirred to recall the occurrence while reviewing a dram of the West Cork Original Irish Whiskey. I’m thinking it came to mind because, like that memorable instance in the parking lot with Madeline, the West Cork nestled in beside me and offered a most unexpected pleasantness.

With a gentle, almost dainty hand, the whisky is more than inviting. It’s engaging. It reaches up and out of the Glencairn, brushing scents of malt, creamy vanilla, and citrus into the nose. With those same digits, its touch is soft to the palate, rendering the very same delights already teased.

The finish is short, leaving behind a fast-fleeting dash of peppered caramel and the sense of having enjoyed something that you wish was a little less temporary.

Like the short-lived days of a father who loves to hold his little girl’s hand.

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A beautiful super hero standing next to a cardboard stand up.

Review – Red Cedar, Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]“That was one of the worst days to be a stormtrooper,” TK-421 sighed, leaning against the breakroom countertop and taking a mouthful of coffee from his favorite mug. He’d received the cup as a gift from General Tarkin himself not long after completing the last of four teamwork training seminars mandated by the Emperor.

“The first or the second Death Star?” TK-559 asked.

“The first.”

“Why the first?” 559 pried.

“You know why,” 421 said dryly and took another sip.

“So,” TK-559 began, “what actually happened that day? And how did you manage to get off the Death Star before it exploded?” He was anxious to hear the story, having already heard about his new partner’s brush with the rebels while guardian the Millennium Falcon. “I’ve heard the rumors,” he said, “but no one really seems to know the real story.”

“What’ve you heard?” 421 asked, setting his cup on the counter beside him.

“Well, some are saying you actually died, and that you aren’t you. You’re 421’s twin brother, and you’re taking his place so that the family doesn’t lose the paycheck or the Imperial healthcare plan.”

“That’s funny,” 421 said, stretching his arms up and behind his head to cradle it in his hands. “That’s actually the craziest one I’ve heard so far.” He gave a glance, “You realize how stupid that is, right?”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we never take these things off,” he answered, drumming his fingers against his helmet. “No one even knows what I look like. Why would it matter if I was a twin?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” 559 admitted.

“So, what else are folks saying?”

“Others think you’re a rebel collaborator, and that they didn’t actually shoot you with a blaster, but instead faked the whole thing and took you with them when they escaped.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” 421 said, reaching for his cup to take another sip. “That’s been around a while.”

“And?” 559 kept on.

“And what?”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you a spy?”

TK-421 allowed a few seconds of silence before answering matter-of-factly, “Yes, I am.” 559’s hand dropped slowly toward his holstered blaster. “I’m just kidding,” 421 laughed, putting out his hand to wave him off. “Slow your roll, boy scout. I’m not a spy.”

The digitized sound of 559’s excited breathing buzzed from his helmet.

“You know,” 421 said snidely, “you’re kind of a spaz. As a matter of fact, almost every stormtrooper I know is a spaz. That’s probably why no one ever hits what they’re shooting at.”

“Whatever,” 559 replied. “So, give it up, 421. What happened that day?”

“It’s really not that big a deal,” he said. “Although, you could say I got lucky.”

“How so?”

“Well,” he started and swirled the last bit of coffee in his mug. “You already know I was assigned sentry duty for the Millennium Falcon after we captured it with the tractor beam, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you know that it turned out the rebels were actually hiding on the ship when they jumped me.”

“Yeah, that’s what everybody’s been told.”

“Well, anyway, in the skirmish, one of ‘em got a shot off and it caught me in the side. But you know how our blasters work, right? Not only do they tear through you, but they sort of taze you, too. When I got shot, it didn’t kill me, but instead—”

“—How did a blaster round not kill you?!”

“It hit the flask I keep hidden in my belt line under the armor. The round ricocheted and put a hole in a seat cushion near a holochess table on the ship. But as I was going to say, it knocked me out cold. The metal flask blocked the round, but not the wattage.”

“So, it just tazed you, bro?”

“True dat.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well,” TK-421 continued, “when I woke up, I found myself in a hidden cargo space below deck. All I can figure is that the rebels were in such a hurry when they split, rather than taking the extra time to chuck me from the ship, they left me to slide around in the back while they escaped.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, pretty heartless. My guess is that I ended up sliding into the cargo hold and they just forgot about me.”

“So what did you do?”

“Thankfully the cargo space I was in had a ventilation duct that led to one of the landing legs. It was just big enough for me to crawl through.” TK-421 put his hands behind his head again. “Once I got into the gear compartment, I just stayed there and waited until we landed.”

“How long were you in there?”

“Quite a while. But you see, that’s the interesting part of the whole thing. Before I crawled through to the landing gear, that cargo space I’d landed in, well, it was full of all kinds of smuggled stuff.”

