Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 21

Review – Glengoyne, Cask Strength, Batch 004, (No Age Stated), 58.8%

[image error]I’ve discovered as of late that I’m no longer a person who enjoys camping. I say this as one whose childhood was filled with such things.

I have many fond memories of spring, summer, and fall days begun in the morning dew beside a smoldering campfire and ended beside that same rekindled fire pit. And in between those bookmarks of daily existence, the hours were spent getting dirty and getting hurt—hiking, climbing trees, fishing, canoeing, and so many other activities that almost always resulted in the need to bandage up at least one in the troupe.

I think one of my favorite things to do was to wade waist-deep in the swift moving river that formed the northern edge of the campground my family frequented most. Like bald, uncoordinated, albino bears, my older brother (may he rest in peace) and I would try to catch the fish with our hands as the water pulled them past. We were never all that successful, although, I do recall a time my brother managed to snatch one, but the barbs on its fanned dorsal fin convinced him to set it free.

Another of my favorites was to pretend to be a primal hunter. Again, teamed with my brother, we’d fashion long tree branches into spears and creep through the shadowy underbelly of the forest’s darker parts attempting to harpoon the chipmunks darting from tree to tree. We never caught a single chipmunk, but it was fun.

I suppose another of the best moments involved riding our bikes through the trails at top speeds. This was, of course, long before there were ever such things as mountain bikes or laws regarding helmet usage. We wore baseball caps, and our bikes were rattling pieces of crap we pretty much built ourselves. They had sparkling banana seats that could’ve just as easily been hung from the ceiling of a disco, and plastic license plates that said things like “CRUISN1” or “ROKNROLLR” we got from boxes of cereal like Honeycomb. They had baseball cards in the spokes to make them sound like motorcycles, and their frames were adorned with “The Dukes of Hazard” stickers we got from a bubblegum dispenser at the K-Mart where our mom worked as a cashier.

These were our ATVs. These were our camping stories.

But things are different now, and for me, the psychology of the whole thing has advanced far beyond what a kid may or may not have been capable of recognizing.

What I mean is that as a kid, it was necessary to comb your hair, tuck in your shirt, clean your room, and take a bath. When you went camping, none of those things mattered anymore. You could be dirty, and being dirty was the way to be free from the normal regimen of life. As an adult, the radius of life’s filth expands to meet you both inside and outside of a campground scene, and with that, the opportunities to get dirty are less inviting. Again, I guess what I mean to say is that even as life is much harder and much messier, why would I want to put myself into a situation where the simpler things are much harder and much messier, too? When I come home from a day of psychological dirt—from dealing in the wretchedness of life—I don’t want to be attacked by mosquitoes while walking to an outhouse that hasn’t been cleaned since 1979. I want things to be easier. I want to be clean. I want my crystal rock glass, not a red Solo cup. I want to wash the cares of the day away in a shower that isn’t made of rotting planks and crawling with spiders. I want to depart from that shower and make it to my favorite chair without feeling the need to return to the shower to wash off the dirt I gathered along the way to the chair. I want a fire, but I want it in a fireplace that’s beside my favorite chair and brought to life with the flick of a switch. If it’s raining, I want to experience the cloud’s tears from my front porch and not in a tent that’s filling with water because we didn’t know its canvas base had a hole. I want to choose a whisky from one of my various cabinets, not the choice between cans of Coca-Cola or Country Time lemonade floating in a cooler that used to be filled with ice, but is now nothing more than a swimming pool for soggy cheese slices, a gallon of warm milk, and a package of hotdogs that didn’t seal properly.

I want easy.

Of course, I might be willing to change my mind on all of this if I could just find a campground that doesn’t have a sign at the entrance which reads: No Alcoholic Beverages Permitted.

You know what, forget what I just said. That’s a Utopian idea. Just ask anyone who’s spent the night in a campground that allows booze. It’s anything but clean, easy, and restful. I just want to be home. In a sense, I want everything you’ll find in a bottle of whisky from one of my favorite distilleries—Glengoyne.

Even when it comes to an oomph-capable dram like the Cask Strength Batch 004 edition, which hovers at an ABV very near to 60%, all of my previously mentioned descriptors fit. This is an easy, clean, and restful Scotch that serves to distract from any of the harsher things life pitched during the day.

With the first pry of the cork and a nose to the bottle, there’s a generous stream of sherry and sweet cream. In the glass, while these remain, mixed berry coffee cake is added.

The palate is a bowl of sun-ripened cherries thinly coated with cinnamon and mingled with the coffee cake from the nose. The finish is nearly the same, with the only difference being a tap of black pepper.

