Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 22

Review – Jack Daniel’s, Gentleman Jack, Tennessee Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]While on vacation in Florida, there’s only one thing that I think the kids love doing more than swimming in the pool. And, no, it isn’t going to Disney World. We don’t do that while on vacation. Probably because all of us, from the youngest to the oldest, knows that a day at Disney in July—which is the particular month when at least 2% of the world’s 196 countries descend upon a single state in the union—would be about as enjoyable as being tied to a chair and force-fed scoops of spoiled mayonnaise. It’s just not anything we want to do. The heat, the lines both inside and outside the park, the miles of walking—it’s all rather nightmarish for us. When we’ve visited Disney, it’s been in September. You know the Buzz Lightyear ride? We rode that one something like fifteen times in thirty minutes. Only a handful of people and no lines.

But in July, after a full day of swimming, playing board games, or visiting shops, the Thoma family gathers together on the couch—snacks in one hand and the TV remote in the other—and we watch Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. [image error]

The main purpose for this, first and foremost, is to close out the day together as a family watching something that keeps all of us intrigued. But there is a second purpose, a parental purpose, and that is to teach my kids that going into the ocean is a horrible thing to do.

Oh, boy. Here we go.

“But, Reverend, the ocean is a magical place full of wonder and beauty. Do you really want to rob your children of the opportunity to—”

Let me stop you right there. Yes, I do, so zip it, Cousteau. In reality, the ocean is about as magical for a human being as the tank in the grocery store is for the lobster. When we’re in the ocean, we’re willingly adding ourselves to a more vulnerable place on the food chain. You’re food. I’m food. And not just for a singular predator, either, but rather for countless numbers of creatures that would love to take a bite. A lobster has one enemy in Kroger and that’s people. In the ocean, we have sharks, eels, jellyfish, barracuda, squid, and more sharks. And I’m guessing that once any one of those beasties gets a bite and figures out that most of us are so succulently marinated in fast food grease, a nibble won’t be enough. It’ll want the whole McHuman sandwich.

And by the way, you do realize that only 5% of the ocean has actually been explored, yes? We know more about Mars than we do our own ocean. I’m sure there are plenty of things living three miles down in the dark that might consider migrating to the coast if they actually met and tasted us.

For all that Shark Week is for educating the general public regarding our so-called misunderstanding of ocean life, it does a pretty good job by way of its frightening narration and its episode titles that include words like “monster” or “serial killers” to keep this particular fan base from ever stepping foot into anything other than a bathtub or pool.

And one last thing—just to be fair—if a shark came waddling up from the water with his family on their way to see the magically beautiful place we call the Grand Canyon, I wouldn’t start circling and hassling them. I’d give them their space and let them enjoy their time. I certainly wouldn’t feel the need to eat them, especially when there are plenty of places on I-40, just south of the canyon, to stop for lunch. When sharks can start returning the favor, I’ll think about slinking into some speedos and going for dip. I might even bring along a flask for sharing what we humans find pleasurable up here on the sunny side.

But I wouldn’t bring the Jack Daniel’s Gentleman Jack. That is, unless, I was intent upon insulting my newfound underwater friends, thereby making them more inclined to eat me.

[image error]While the nose of this Tennessee whiskey is quite agreeable—giving over singed barrel planks, mashed blueberries, and what seemed like sort of an orange-lemon combination—the palate comes along and betrays its potential. It turns first toward artificial sweeter and then circles back around to something salty. I imagined soggy asparagus.

The finish leaves similar dents in the hull of expectation. There’s charred wood pulp stirring in sugared water.

Like I said, I wouldn’t bring this stuff along. I’d probably pack The Balvenie 17-year-old SherryOak for starters, but I’d have some backups in the boat on the surface. Maybe something along the lines of Bulleit Frontier Whiskey, or the Michter’s Single Barrel Straight Rye. All three of these are not only generous, but they make for good starters with noobies.

Still, you Cousteau-types should know that the whole time down there in the depths, I’d have an itchy finger on my spear gun’s trigger, most likely regretting not having done more research to find out if they make such things as underwater plasma cannons.

Review – J.P. Wiser’s, “One Fifty” Commemorative Series, Bottle #3078, (No Age Stated), 43.4%

[image error]It happens every year. While on vacation, I have a dream that’s incredibly charged and equally vivid—so much so that the uneasiness it stirs lingers long after I wake. And it usually happens a few days before we leave for home. Here’s my write-up on the dream I had last year.