“Really?” 559 buzzed with anticipation.

“Yeah, there were tons of Nutrigrain bars down there—”

“—Oh, man. Those were outlawed big time.”

“I know, right? But, I gotta tell you, that guy Solo was smuggling a whole lot more than illegal Nutrigrain bars. He had Hard Rock Café shirts from places where there’re no Hard Rock Cafés—places like Degobah and Tatooine. He had stacks of fake Levi’s jeans, boxes of Coach handbags—all kinds of stuff.”

“Rebel scum.”

“And that’s only the half of it. There were four or five crates of whiskies from all over the galaxy.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah. But this stuff wasn’t counterfeit. It was the real deal.”

“That’s amazing!”

“You ain’t kidding. He had bottles of Aberlour and Laphroaig, Bulleit and Stranahan’s. He had Knappogue Castle and The Exceptional by Sutcliffe and Son. He had stuff from The Macallan and The Balvenie, and then out of all of it, he had one bottle of something I’d never seen before—Red Cedar Bourbon.”

“Wow,” 559 said enthusiastically. “It sounds like you were good to go down there.”

“I sure was,” 421 affirmed. “But don’t forget I was injured. That blaster round didn’t kill me, but it did manage to superheat my flask so that it burned me pretty badly.” He unsnapped a section of the armor near his belt and revealed the top portion of a rather large scar. “See for yourself.”

“Oh man. That looks terrible,” 559 said, his voice betraying concern.

“And it hurt like hell, let me tell you. I actually had to peel the flask away from my skin, and when I did, the skin went with it. But again, thankfully, I was in a place that had everything I needed to clean the wound and bandage it up.”

“You mean you used one of the whiskies?”

“Yep,” 421 replied. “And one of the Hard Rock Degobah shirts as a bandage.”

“Which of the whiskies did you use?”

“I popped open the Red Cedar, but for two reasons. The first being that since there was only one, I figured it was Solo’s prize bottle and I wanted to ruin it for him; but second, because I needed to clean the wound and it was the closest one to me—which, looking back on it, was a big mistake. I should’ve tried grabbing for something else, because when I popped it open, the whole compartment started to smell like stale lemons doused in overly sharp bitters. It was pretty intense, and I thought the stench might give me away.”

“Tell me you didn’t—”

“Yes, unfortunately, I did,” TK-421 admitted. “I tried a swig of the stuff. You know, just to see.”

“And?”

“And it was a lot like the nose,” 421 replied, but then in the same breath, he quickly gave a retraction. “On second thought,” he said, “it was worse. It tasted like burnt grapefruits spotted with equally burnt mint leaves and singed oregano. Not the best combination. Too weird for my tastes.”

“How’d it finish for you?”

“It was a long finish, one that sort of clawed at my tongue for a few minutes. There was no bottled water down there to help wash it away, so I had to let my saliva build up. And once I managed enough spit, I swished it around in my mouth and then hocked it into one of the Coach handbags.”

“Nice,” TK-559 said, once again sounding his concern for the whole unfortunate situation.

“One thing I will say for the Red Cedar Bourbon,” 421 offered, “is that it works well as an antiseptic. I never did get an infection, and I was down there hanging on the landing gear for quite a while.”

[image error]“That’s good,” 559 said and sighed. TK-421 took the last gulp of his coffee and turned to get another. “Wait a second,” 559 interrupted. “You never said how you got away.”

“Oh yeah,” 421 laughed, turning back again to get comfortable against the countertop while he waited for the machine to fill his cup. “Well, like I said, I waited for them to open the gear hatches with the hopes that we’d land somewhere that I could hop out and find a place to hide—at least until the Empire discovered them again. The Empire always finds these morons. Of course, before I shimmied through the duct, I grabbed a whole bunch of Nutrigrain bars and some of the better whisky to keep with me while I waited for the cavalry.”

“Which one did you get?”

“Actually, I grabbed two—a bottle of The Exceptional Grain and the Aberlour 16-year-old. I ended up finishing off most of The Exceptional while I waited for a chance to escape on Yavin—which was crawling with rebels, so I had to stay hidden up in the gear compartment the whole time I was there.”

“So that’s where you were when the Death Star blew.”

“Well, sort of. We left Yavin for a little while and were back in space when the Death Star blew up, but eventually we went back to Yavin for a few days. Some sort of party, I think. Anyway, my chance to escape came at the next stop. Unfortunately, when we were coming in for a landing and the hatches opened up,” TK-421 embraced himself and gave a faux shiver, “I was hit by an ungodly blast of cold air that knocked the wind right out of me. It made me drop the bottle of Aberlour I’d been guarding.”

“That sucks,” 559 growled.