Pleasant. Clean. Easy. Restful. Unlike the campground that welcomes imbibing campers—which is the same one with fireworks being set off at all hours of the night by raucous crowds revving KX150s and guzzling Bud Light.

Review – Old Forester, Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whisky, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]Just down the street and around the corner from my home, there’s a house that’s been bought and sold three times within the past eighteen months. I’ve seen the realtor signs adorning the front yard of this proud and presentable home, a domicile that doesn’t appear to have any particular exterior defects. And yet, the moving truck continues to return to swallow everything it only recently gave up, and “Sold” turns back to “For Sale.”

I’m not sure why.

I would assume that as each of the mortgages took shape, a typical inspection was performed and the house was ultimately judged as both habitable and sellable. If that’s true, then why the frequent turnover? The home is on a quiet, but vivacious, street. It is surrounded by friendly neighbors. And from what I can tell, it has a reasonably sized yard edged by a shallow forest. I pass it every day on my way to the office, and as I do, I glance and admit to its appeal as a place to raise a family, perhaps even being the kind of locale to which the children would one day return with their own families to visit Gramma and Grampa in their twilight years.

So what is it, then?

I suggested to my wife that perhaps the house is haunted. She laughed at me at first because she knows I don’t believe in ghosts. But I was serious—not in the sense that it might really be ghosts, but rather because it might be inhabited by the devil. My thought is that maybe this is one of his vacation homes.

As a pastor, the more I learn the devil’s routines in this world, the more I suspect he has a comfort zone, and its one that I think he’s willing to shake up only a little. With that, why not vacation in Michigan? It can be hellishly familiar while at the same time being off just enough to be counted as a vacation.

For example, it’s ungodly cold for eight months of the year, and while that doesn’t match the thermostat in hell, it certainly keeps to the theme of suffering. Also, Michigan has tons of lakes. None of the lakes are comprised of burning sulfur, like the one just outside the devil’s kitchen window in hell, although I hear that because of pollution, there are a few near the cities that could potentially ignite.

Michigan also has a Liquor Control Commission that severely hinders her citizens from accessing a good number of the finer whiskies enjoyed by so many in other states. This particular detail does double-duty as it meets the devil’s vacationing standards.

First, and easiest, it keeps with the suffering theme. Second, it matches the devil’s work ethic. He’s a busy guy who, even while on vacation, doesn’t like to be too far away from his trade endeavors. He’s the hairy guy you see wearing the Speedo in the chaise lounge beside the pool scanning excel spreadsheets and responding to texts from the office. He’s also the kind of guy who will do this in one of his own resorts just to keep an eye on it. Since the Michigan Liquor Control Commission is technically an extension of his reign, it makes sense that he’d land in some inconspicuous house within the confines of its regional governance in order to monitor its terror infliction.

I’m also thinking there’s a good chance the varying homeowners didn’t necessarily discover his presence because the lights were flickering, the cupboard doors were opening and closing on their own, or the children were hovering above their beds. My guess is that empty bottles of Old Forester kept showing up and they couldn’t figure out why. After consulting various volumes on the occult, and maybe even having a sit-down with their priest, they learned what twenty-five years of skipping church couldn’t teach: Old Forester is a favorite of Satan.

And why wouldn’t it be?

The first wafting from this $20 Bourbon smells a little bit like a can of soggy green beans. That’s weird, and almost certainly a sign of devilry. Give the dram a twirl, fan the space above it, and then give it another sniff. You’ll discover hope in the form of cinnamon-sprinkled rye and bubble gum. But another sniff dashes that hope, seeing it submerged in the polymer-like smell of a brand new Speedo. And your only thought: Thankfully, this skimpy male covering I’m nosing is fresh out of the package and not drying beside the pool.

The mouth feel is warmly pleasant, but after a savoring moment, it becomes something along the lines of a flavored cigarette smoldering in an ash tray that’s beside and downwind from a piece of rye toast. Thankfully there’s orange marmalade on the toast.

The finish is longer than most, leaving too much spice behind to burn your tongue and cause grief.

I can see why the devil might drink this, not to mention why my state’s Liquor Control Commission would allow for its abundant availability.

And as you can see, I have my suspicions as to how all of it might be connected to an unassuming, proud, and presentable house just down the street and around the corner from my own—one that, for some reason, cannot be retained by anyone for any length of time.

The Angels’ Portion, Volume III

Coming very, VERY soon…

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Review – Legacy, Canadian Blended Whisky, Small Batch, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]“Maddy, honey,” I heard Jen say from the kitchen. “You need to help him sound it out.”