We return home in two days. Last night I dreamt I was lying in the middle of what I first thought was a massive pit—something like a rock quarry—with tiered walls that stair-stepped from its base to its top. I had trouble seeing. There was very little color. Everything was cast in various shades of gray. I was on my back on the ground, face to a smoky sky of swiftly moving clouds. There was an undefinable rumble all around, and yet it seemed as though it could have been coming up from below me. Its sound was so deep, so bellowing, that I could feel it not only in the hollow of my chest, but in the denseness of my arms and legs.

I remember my limbs feeling tired and heavy, but eventually I managed to get to my feet. My eyesight started to return, and as I turned in circles, it was then that I realized my location. It wasn’t a pit. It wasn’t a rock quarry. It was a gladiatorial arena, and all of its seats were filled to the maximum with people waving and shouting and stomping.

I was in the center of the ruckus, and as I spun faster and faster in an attempt to scan the horizon, I frantically plotted the scene. I felt the urge to look for weapons while at the same time trying to discern if I was the only one in the arena.

I was. But not for long.

On one side of the stadium, at the edge of the arena’s floor nearest to the first rows of seating, there was no light, but only a shadow cast by the walls from a sun I couldn’t view. I could see something moving in the darkness of the shadow, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I could hear that it was chained. I could hear a voice nearby shouting to set it free. I could see clouds of chalky dust billowing out into the open from where it was shackled. There were grunts and pawing and clanks of its chain.

I looked for a way of escape, but in that same moment, the mixture of sand and gravel that made the floor beneath me began to get soft. I was sinking, and as I did, I could feel it grasping my feet with a moist suction. I was able to get free, but only for a few paces toward a Mjölnir-like hammer hanging by a leather strap from a hook on a nearby wooden post. With each step I took toward the hammer, the ground’s grip became stronger and stronger, until finally I was trapped in a position that kept my back to the shadows where someone was readying to set something loose.

Even as the crowd got louder and louder, I heard a singular voice shout out from behind me, “She’s free!” I then heard the thick clattering of a chain feeding rapidly through a metal ring, like an anchor being dropped into the ocean from the deck of a freighter. I heard the gallop of paws and the rhythmic gusts of panting. I leaned as far forward toward the post as my body would stretch, and then throwing my arms around it, pulled my feet from the earth and my shoulder to its base. And then I reached up for the hammer. But it wasn’t there.

I’d pulled myself to the wrong post in the wrong direction.

And then I woke up.

I don’t know what dreams like this mean, but I’d be willing to bet it has something to do with my insides turning a little as I get ready to return to what often feels like an overwhelming life. Still, even though the dream had a rather terrifying edge to it, there remained a sense that with or without the hammer, I was going to fight whatever it was on approach with everything in me. I wasn’t going to die in a dusty wash of cheers from vicious spectators, but rather I was going to lean into my foe’s arrival in the same way I leaned into my attempt to fetch the hammer. I was going to give 100 percent—even 150 if necessary—and I was going to kill the monster, or whatever it was, with my bare hands. Then I was going to take the hammer and clear anyone and everything from my way to the exit.

[image error]And right after that, most definitely on this side of the dreamscape, I’d be sure to pour myself a warm and sedative dram of the J.P. Wiser’s One Fifty and give thanks to the Lord for His provisions against the monsters that exist in the real world. Then I’d go back to sleep.

Notice that I called the One Fifty “sedative.” That’s because like other warming whiskies I’ve sipped at three o’clock in the morning when I couldn’t sleep (such as the Aberlour a’bunadh or The Macallan 12-year-old Double Cask), it is. After a dream like the one I had, the nose of this dram delivers an assemblage of wood spice and buttered rye that helps settle a startled heart. And a sip is as equally reassuring, pouring into a troubled soul a sweet discrimination of butterscotch while adding to its profile a loving kindness of black pepper and little more of the buttered rye.

Without water, the finish is a sturdy but sweet rye, and it lasts long enough for you to close your eyes and find your way into a much easier, a much quieter rest.

I know we’ll be back in Michigan in a few days, and with that, our vacation will have come to its end. Still, I’m well-rested and feeling resilient enough to face off with the charging grind—hammer or no hammer.

I’ll admit, though, that having a soothing dram nearby like the J.P. Wiser’s One Fifty helps to let a little bit of light through the grayed sky above the noisy arena.[image error]

Review – J.P. Wiser’s, Dissertation, Rare Cask Series, (No Age Stated), 46.1%

[image error]The older I get, the more I am coming to terms with the fact that I will probably never find the opportunity to pursue a PhD. I’d love to, and I’m sure enough of my abilities that I think I’d be able to achieve it, but I just don’t think the time and money will ever be found available, especially when I have four children, all of whom I want to be able to give the opportunity for brightening their horizons of learning. In a sense, I had my chance. It’s their turn now.