“I saw it land in the snow near what I could’ve sworn was a Wampa reading a newspaper. Turns out we were landing on Hoth.”

“I heard from one of the guys in the snow regiment,” 559 interjected, “that Luke Skywalker—the punk kid who blew up the first Death Star—I heard he was attacked by one of those things.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too. Good. He had it coming.”

“And?”

“So, anyway, when the Falcon landed, I found my chance and jumped off and hid in a storage bin. And like I said, I figured you guys would eventually show up before too long.”

“And you were right. We did.”

“Yes, you did. And yes, I was—about everything except for the Red Cedar, that is.”

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And now you know this guy’s story.

Review – Fleischmann’s Preferred Whiskey, Blended Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]It’s Saturday at 5:45 a.m. and I’m awake. Why? Because life is about to become… well… not summer.

Two more days until the school year arrives like the vexatious neighbor from any of the cookie-cutter sitcoms. In 48 hours, very early in the morning, the school year will walk through the front door of life. He’ll pillage my schedule like it’s my refrigerator, rudely snatching what he deems appetizing. He’ll make himself right at home, plopping down on the couch and kicking up his feet. After two or three days of nudging at him, urging him to understand that he isn’t welcome and that, in fact, he’s stealing from me, I’ll give up. By then, the nature of his pretension and ignorant immovability will have sunk in and I’ll know that he isn’t going anywhere for at least another nine months.

That’s how I feel about the school year.

And why? Because for a guy like me, someone who will see nearly every free evening and weekend evaporate until June (with a few air pockets after Christmas and Easter for catching my breath or maybe even sleeping in), summer is that time when certain responsibilities go into hibernation and I gain a little bit of extra time to do other things—“me” things—at a more comfortable pace.

“So, why then are you up so early this morning, Reverend, especially since this is the last day to be had for sleeping in?”

Ah, yes. Indeed, what am I doing here at this moment upon the fast-fleeting timeline, this last and highly prized instance that I should be deeply mining of its resources and opportunity for remaining in my bed past 7:00 a.m.?

I’m vacationing.

I’m not rushing to do anything. I’m sitting and watching the sunrise, not driving into it. I’m sitting in my kitchen with my favorite mug drinking coffee I brewed myself rather than digging through the cup holder in the minivan looking for enough loose change to afford a cup from the drive-thru. I’m reading the tasting notes I scribbled last night after trying a sample of Fleishmann’s Preferred Whiskey and I’m tapping at my computer to see what comes of them instead of reading emails or inter-office notes and doing what I can to write as many responses as possible before an over-scheduled day pushes them to the following morning.

Essentially, I’m sitting quietly and doing “me” things at a comfortable pace.

This is my schedule when we vacation in Florida for ten days each year in June. I get up early, drink my coffee, every now and then giving a smile to the early sun through a nearby grove of palm trees while I sit and type until Jen and the kids get up. When they do finally emerge from their much-needed slumber, we eat breakfast together and then we all go out to the pool and swim for a few hours. Minus the pool and palm trees, I’m doing what I do when I’m on vacation, and that’s exactly what I told myself before bed last night that I was going to do.

[image error]Having said all of this, I suppose I should’ve chosen a different whiskey to consider on this final day, because unfortunately, this one only serves to carry me from finer things back into the dross of burdensome ponderings. When it comes to blended whiskies, everything about the Fleischmann’s Preferred is as the school year at the stoop preparing to ring the doorbell.

Smelling an awful lot like someone who managed to brush his teeth but forgot the importance of showering, this aggravating neighbor greets you at the door with an initial breath of Colgate followed by the souring smell of graying meat that’s a day or two past the “Use by” date on its packaging. There’s a hint of something floral, but I’m guessing that it’s merely an attempt by the visitor to shroud the aforementioned facts with a spritzing of Old Spice.

The palate reveals that the meat is indeed in its last minutes of being consumable, and rather than adding some sort of seasoning, it was doused in children’s mixed-berry flavored acetaminophen, which is probably a good idea considering the headache you already knew the nosing of this stuff was bound to bring when it walked through the door.

Of course, like the school year, this whiskey lasts far too long. It most certainly overstays its welcome, coating the taste buds with syrupy medicine resulting in the inability to enjoy very little of anything else you might want to savor afterward. I tried to wash it away with water, but that simply didn’t work. It took three fingers worth of the Laphroaig 10-year-old to beat the aftertaste into submission and eventually drive it from my home.

Yes, it did eventually depart. It was incredibly exasperating—often too much to bear—but it did eventually leave.

With that, I know that June is coming.

Review – Wild Turkey, Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40.5%

[image error]Benjamin Disraeli—a man rarely discussed, and in many ways, often underestimated—once remarked to a colleague, saying, “Desperation is sometimes as powerful an inspirer as genius.”