I remember that Madeline was very young at the time, maybe only five or six. I was sitting at the dining room table and listening as she attempted to teach her younger brother, Harrison, how to read. Bright eyed and interested, he was sitting beside his kindly sister watching and listening.

“How do I do that?” she called back to her mother with an innocence of intent. True to the blossoming character she possesses today, she desperately wanted to see Harrison succeed in the effort, and so she was determined to learn the best method for securing her goal.

“You could show him the sound that each individual letter makes,” Jen suggested.

“How do I do that?” she asked again.

“Which word are you working on?”

“Baby.”

“Well, maybe you could do it like this,” Jen said, walking to where the two were sitting where the dining and living rooms met. Crouching and finding the word, she pointed to its first letter. “This is the letter B,” she said. “It makes the buh sound.” Maddy’s eyes were on her, registering every detail of her mother’s impromptu lesson with precision. Jen pointed again, and Harrison followed her finger to the first letter of the word. “Buh, buh, baby,” she said. “What sound does the letter B make, Harry?”

“Buh,” he said proudly.

Maddy’s eyes widened. “Thanks, Momma,” she said. She knew what to do. “Let’s move to a different word, Harrison.”

“Otay,” he said agreeably.

Jen made her way back to the kitchen while Maddy scanned the opposite page, eventually settling on a new word.

“Okay, Harry,” she said, pointing confidently. “Let’s learn this word.” Her little finger pressed to the page. “This is the word ‘car,’” she said. “Do you know what letter it starts with?”

“I doan know,” he said, putting his little hands into the air beside his shoulders. “Wassit?”

“It’s the letter C,” Maddy answered. “We need the letter C to make the word ‘car.’”

“We do?” Harry said, playing his part so that his sister could play hers.

“Yes, we do,” she answered. “So, let’s sound it out. Buh, buh, buh, car.”

Jen looked at me. I looked at Jen. It took immeasurable strength to keep the laughter contained.

Okay, so maybe she missed the mark on that one. It doesn’t change her history as one who rarely complains about anything, is kind-hearted to everyone she meets, is always ready to help, and is an all-around sweet human being. I’m even willing to admit that if it weren’t for Saint Paul’s truthful words in Romans 3 reminding that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, I’d be in danger of heresy as I consider this little girl to be one of the few treading ever-so-closely to sinless.

Not so for the Legacy Blended Canadian Whisky Small Batch edition.

While the nose of this youngling seems cheerful as it promises singed oak and spiced apples, the palate attempts to sound these sensations out, but in the process, reveals a lack of depth. There’s a little bit of the fruit—in syrup form and with a little bit of pepper sprinkled in—and some rather obvious cloves. But they’re soft and sour as opposed to edged and sweet as one might expect.

The finish is medium in length, and thankfully, its contours make the dram worthwhile. The spiced apples are there, but in a short moment, chocolated cherries begin to mingle. These were a nice surprise to an otherwise unexciting dram.

At this point in history, I wonder if the future of the Legacy, an effort from Buffalo Trace and Drew Mayville, will one day prove similar to that of my daughter, Madeline, whose name, when uttered, prompts smiles as well as thoughts of genuine glee from nearly all who know her. I hope so. But admittedly, at this point, I’m concerned that it’s buh, buh, buh, uncertain.

Review – George Dickel, White Corn Whisky, No. 1, (No Age Stated), 45.5%

[image error]Not everything in life is clear. I understand this.

Take, for example, the U.S. Tax Code. That’s a near unnavigable monstrosity. Even the ever-optimistic Christopher Columbus, after a day or two of sailing its paper waves looking for shore, would have forsaken all hopes for a sure landing and thrown himself overboard to drown in the ink.

Another is the grisly Lusus Naturae of Michigan, which is the series of four interconnected, tri-laned roundabouts at the Lee Road exit of U.S. 23 in Brighton. Each day, many attempt to brave its Kraken-like embrace, but few emerge to share their terrifying tale.

Some things in life are crystal clear.

The coastal waters of Bimini are clear. Albeit they’re infested with hammerhead sharks. And yet, the water is so pristinely clarion that you’ll effortlessly behold your doom’s gliding approach long before the first bite.

It’s crystal clear that the drive-thru at McDonald’s is for serving quick orders to people on the go—a Big Mac, fries, and a coffee for the one who didn’t have time for dinner and is already late for an evening meeting. It’s also abundantly clear that this truism isn’t so clear to some. In other words, I’m suggesting that there will always be those who don’t realize that it is much more polite to go inside the establishment to place a massive order. The drive-thru isn’t for the 15-passenger van filled with children, piloted by the parent who thought it would be a much simpler way to gather pile after pile of specially prepared food that everyone else in the drive-thru knows the teenage attendant will never in a million years get right the first time around.