Although, as I get older—which, of course, I mentioned already—I’m realizing that I’m not as interested in the prospect as I used to be, anyway. And the reasons why? Well, the first is that I can think of at least five different fields in which I’d enjoy studying at the doctorate level. Which one would I choose? And that, right there, is part of the problem. I could easily be tempted to remain a fulltime student for the rest of my life, which means that I probably wouldn’t choose just one. I’d choose one after the other and keep on going.

I’d end up divorced, broke, and regularly maligned before the grandkids as having been a rotten father. Who wants that, right?

The second reason is the dissertation—which is, ultimately, the end goal, yes? Well, I’m already writing fairly comprehensively about things I enjoy, and I’m doing it for free, so why would I want to pay someone to let me do it? That would be ridiculous, and not to mention far too restrictive of my drive to write.

[image error]The third reason is more self-preserving. I’ve met too many folks with PhDs—men I used to count as friends—who’ve defaulted into “Reverend Doctor Professor” mode right in the middle of casual conversation. It’s hard to explain, although I think Alexis de Tocqueville came pretty close when he described the typical American politician as someone who “cannot converse, but he can discuss, and his talk falls into a dissertation. He speaks to you as if he was addressing a meeting; and if he should chance to become warm in the discussion, he will say ‘Gentlemen’ to the person with whom he is conversing.”

I don’t ever want to become someone like that. And just so you know, if I ever just up and walk away from a casual conversation happening between us on the periphery of a symposium, it’s probably because I don’t appreciate that quality in you, either. Surely we can speak of substantive things, but just know that I did not pay to hear you, another one of the attendees, use more of the high-jargon terminology in one sentence than the keynote used in his entire paper, all in an attempt to make sure everyone around you knows that you know more than they know about stuff no one really cares to know about in that moment. Figure out how to get yourself invited back to the conference as a plenary speaker, and maybe I’ll attend your breakout session. Until then, stop interrupting every bit of enjoyable conversation by mentioning your studies under the watchful eye of your quasi-infamous doctoral father and have a drink with the rest of us. Or in the applicable words of Jim Gaffigan regarding swimmers in the hotel pool, “Settle down, spazzo. You’re at the Ramada, not the Olympics.”[image error]

By the way, we’re sitting here poolside enjoying the J.P. Wiser’s Dissertation Rare Cask Series edition. Stop talking and take a sip. It’s good. You might like it. In fact, I insist that you take a sip. You’ll learn something—namely that it’s much fuller and far better than the PhD dissertation you wrote.

I know. I read it.

[image error]Unlike the level of your colloquial agility amongst humans, the nose of this Canadian whiskey is effortlessly warm, tossing up enjoyable favorites such as melted brown sugar and butter pasted atop a raisin bagel. And its engaging with the mouth is similarly easy. There’s a hint of lemon-lime marmalade (yes, there is such a thing), green tea, and a dash of salted cashews.

The finish is a medium wash of all that has been mentioned, although it ends the conversation somewhat abruptly, leaving behind a very faint “something” along the lines of Montreal steak seasoning—a mild mixture of salt, pepper, paprika, and… I don’t know… maybe garlic. Still not too bad. It made me want to pop open a few more editions, fetch some steaks, and fire up the grill with some friends.

By the way, didn’t you say you needed to get going, soon?

Review – Colonel E.H. Taylor, Jr., Straight Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey, Small Batch, 50%

[image error]“Wait here,” I said, setting my hand on Jen’s shoulder and getting up from my seat. “I’ll be right back.”

“What is it?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“It’s nothing,” I replied. “Vader just walked in. He’s sitting at the bar.”

“Did you know he was coming?”

“Yeah,” I said, wadding up my napkin and tossing it onto my emptied plate. “I sent him a text before we left. He was already in Orlando with Edith to see the grandkids, and I figured since we’re not going to get to the Red Lobster down near Clearwater, he’d be game for a quick get-together here.”

“Don’t tell me you brought a flask.”

“It’s just a little something I don’t think he’s ever had.”

“You two,” Jen said, rolling her eyes and shooing me from the table.

I made my way through the restaurant waiting area, past the lobster tank, to the bar. Vader was sitting at the furthest stool nearest to the windows that overlooked a man-made pond adorned with a grand fountain and surrounded by signs warning of the possible presence of alligators.