He’s right. A man will do what he must when desperate.

Take, for example, the man who has forgotten his lunch, is broke, and knows the only scraps in the church refrigerator are those of an ancient bag of carrot sticks, an even older mound of oranges, and a partially eaten chocolate cake left over from a special celebration the previous Sunday. This man will lay aside all manner of civility in exchange for a paper plate and plastic fork, and he’ll pretend it’s his birthday. Of course he’ll celebrate in the darkened corner of a barren cafeteria.[image error]

Or consider the man who’s been asked a question by his bride, and the query is one that begins with such words as “Tell me the truth.” Terrified of revealing the truths of his mind and desperate for a way of escape, this man may attempt a sudden redirection of the conversation by sharing that earlier in the day, he ate the last and final strip of chocolate cake in the refrigerator at work in its entirety. Desperation settles for the reprimand of lesser force.

But what about the man who finds himself in need of writing a whisky review for the masses, but again and alas, he is cashless and cannot afford the edition he’d prefer to engage? In such situations, the desperate but diligent man willingly ventures to a bottom shelf dram and hovers there among the $20 stratum, eventually settling on one while thinking to himself, You never know. It might be good.

Lest you think I’ll admit to the first two scenarios, I’d be more than happy let rise from my shoulders the burdensome truth of the last. Yes, I bought a bottle of Wild Turkey Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, and just so you know, it was worth the shallow wad of loose dollars I found in a freshly laundered pair of pants, each of the quarters I’d stored away in the cup holder in the van, and all of the dimes, nickels, and pennies in the canister in my office. At right around $19, my hopeful contemplations proved true. This is a fairly decent bottle of booze.

The nose of this rye meets one’s reasonable expectations of spice and wood char. There’s also a little bit of something that reminded me of sitting in a pine forest while eating a caramel apple. Not too bad.

The palate is not as enjoyable, and I say this because even as I could sit and smell it for a while, a sip from the whiskey packs very little punch. It’s barely reliable in its trade. It almost seems like a watered down version of what it was in a former life—as though the distillery manager became desperate to fill a much larger order and found himself turning the ABV dial from from 43% to 40.5%. Desperation, as we’ve already considered, will cause a man to take drastic action. Still, the action resulted in a whiskey that’s not entirely too thin to experience the rye spice and caramel foretold in the nose.

The finish is short. Like the space between the floor and the shelf upon which this edition resides.

Still, at $19, I have to admit that this is a pretty good buy, especially for a hunter/gatherer of loose change experiencing a dry season. With that, I suppose I can continue to focus my scavenging efforts toward the bottom whiskey shelf while praying for Sunday morning celebrations involving cake.

Review – Redemption Rye, Pre-Prohibition Rye Revival, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]“People are nice,” he said, “but it’s always for one of the same three reasons.”

“Just three?” I asked.

“Just three,” he replied resolutely. “The first is because the person is just nice—genuinely nice. It doesn’t matter the situation, circumstance, or people involved, the person is just all-around nice.”

“I know lots of folks like that,” I said. “At least I think I do.” I poured a little bit of the Redemption Rye into another of my crystal rock glasses on the table and then pushed it toward him. I took a sip of my own and pried, “And the second?”

“The second is only being nice because he wants something from you.”

“Are you implying something?” I asked, half smiling. “I just slid you an untapped whiskey in one of my favorite glasses.”

“Funny, but no.”

“Good. How about the third, then?”

“The third person is only nice because he or she wants to get away from you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wants you off his trail,” he said and sipped. “And it can be for all kinds of different reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Like the person just doesn’t like you and doesn’t want to talk to you. Or maybe the person is hiding something. No one ever suspects the really nice people to have secrets.”

“So, how do we know who’s who in the crowd?”

“You can’t,” he said. “At least not until you’ve been around the person for a long enough while. After a while, people learn which nice you truly are.”

“Well, I think you’re a pretty good guy,” I said and smiled. “I’d be willing to say you’re the first kind of nice.”

“I’d say you are, too,” he said, but only grinning. He was holding something back.

“So, which kind of nice?”

“You’re a pastor,” he said. “You have to be all three.”

I wasn’t ready for the answer he gave, but in hindsight, he’s probably right. At least I think he could be right. I get along pretty well with most people. Hopefully that’s an indication that I’m more or less sourced from some level of genuine niceness. Although, knowing the sinfulness of mankind, most would probably say that about themselves.

Thinking on the second kind of nice, I suppose that in order to accomplish certain things with certain people, the second kind is needed—or as Jesus said in Matthew 10, “Be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves.”