“Yeah, and make four of those cheeseburgers with only one pickle and a light swipe of ketchup. Make another six with only one pickle and a light swipe of mustard. The other nine can all be regular, except with no cheese or those little sprinkled onions.”

“So, just ketchup and mustard?”

“Yeah. Would you mind throwing an extra slice of cheese on my Quarter Pounder? And nine of the kids want their drinks to be half Coke and half Hi-C. Can you do that? Great. And then I’ll have five orders of the twenty-piece chicken nuggets. But could you keep them in the fryer a little longer than normal? That’s the way I cook them at home and the kids just love ’em. It makes them a little crispier. Yeah, thanks.”

“Um.”

As one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven large bags are passed through the window to the driver, over the course of the past twenty minutes, the line in the drive-thru has begun to look more like a winding funeral procession. The facial expressions of my fellow mourners give it away. And it gets even worse when the van’s driver remains at the window and checks the contents of each bag—unwrapping sandwiches to make sure there aren’t too many pickles strewn throughout the lot—and then hands a few things back to the attendant because the order is incorrect. Just as the rest of us knew it would be.

“Ma’am, if you wouldn’t mind pulling forward, we’ll sort this out and bring your order out to you.”

“Oh, sure,” the woman says so kindly and pulls forward. Still, the space-shuttle-sized vehicle is far too big to allow enough room for the patron behind her to actually reach the window, unless of course he’s willing to climb out onto the hood of his car to make the transaction. I would be. But he isn’t, and with that, it becomes more than clear there will be no escape for any in the procession. The drive-thru’s hostage scene will carry through to its completion, and in a sense, will be reminiscent of the waters off the coast of Bimini—something you expected would lead to fulfillment, but instead became an unclouded vision of the gaping jaws of starvation and your late arrival to a meeting.

There’s another thing that’s crystal clear, but in a literal sense: The George Dickel White Corn Whisky No. 1.

Unlike the previous scenario, thankfully, the longer I’m immersed in this particular potion, the more I think I like it and the more I want to investigate white whiskies in general. It has a creamy, richly sweet, and overtly grainy nose—like a helping of Frosted Flakes long-soaked in milk.

In the mouth, there’s the sense of burnt cornbread, but surprisingly, it isn’t all that bad. There’s still enough sweetness in the mix to make it both inviting and interesting.

The finish could use some work, though. It’s there that the whisky becomes somewhat bitter, letting you know that even though the dram is certainly clean enough in its appearance to pass as water, there are pollutants in there—namely charcoal and what I am suspecting could be fragments of a corn cob’s waxy husk. Still, as I mentioned previously, the longer the George Dickel White Corn Whisky No. 1 holds me captive, the more I feel I may be someone capable of epitomizing the Helsinki Syndrome and one day finding myself strangely admiring my captor as I carry through to the hostage situation’s questionable end.

That is, of course, as long as my captor isn’t the heartless driver of a 15-passenger van full of finicky children in the drive-thru at McDonald’s.

Get Your “The Angels’ Portion” Candle

Well, how about that—a candle inspired by The Angels’ Portion!
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The artisan that he is, Reverend Gaven Mize has crafted a delightful whisky-scented candle for your nosing pleasure inspired by The Angels’ Portion Volumes I and II. The candle is available in both 6 and 8 ounce sizes.

Click below and visit Mize Family Books to get your hands on one… or five. But move swiftly, my friend, because supplies look to be limited.[image error]

Review – Tullibardine, 25 Years Old, 43%

[image error]Pulitzer prize winning journalist and editor Herbert Bayard Swope gave a speech in 1950 in which he said so easily, “I cannot give you the formula for success, but I can give you the formula for failure—which is: Try to please everybody.”

Oh, how such words ring true.

A life spent in pursuit of accomplishing a simultaneous happiness among everyone else is a venture doomed to failure, one that will never even comes close to docking in its hopeful, and yet mystical, harbor. People are people. And while it may be easy enough to find one’s way into an individual’s graces, when you add another individual to the equation—and then add another and another and another—the odds of finding concord begins to slip away, even in the tightest circles of friends.

An example of this is found in the illustration of like-minded theologians fellowshipping while considering a settled doctrine. As the collegial back-slapping ensues, the brothers are observed giving affirming nods and lifting glasses to the pleasing commentary rounding the table of familiar faces—until one of the fellows digs to a deeper stratum of the doctrine, to a more abstract area where the contours of the dogma are less settled. It is here that friends become foes. It is here that the most orthodox of truth-tellers becomes a heretic.

But there’s another piece to this puzzle.