But the third kind of nice, that’s a tough one. Still, I think my friend could be right, except that in the case of pastors, it’s an outflow of both the first and second forms of niceness. For example, there are certain folks of which I can definitely say I have no desire to be their best bud. Nevertheless, I don’t treat them any differently in public than the folks I’d be happy to buy a drink. It wouldn’t feel right, and in the end, it would really bother me a lot. I’ve never preferred such low roads in situations of conflict. And yet, beyond all that, I’m a sinful twerp and in need of the same forgiveness all the other sinful twerps need. That truth alone keeps me from getting too bundled up in the guts with past transgressions. To say it another way, I may be the third kind of nice, but it isn’t because I’m trying to hide anything from you. And why wouldn’t I want to hide my past sins? Because from a Christian perspective—and I happen to be a Christian—not even God remembers that stuff. Funny, huh? But it’s true. Jeremiah 31:34 says that when God forgives sin, he remembers it no longer. And in Psalm 103:12, we’re told that when God removes our transgressions, He sets them as far from us as the east is from the west. That’s an impossible distance, one that is completely beyond mortal comprehension, and in my mind, that’s pretty cool.

I suppose if folks want to hide from their own past transgressions, that’s fine, but just know I’m not all that concerned about mine. They’re scars—bad memories. But good or bad, memories are behind not before us. I’ll add that I’d most certainly wonder which of the three kinds of nice you are if you actually allot time in your schedule for digging up other people’s skeletons. It certainly couldn’t be the first kind of nice. It couldn’t be the kind of nice that has any regard for what is the glorious material fueling the core of the word “redemption.” It couldn’t be the kind that travels into and through that core, coming out on the other side delighted by the sunrise of a new day.

It couldn’t be the kind that would move me to willingly share with you a dram of the Redemption Rye edition. I mean, why would I pour this into even the least of honorable vessels for you to enjoy when you haven’t the wherewithal to understand the title on the bottle let alone the gesture that makes it yours? You’d never fully grasp the pleasantness of the straight-wafting rye spices in the nosing. You’d be one less inclined to take hold of the agreeable vanilla streams that lead away from struggle toward a more resilient friendship.

All of this being true, you’d most certainly miss the spiced fruits, coffee, and caramel in the palate that leads to a medium finish that revives the joys discovered in the nose.

And why would you miss all of this? Because you’re being nice to get something from me—namely dirt. You’re savoring my words and working to draw out something you might use against me later. That’s the vilest form of niceness, and rest assured, I know what it looks like. Which means I’d be more than ready for you. Which also means that I’d watch every one of my words carefully, maybe even throwing out a few misdirects to let you feel as though you’re getting something. But in the end, and unbeknownst to you, I’d have poured you a glass of Scoresby and not the Redemption Rye. I’d only give this dandy little gem to a friend.

Review – Laphroaig, Lore, (No Age Stated), 48%

[image error]Take a syringe with a needle of almost any length or gauge, jam it into one of her limbs, and the seven-year-old will barely flinch.

Watch her fall down a flight of stairs, and without losing her rhythm, hop to her feet and say, “What are you staring at?”

Behold her wrestling with her older brother, and in the grittiest moment of the dust up, when their heads meet with the sound of a horrifying crack, hear her say to her tearful opponent, “You should be more careful.”

Put her into the orthodontist’s examination chair with the intent of putting metal objects into her mouth and see her lose her mind.

If you can imagine it, this was the scene: A man dressed in his priestly garb beside a little girl in an examination chair, an orthodontic assistant tasked with cementing a retainer into place, and a room full of people chatting about everything and nothing. The assistant, so kindly and so gently, instructs the little girl to open her mouth widely and say “ah.” But as she reaches toward the toothy orifice on the little girl’s face, it snaps shut and she begins to flail, her head turning in different directions, her arms swinging and blocking every attempt of the assistant to accomplish her goal. Her father, the man wearing the clerical collar and dressed in black, he lurches to hover above her, grabbing her hands for fear that she’ll hurt the assistant or herself. In response, the little girl’s knees go up and into her father’s groin and stomach. One foot kicks the utensil table attached to the mechanical arm sending it spinning away toward the assistant and patient in the next chair over. The father, doing his best not to choke on his own injuries, does all that he can to talk her away from the frenzy. A moment of calm ensues and the assistant tries again only to receive the same response. It’s then that the screaming begins and the rest of the room becomes focused on the exorcism-like event happening in chair 1 which, by the way, also happens to be completely visible to all in the waiting area.

Looking back, I think that both I and all the others in the room almost expected to see her head spin as she slowly rose in a free-float above the chair. In fact, had she not been bribed by the orthodontist—who is a dear friend, by the way—it probably would’ve happened this way. And I suppose that as the moment stands in time, the only details missing from the event were pea soup and me sprinkling holy water while shouting, “The power of Christ compels you!”