In that same group of theologians, as in any other assemblage of humans, a pleasing peace between all stands a very good chance of being disrupted by default, and not just because people hold varying opinions, but because there’s a very good chance that one of the participants actually prefers the contention of unhappiness.

Having observed this strange phenomenon in plenty of folks, I would even go so far as to suggest that our culture is regularly breeding a good number of people who are happiest when they’re unhappy. And this is a terribly tragic thing. I have my theories, one of which is that in many cases it is purely an egotistical thing. I’m not a psychologist so I don’t rightly know how to diagnose it, but I guess what I’m thinking is that deep within certain people, a feeling of personal uselessness has latched on to a darker “return on investment” type sense. In other words, when the person is swimming in unhappiness, that’s when people pay the most attention. He believes he is of the greatest value to his immediate community when he can continually discover the problem theology in that same community and be the one a few call upon to fix it.

Now, I could be wrong about this. I’m pretty sure I’ve been wrong about a great many things in my life. Still, it sure seems possible. And if so, what to do? How about during one of those little theological jamborees, you whip up the courage to watch for an open window into the person’s most intimate self, and then when you find it, right there in front of everyone in the room, climb in, and ransack the place?

No? Yeah, that’s probably why I’m not a psychologist.

[image error]Although, I suppose there could a better, more clandestine, solution—one that would allow for everyone else in the room to actually behold the person’s tendency toward finding trouble where no trouble exists. Go ahead and drop the extra cash to order up a round of the Tullibardine 25-year-old. The whole room—from the ones who like the peaty drams to those who prefer a much sweeter Highland exchange—all will absolutely adore this whisky. And when the one brother doesn’t, but instead begins to highlight all he believes is wrong with it, those around him will almost certainly recognize his truest nature and turn to him in rebuke.

The nose of the Tullibardine 25 communicates the barrel, lending a first-fruit of scorched sherry wood pasted with the juice from a meatier citron. I find this to be an exceptional combination because I think that without the citrus, the whisky’s char has the potential for offering too firm a handshake.

The palate, while gentle enough, is at the same time unmoving. It means what it says, not offering suggestions, but rather telling you to look for brown sugar, butter, and vanilla just beginning to simmer—all the right ingredients for making a fresh batch of butterscotch.

The finish will please the whisky consumers looking for something with a little bit of ash—and maybe even something sharper and a little more Bourbon-like.

To conclude, I suppose there is the possibility that Mr. Swope’s maxim falls a tad short when the Tullibardine 25-year-old is introduced into the fray. With this stuff in hand, it very well could be possible to please everyone—even as those who can’t be pleased hide that pleasure. And when that happens, the pleasing opportunity for a communal diagnosis of the illness will have been accomplished. So in that sense, we’ll have moved toward happiness rather than away. 

All of this having now been said, maybe a better saying would have been: “I cannot give you the formula for success, but I can give you the formula for failure—which is: Withhold the Tullibardine 25 while trying to please everybody.”

Review – Toremore, 14 Years Old, 43%

[image error]“Stop!” the older brother cautioned sternly, putting his hand on the younger’s shoulder to keep him from taking another step. “Don’t move.”

The Samsung dishwasher was chirping its fanciful little tune as it heralded the completion of its task. Steam billowed from its mouth. The two brothers stood still.

“Do you want to be the one to unload it and put all the dishes away?” Josh asked quietly.

“No,” Harry whispered back.

“Then don’t make eye contact with it,” he counseled, “and just back away slowly.”

“Why?” Harry whispered again, this time beginning to crouch with his arms outstretched. “Slowly?”

“Slowly,” Josh affirmed. “Its vision is based on movement.”

“It is? How do you know?”

“Trust me. I learned this the hard way when I walked past the lawn mower in the garage a few weeks ago.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I did,” Josh answered. “All of the appliances around here are like that—the dishwasher, the machines in the laundry room, you name it.” He led Harry backward a single step. “The garbage cans, too.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, his voice getting a little louder than before.

“Quiet,” Josh hushed, pulling his brother backward another slow step. “I’m not gonna let you take me down, too,” he continued in a near-soundless tone. “If it sees you, you’re on your own.”

Over the course of the next few minutes, the two slackers managed to slink carefully backward and away from the kitchen without being noticed by the predatory appliance. But they didn’t get very far before the beast’s maiden—otherwise known as Mom—discovered them visiting with the PlayStation 4, and for a lack of charity, shackled and led them back to the dishwasher’s den.

“Careful,” Josh whispered, setting the last of the glasses into the cupboard while Harry dropped a final spoon into its place in the silverware drawer. “We may have survived this round,” he said to Harry. “But the sink is full. Keep your eyes on the floor and back away or we’ll have to load the dishwasher, too.”

Having slowly closed the door of the machine, being even more careful to minimize the click of its latch, the two dropped to the floor and army-crawled across the linoleum floor to the safety of the living room carpet. There on their backs they let out a sigh and reveled in their successful escape from possible doom.

As it is with my kids in relation to their chores, there are certain distilleries and resultant whiskies that are in many ways chore-like to consume. When I see them on the shelf, I avert my eyes and back away slowly. The 12-year-old editions from The Glenlivet and Glenfiddich are examples. But then there are others that are well worth the long hours of labor it takes not only to afford them, but to find them. In this case, it is the Toremore 14-year-old edition that serves as the example.

[image error]Released back in 2014 for about $60, I had every intention of purchasing a bottle. And while I did buy the 12-year-old edition (and finished it long before I ever thought about starting to write about whisky), I never got around to locating the 14-year-old. Now they’re a lot harder to find, and when you do find one, it’ll cost you a lot more than $60. Thankfully I have friends who didn’t miss out on the opportunity and are willing to share.

When you nose this Speyside jewel, the first things you’ll probably notice are the varieties of fruit—blackberry preserves and nectarines, although the nectarines are crisp and could probably use another day or so to ripen. Alongside the fruits, there’s a coolness reminiscent of soft-serve ice cream.

The palate sets out a similar tray of things—especially the blackberries—but then adds to the overall profile a warm sauce of semi-sweet chocolate and minced pecans that leads you into a medium-long finish singing the tongue with hot coffee and wood spice.

This is a great dram, and as I mentioned before, is more than worthy of every bit of the time and effort it takes to get it into a glass in your hand. I also found it to be perfect company while lurking in the darkness of our pantry listening to Josh contort his little brother’s perspective of household chores.

No matter. I’ll give them both another minute to chat—to feel safe in the moment—and then, when that moment passes, I’ll come out of the shadows to remind them that it’s been well over a week since the yard was last mowed, I’ll retell of the hungry mower and the even hungrier trimmer in the garage, and then I’ll kindly make the introduction.[image error]

Review – Redbreast, 12 Years Old, 40%

[image error]All has gone so well, but now is the time of transition—the crossing over from vacation to the real world. This means that for the next twenty-four hours, a fog of sorts will engulf our realm. Bad things will stalk us. Mishaps will happen. But only for twenty-four hours.

And so it is as I foretold. The air feels thick. The mood is somber. Tears are shed. It’s like a funeral. The only thing missing is the corpse.

The kids amble slowly, traipsing back and forth in zombie-like saunters as they bring their things to the marshal—the one they call “Momma”—so that she can put them into the family suitcase. One by one, she takes from them their clothing and books and souvenirs and all that would remind them of the days where sleeping in was as certain as the sunrise and a swimming pool was as easily accessible as the ground beneath their feet.

While I watch, I wonder if there is an actual psychological term for this particular scenario. If so, I’m guessing it’s called Post Traumatic Vacation Disorder—or PTVD. Well, maybe not PTVD. That sounds a little more like a disease one might catch during Marti Gras in New Orleans. Either way, before me is the proof that the vacation has wound down to its conclusion, and it is a traumatic experience. Even for me. I rarely feel like crying, and yet, this is one of those times when I feel the tugging.

I just don’t want it to end. I love the time with my family. Right or wrong, I love opening my email and deleting everything indiscriminately. I love waking up at six o’clock in the morning, moving quietly through the house toward the coffee maker, preparing a full pot of medium roast, flipping on the computer, and then tapping away at the keyboard for as long as I want—or at least until the first of the children comes wandering through the kitchen and breaks my stride. But that’s okay. I love being able to actually greet them, and to do so with a casualness of pace because I’ve nowhere to go and nothing else to do than be their dad. I love a full day with my wife, Jennifer. I love carting them around in a minivan to this place and that place, all the while enjoying them as the unique and wonderful people God has made them to be.

But all of this is for another story.

Right now, jump ahead a few hours to the 5:05 AM alarm screaming its dirge-like tune the morning of our departure. The funeral service has not ended, but rather it continues, except now, all the mental faculties and physical coordination of its attendees have atrophied fully.

All the laundry has been washed and packed. Everyone is dressed. Final things are being orchestrated. Something tragic is sure to happen. And it does.