When I arrived home later in the day, I told my wife, Jennifer, what happened, and I assured her that she would be taking the little girl to her next appointment. She laughed. I think she thought I was being funny. But I wasn’t.

Maybe she’s possessed, too.

No matter. I’m ready. In the meantime, I’m going to sit and sip whisky, and the Laphroaig Lore edition is the one to reinvigorate me for the next demonic engagement. Or trip to the orthodontist. Whichever. Both are inevitable. I have four children.

I use the word “reinvigorate” purposely with regard to the Lore, because no sooner than it falls from the bottle into the glass does a particular realization materialize: This stuff is rich, but also high-octane. A deliberate sniff brings and bestows committed vigor, suggesting, “A stride with me through the peat fires will not only reward you, but you’ll be shaped to box with the devil and win.” And so you follow the whisky’s lead into and through the haze, walking past simmering cauldrons of dried fruit and salty butter, the surrounding fires aglow with smoldering peat spewing blue flames. Each of the emanations is delightfully overwhelming.

Already intrigued, you reach to stir and steal a sip from the nearest kettle. It’s a powerful injection of singed and salty vegetables—spinach and artichokes—soaking in the sizzling, fatty juices of a sirloin that fell into the fire but was quickly retrieved. The ashes are still on the beef.

The clinging finish defines the dried fruits—apricots and raisins.

Looking at my calendar for tomorrow, I see that I have quite the busy day, a portion of which will require doing battle with those who would see the Lord’s church in ashes—both intentionally and unintentionally. Thankfully, none of tomorrow’s events involves taking my daughter to the orthodontist, so with that, it’ll be an easier collection of 24 hours.

Review – Two James Spirits, Grass Widow, Straight Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 45.5%

[image error]Lake Superior was enraged.

With venomous fury never before seen by such a tested crew, she spit three-story waves and leveled steely blows against the hull of the S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald.

“Captain,” John McCarthy, the First Mate, said in pale-faced terror, “the witch is hitting us at fifty knots.” His words were unbelievable. Had he been known to the crew as anything less than a moral sailor, one who preached the joys of marriage to all twenty-eight others aboard before each red light temptation in every port of the Great Lakes, they’d have disregarded his reading as poorly placed humor.

“This is the Fitzgerald,” Captain McSorely said, attempting to instill calm. “She can take it.” But as he clutched the radio’s microphone tightly, holding it to his chest, he was betrayed by white knuckles against the midnight blue of his coat.

Just beyond the bridge windows, the S.S. Anderson—a sister freighter that only a few hours before was behind them, but had now taken the lead through the storm—her rig lights were fading as the distance between the two vessels increased. Her captain, Jesse Cooper, knew well that McSorley and his crew had lost communication and were without radar, so he did all he could to preserve his own while keeping within sight. And yet, with each swipe of the Fitzgerald’s sixty-inch wiper blades, the bridge windows were doubly washed by Superior’s thick sprays. The Anderson was a blur, and she faded more and more into black.

Like a lion stalking a herd, the lake was choosing. Its eyes were set upon the Fitzgerald. The freighter was sickly, and the predator knew it.[image error]

When the last and tiniest gleam of the Anderson was swept away by a thirty-five foot wave crashing over the port bow, it was then that a midship crossbeam rocketed its rivets and the superstructure began to buckle. The surrounding steel gave a low moan as the ship twisted between the rising and falling of the lake’s indignation.

“Captain!” a crewman threw open the bridge door and shouted. “A railing and two of the vents are gone,” he despaired, leaning over and resting his palms on his knees. “And now four hatches have blown—from the deck down to cargo. They’ve been ripped from their frames! The Fitz is taking on water!”

“Keep with the pumps,” McSorely said, steadying his gaze against the hurricane blackness. “She’ll hold as long as we need ’er.”

Another crewman followed behind the first. “Sir,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “we’ve been running the pumps. But now the generators are underwater and the pumps are failing.”

“Captain,” McCarthy said, stepping forward to put his hand on McSorely’s shoulder. “Without the pumps, we’ll sink,” he whispered respectfully. “We need to make toward land.” He looked to the terrified men and then back to the Captain. “If you put us leeward,” he said, “this north wind will carry us to Whitefish Point. If we make it to the point, we may have a chance.”

“If we do,” McSorely returned with a poised, but equally quiet hush, “we’ll run aground in the shallows.” Leaving the microphone to dangle and sway with the waves, he leaned into the conversation. “I know those waters, John. The shallows begin a quarter-mile offshore, and with twenty-six thousand tons of ore in the Fitz’s belly, she’ll take those shallows much sooner.” Meeting his friend’s eyes, “Can you swim a half mile in a storm like this?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we need to keep our heading and make for Whitefish Bay,” the Captain continued. Turning his attention to the other crew members, he called out, “The north shore of the bay will cut the November Witch in half. She won’t take us if we can just get to the bay.” He reached for the swinging transmitter, snatching it midair from an upswing. He dropped it into its slot like a gunslinger dropping his gun into its holster. “Our communications are down,” he said. “But I’ve made this trip a hundred times. I’ll get us through to the bay. Also, Captain Cooper and the boys on the Anderson know we’re right behind them. They’ll get there first, and they’ll make sure folks are ready and waiting for both us and our haul.”

It was then that he did what captains do—he worked to inspire courage.

“And I’ll bet they’ll have some Two James Spirits whiskey already poured, maybe even the Grass Widow edition—three fingers for each of us—or as much as we want through the rest of the night.”

“Aye, Captain,” McCarthy relented. Even though he was never much for anything except communion wine, he knew to follow the Captain’s lead. “I hear the nose of the Grass Widow is a dandy one, too—filled with Bourbon barrel spices and the warm pie crusts any of your grandmothers would make in the fall.”

“And a sip,” the Captain interrupted, “well, just know that it’s worth every bit of terror these gales can muster.” By their eyes, he could see the men’s spirits starting to rekindle, and so he kept on. “Men, a sip holds a mere breeze of cinnamon and wood spice kissing red Michigan grapes. And those grapes—warmed, ripe—probably picked from a vine on the peninsula’s tip near Old Mission Lighthouse, picked by your favorite girl on a sunlit afternoon. I’ve eaten those grapes, men, and like you, I know there’re none so fine.”

“But the finish,” the First Mate added, “it’s there that hope becomes gladness. It’s there in the short fade that you find yourself ready for a new day, a new challenge, a new witch to come up an out of these lakes we know so well.”

“So bring it on,” McSorely said, giving a growl and tipping his hat to the handful of crewmen. “We aren’t meant to drown here. Fifteen more miles to the bay. Fifteen more miles till we drown in a dram of the Grass Widow!”

“Aye, Captain!” the others hollered, the thought of safe harbor and a full glass of Detroit Bourbon in hand stirring them to action.

“No one goes on deck till the bay,” the Captain called to the last of the crewmen through the door. “And put a man at every remaining hatch. Make them as secure as you know how and you’ll get your whiskey.”

The sailor gave a nod to the Captain and a hopeful glance to McCarthy. This was the last they’d see of each other in this life.

On November 10, 1975, sometime around 7:00 PM, Cooper radioed McSorely with the hopes that the Fitzgerald’s communication capabilities had been restored, and to ask the condition of the ship and her crew. Much to his surprise, Captain McSorely’s voice could be heard through the static responding assertively and finally, “We’re holding our own.”

Moments later, the ship broke apart and Lake Superior swallowed every hopeful man on board—all twenty-nine sailors wishing for a sip from a widow, but destined to be widow-makers instead.

Getting Ready for The Angels’ Portion, Volume III

Getting ready for The Angels’ Portion, Volume III…

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Review – Knockando, Master Reserve (1994), 21 Years Old, 43%

[image error]“Hello, this is Pastor Thoma.”

“Hi, I was supposed to be put through to Pastor Chris. Is he available?”

“Well, if you mean Pastor Thoma, whose first name is Chris, then you’ve got ’im.”

“Oh, great, well, Pastor Chris, I’m Tom from—” I don’t care where you’re from, pal, and you just lost any chance of selling me anything.  “—and I was wondering if you might have a minute to let me tell you about our new ten-week video Bible study series on the Book of Revelations.”

“Well, actually, I don’t really have time right—”

“Pastor Chris, this is really a great series, and I can personally guarantee it’ll help you be successful in guiding your flock through a very important book of the Bible that a lot of folks find confusing. Do you find it confusing?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s because you’re a pastor. But, Pastor Chris, I’ll bet some of your people can’t make heads or tails of the thing.”

“I hear you, but I don’t think—”

“I think you’ll appreciate the series. It deals with the rapture, how to see modern events in light of Biblical prophecies, and a whole bunch more things that you may not have even thought about.”

“Listen, Tom, I appreciate your call and—”

“And I can send you the series for free. You keep it for thirty days, and if you decide you don’t want it, just send it back. You only pay shipping and handling. If you decide to keep it, you’ll be billed three easy payments of only $59.99.”

“I’m sorry, Tom, but I do need to go. I don’t think I’m interested in—”

“I gotcha, Pastor Chris. You’re a busy man. How about I call back in a few weeks to check and see if you’ve changed your mind? Maybe I could share a little more about the series when you have more time.”

“That’s fine, but when you call back, if I don’t answer, just ask for Pastor Thoma.”

“Will do. Pastor Chris, I do so thank you for your time.”