We leave for the airport in thirty-five minutes. As fate continues to shave minutes from the clock, Evelyn manages to tip and spill her entire bowl of cereal into her lap, screaming as it sops down into the seat cushions and forms a pool on the floor. Oh, and by the way, it isn’t just any type of cereal. It’s Lucky Charms, which means that the staining power of this multihued, marshmallow meal is set well beyond “stun.” The little girl will now need to strip down and change clothes while I run her soggy attire through the quickest cycle the washing machine offers and then wrap it in a plastic grocery sack in an attempt to keep everything else in the suitcase dry for the next four or five hours of travel.

All I can do is hope.

What happens next is more irksome than it is tragic. The kids are instructed to make one more pass though their rooms to make sure they haven’t forgotten anything. Both of the boys adamantly protest, insisting that nothing is missing from their packs. Jennifer looks under one of the beds and finds Harrison’s favorite deck of cards. Josh is already making his way out to the car when I ask if he’s done what we’ve asked. Once again, he insists it isn’t necessary, but then he sees my “You’re gonna hear me say ‘I told you so’ really soon” expression while turning toward his room and in response, he scoots past and begins a quick scan. Sure enough, he finds his favorite pair of shorts in the bottom drawer of the dresser beneath the TV. I say nothing. He keeps his eyes to the floor.

Feeling as though what was most likely the worst of things is behind us—the detonation of cereal—I rally the family to the van and we make our way to the airport. We deliver the rental van on time and in good condition. We make it to the ticket counter, through security, and to the gate unscathed.

The full twenty-four hours is well past its half-way point and not much has happened. Strange. But I’m not complaining, because here I sit in row 25, seat C, on Frontier flight 1668 to Detroit rejoicing that there isn’t a screaming infant nearby like there was last year. It is beginning to appear as the though our typical time of transition may very well be sputtering to an early end. I’m listening to the “Guardians of the Galaxy, Awesome Mixes 1 and 2” and tapping on the computer, every now and then glancing at the countdown clock app on my phone which is currently displaying 338 days until next year’s vacation.

Man, that just seems so far away.

The feeling sets me back, but only for a moment, because the thought that a lot of good things—wonderful things—could happen between now and day 338. The same thought causes me to close my eyes and imagine what those things will be. I know one thing for sure. I will continue to work harder at concerning myself less with my vocation and more with my family. Not that I intend to shaft my duties. It’s not in me to do that, but each year I return from vacation, I get a little better at prioritizing my tasks in an attempt to brush aside the guilt of failing to get everything done or solving every person’s problem. I intend to continue getting better at keeping a more manageable pace that includes, rather than excludes, my family.

For example, I know for a fact that there will be a whole bunch of meetings this year that I just won’t be attending. I’ll also be devoting more time to doing things that help to keep my family healthy, as well as doing more of the extra-curricular things that help to keep my spirit energized and engaged. One of those things is writing about whiskey. And there are always new whiskies to playfully review. Some good. Some downright awful. Some, meh. But whatever the result, the experience is always a pleasure when I get to tell the story.

[image error]As a side note, I have an untested sample of the Redbreast 12-year-old edition waiting for me at home. I plan to give it a whirl when I get home a little later today. Although, from what I’ve heard from a trustworthy friend, I shouldn’t expect much. Perhaps I should wait until the last few minutes of the twenty-four hour time frame in order to let the whiskey be the last of the transition’s calamities.

We’ll see. In fact, I think I’ll stop right here, and when I get home, I’ll pick this up again and share the day’s end.

———

I’m back. Good news. The dram was better than I expected. As a matter of fact, it was quite good.

In the nose, there are distinct breezes of honey, nutmeg, tangerines, and almonds. A sip reveals equally distinct streams of vanilla and sun-dried apricots barely peppered with cinnamon. The medium finish is a combination of both the nose and the palate.

This Irish whiskey is very full, and I’m quite pleased it was the one holding the checkered flag at the day’s finish line. It sure beats what fate had in store for our minivan’s tire only a few hours before. $309.37 later…[image error]

Review – Bushmill’s, Black Bush, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]We’re in the final day of our vacation in Florida, and as with any worthwhile effort, it serves the broader community of people preparing for a similar experience when those who’ve made crucial mistakes take the time to share their blunders in the hope that others will be able to avoid them.

And so, what follows is a list of ten “pro tips” that will help you and your family have a gaffe-free and memorable vacation in the summer sun.

Pro Tip #1: When you buy sunscreen, make sure it’s the kind that can be rubbed invisibly into the skin without leaving a thin white film. Otherwise, you might as well bring along oversized clown shoes, a few multi-colored wigs, and some red rubber noses because essentially you’ll have wiped white-face makeup on everyone in your clown family. Or bring plastic fangs and fake blood. The “Nosferatu” look would come together nicely, too.