“Right. Blessings in your day.”

Click.

First of all, there’s no “s” at the end of the word “Revelation.” Stop adding one. It makes you sound foolish.

And second…

No offense to the Reverends out there who go by their first names in their churches and communities, but honestly, whose idea was it to start this silly practice in the Church, anyway? Sure, I get the point that some pastors believe their people feel closer to them when they are permitted to use their first names. And I get the urge to scratch the point’s itch, especially as it appears to so many in the clergy as an avenue for personal or institutional relevancy. But as I’ve said in so many other places, the Church and her pastors have never had a problem with being relevant. The message we bring and the service we render are about as relevant as they get. The world may not see it that way, and that’s to be expected, but where the hell are we in the match if right out of the gate the pastors themselves consider their stations as intrinsically less-than-relevant, that is, in need of a little something extra to make it worth anyone’s while?

And by the way, there’s a reason that the need to be relevant itches in the first place. It’s a rash. Rashes itch. And rashes need to be cured, not perpetuated.

In tandem, but along a different trail of thought, would anyone of any office—especially someone who rightly understands his office as having been bestowed rather than achieved—would such an office holder be more likely to reshape the institution into what he wants it to be, or would he strive to be faithful to it as it was given, being the best he can be as its steward? I can’t necessarily answer that question, although I have my suspicions as to the answer. In the meantime, I can approach the question from another direction.

Would it ever be appropriate for me to address our state’s top executive, Rick Snyder, as Governor Rick? Or the policeman that pulled me over as Officer Bob? Or the traffic court magistrate as Judge Judy?

Wait a second…

Anyway, as I was about to say, if any of these people ever set such a standard, I can assure you that it would alter my regard for them and the seriousness of the duty they are performing.

“This sounds pretty self-serving and pompous, Pastor Chris.”

No, it’s not. In fact, it’s just the opposite. To address an officeholder in reverential ways—ways less concerned with assuring one another of equality and more inclined toward demonstrating a respect for the important distinctions between the servant and the one being served—is to esteem the person, the office, and the bestower of the office. And it teaches others to do the same.

The Office of Pastor—or the Office of the Holy Ministry, as we know it in the Lutheran Church—is by no means an office of pomposity. It’s not a station of prestige or lordship. It’s a station of service. Knowing this, believing this, pastors should be the first ones to protect against practices that allow for perceptions of the office—both inside and outside of the Church—to degenerate into the realms fictional characters you’d expect to find in a child’s favorite TV show. Officer Steve and Nurse Sally—I just don’t take those types seriously, and I’d be willing to bet that you don’t either.

We’re in a real post-modern mess, here, folks. Respect for all things sacred—people, places, you name it—it’s all slipping away into the deeper waters of trained disrespect with each allowance we make. When Pastors do it, they’re willingly dialing down their own relevancy while making it harder for the rest of us to be seen for the substance and rescue we’re trying represent and bring to people who need it.

Now, I won’t go into the stories validating my words. Instead, I’ll simply say, “Pastor Bob and Father Jim, do us all a favor and cut it out. Respect yourself and your office enough to expect a higher level of ettiquette, because right now, when it comes to the clergy being taken seriously by just about anyone—especially the people outside of the Church—you’re part of the problem and not the solution.”

Thankfully, there are plenty of whisky distilleries that haven’t succumbed to such tragedies of respect. The ones that have, well, they exist to prove my point. I don’t know anyone who refers to The Macallan as “The Mac,” but I’ve heard plenty of nicknames for Jack Daniels. One is approached with the respect due an artisan, and the other is a mass-produced attempt at being every whisky drinker’s pal.

[image error]Knockando whiskies are similar examples of admirable substance. A sip from its Master Reserve 21-Year-Old edition and you’ll see that it isn’t striving to be everyone’s buddy, but rather it wants to show you what lies beyond the sludge of Jack and Coke—a better, more gifting horizon that surpasses the experience of just drinking booze.

The nose of this exceptional whisky is the first revelation of its class. There’s just the right amount of nutmeg and sherry that arrive in the second sniff to balance the richer wood spices that came with the first.

The palate is a respectable concoction of crystallized ginger, smoked nectarines, buttermilk biscuit dough, and zested lemons. In the finish, the fruit smoke lingers, and after a while, is joined by a glazing of dark chocolate.

My recommendation: Strip down to you boxers, get yourself a plastic cup, pop open the bottle, and give the ol’ Knocky 21 a go.

Hmm. Knowing the valuable phenomenon that exists inside this bottle, do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?

Remember that the next time you greet your pastor. What is he to you? Is he the Knockando—a vessel in the stead of the Divine sent to give you extraordinary things—or is he just any old bottle of Jack?[image error]