Pro Tip #2: Even the best, most self-controlled kids on the planet get the “gimmes” when walking through a souvenir shop. This means that you’re very likely to hear the words, “Daddy, can I get…” or “Momma, I want…” about a thousand times. One way to stop that dead in its tracks: Each and every time either of the phrases is used, look the child in the eye while taking a dollar from his or her hard-earned vacation money. Not only will they learn very quickly that if they don’t cut it out, they won’t be able to afford to buy anything, but by the end of the day, you’ll have a little extra cash for margaritas on the beach with your significant other.

Pro Tip #3:  Roaches live in Florida. Of course Floridians prefer to call them Palmetto bugs in order to lessen the gross factor. Well, whatever. Just know that it doesn’t matter where you go or where you choose to stay, you will discover them. The hope is that when you do, they’ll already be dead because an exterminator is on the landlord’s payroll. Still, it’s quite possible that you’ll awake one morning and find a dead roach where there wasn’t a roach before. With this in mind, before you depart from home, spend time training your children to use a wad of toilet paper to pick up dead bugs, place them in the toilet, and flush them. If you don’t, every time a bug is discovered, there’ll surely be a mad dash of gagging children with arms flailing while screaming for Dad. And if you actually survive this running of the bulls, you can count yourself as being the one on call for every bug retrieval situation. If you’re in the bathroom, too bad. If you’re eating breakfast, who cares? If you just got in the pool, no matter. There’s a bug in the boys’ room and they won’t be able to get out of bed to go pee until it’s gone.

Pro Tip #4: If you stay in a place that has a pool, make sure it’s heated. There’s nothing worse than a gaggle of children screaming in unearthly ranges of sound for twenty minutes while they adjust to pool water that is only slightly cooler than their bodies.

Pro Tip #5: If you don’t have a teenager amongst the gaggle, hire one. Unless you want to end each day with a sore back, you’ll need a pack mule to carry the backpack full of water bottles, sunscreen, snacks, device chargers, and the glut of other tethers you’ll be taking with you everywhere you go.

Pro Tip #6: When you eat out, make sure the establishment is no less than ten minutes away from your next destination. And, no, it doesn’t matter if the people in your party use the bathroom before getting into the car because the odds are that someone will have trouble digesting whatever it was that went into the food and you’ll have a situation on your hands requiring more than a quick stop by the side of the road next to a palm tree. My advice—stick to the ten-minute rule or make plans to keep a change of clothes and a stash of baby wipes in the trunk.

Pro Tip #7: Make sure that you are very clear with the children that as convenient as it may seem, time in the pool is in no way equivalent to taking a bath or shower. After a few days in the pool and no shower, a chlorine rash can be pretty souring to anyone’s mood.

Pro Tip #8: Since we’re on the topic of convenience… While it may not seem necessary, don’t forget to have the very important conversation regarding the significance of exiting the pool when the urge to pee occurs. You think a chlorine rash is bad? Try gulping down some warm water in an otherwise frigid pool. It’ll be a part of the vacation you won’t forget.

Pro Tip #9: Print out this list and hang it on the wall near the front door. Review the list each day before engaging in the scheduled vacation fun.

Pro Tip #10: Locate the nearest liquor store and stop in for adult supplies. Of course, since you’re vacationing, you don’t necessarily want to buy something expensive—that is, you don’t want to get something you might not be able to finish and will be forced to leave behind lest you find yourself stuffing it into a suitcase already bloated with souvenirs and well past the weight limit set by the airline. At the same time, you don’t want to go cheap. You don’t want to spend your much-needed down time sitting by the pool with a glass of Scoresby in your hand. My advice: Check out the Bushmill’s Black Bush Irish Whiskey. If you see it, go ahead and put it into your shopping cart.

[image error]This dram has a sturdy nose of malted fruit. And no sooner than your exhale removes this sensation does the next intake bring a lighter wafting of toasted bread pasted with Nutella. It’s really rather nice.

The palate keeps a similar pace, delivering caramel-dipped nuts and hints of dark chocolate. Again, it’s nice.

The finish, for such a surprisingly flavorful dram, is the only underwhelming part of the experience. There’s a little bit of wood spice, but beyond its sprinkling, everything else in the experience washes away cleanly, leaving nothing behind.

Still, the price of the Black Bush is right, and the overall experience is satisfying enough that you’re sure to want a dram each night. Although, depending on the length of your stay, at only one dram per night, you may not be able to finish it off before you return home.

On second thought…

Pro Top #11: Prior to your trip, once everything is packed, weigh the family suitcase. Make sure it’s within limits. Then, when no one else is watching, reach in a grab a handful of stuff from the kids’ section of the bag, and stuff it under a bed. That will leave you some room for bringing back your unfinished bottle.