“Reverend,” the Sith Lord acknowledged as I approached. “You made it.”

“I was already here,” I replied. “Jen and the kids are just around the corner finishing dinner.”

“Honestly, Reverend,” Vader said, motioning toward the bartender to get his attention. “I don’t know how the two of you manage a trip like this with four kids. I can barely stand a two-hour trip and a half hour with Edith’s grandchilren. You guys travel nine hundred miles and spend every waking moment of ten straight days with the little Jawas.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I called to the bartender mid-travel. “I brought something of my own.”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that,” the bartender said firmly. “You can’t bring your own drinks into the bar. It’s against the law.”

Without hesitating, Vader gave another motion with his hand. The bottles on the shelves behind the bartender began to rattle.

“It’s perfectly fine for the Reverend to bring his own booze into Red Lobster,” Vader said calmly.

“It’s perfectly fine for the Reverend to bring his own booze into Red Lobster,” the bartender repeated numbly.

“And the Thoma’s dinner bill is to be covered by the gentleman at table fourteen,” Vader added.

The man at the table directly behind us protested, “I’m not paying for anyone’s din—” But before he could finish, Vader already had his other hand in the air and the man in full agreement.

“So what did you bring to share this time, Reverend?” Vader asked, swiveling slightly on his stool.

“I brought a sample of the Colonel E.H. Taylor, Jr. Small Batch edition,” I said, placing the flask on the bar and reaching over its edge to retrieve two rock glasses. “Have you tried it, yet?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “I’ve seen it at my step-son-in-law’s house,” he continued, “but he never offered and I didn’t ask.”

“You mean he didn’t even let you try a little?” I asked and poured two fingers worth of the whiskey into his glass.

“Nope,” he said and pulled the dram close. “I get it, though. It’s not that he doesn’t like me. It’s just that Edith’s daughter doesn’t,” he continued. “And so I think Carl tries not to get in the middle.”

“Tough call on his part, I guess. He has to live with her.”

“True,” Vader said and sniffed the dram. “In the end, it’s probably because I force-choked her and threw her down a flight of stairs near the Lime parking garage at Disney Springs. It was ungodly hot that day so I took my helmet off as soon as we got out of the van, and when I did, she wouldn’t stop staring at me. Carl is probably just worried I might do the same thing to him, too, if he ever steps out of line. It’s better just to stay on the sidelines.”

“Well, it certainly was rude for her to stare at you,” I said, giving a sniff of my own glass. “You getting anything from this one?”

“Overly salted caramel,” he said. “And maybe some cherries—like something you’d scoop from pie filler.”

“I get the caramel and the cherries,” I said, holding the glass up to the light and examining its contents. “But I’m also sensing something sour.”

“I think you’re right,” he replied and went for a sip. I sipped, too. A quiet moment of savoring passed between two friends followed by an affirmation that sounded more like a microwave buzzing than a human voice. “Mmm,” he hummed. “This isn’t too bad.”

“I’m getting some of the barrel spice,” I said, lifting my glass into the light and swirling once more.

Vader nodded and swallowed. “Me, too. And the caramel and the cherries from the nose have returned. But now the finish is giving the sour you mentioned before.” He sipped and swallowed again. “And the burn takes a while to fade with this one, doesn’t it?”

“It does seem a little unbalanced at the end. Although, overall, it is very drinkable.”

“Hey, guys,” Jen said, cruising around the corner with the kids in tow and surprising us both. “Hi, Darth. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Jen.”

“How’s Edith?”

“She’s fine.”

“And her daughter? It’s Becky, right? And the grandkids?”

“They’re fine. Becky and Carl are fine, too. Although Becky had a pretty nasty fall a few days ago at Disney Springs.”

“Oh, my! I hope she’s okay.”

“She’s fine. She landed in a fountain,” he said, taking another sip of the whiskey. “But she did brake one of her clavicles. Oh, yeah, and her pelvis.”

“Um,” Jen said somewhat stunned. “I’m… glad… she’s okay. So… are you guys in Orlando for long?”

“Just for today, and then we’re heading back to Clearwater. I’ve gotta be at the gator farm in the morning.”

“Well, I know Chris was really looking forward to meeting up with you. I’m glad you were so close by.”

“Yeah,” the Sith Lord said and itched his side, cuing his disdain for casual conversation. “Me, too.”

“Oh, before I forget—you guys will never guess what just happened,” Jen said excitedly. “When the waitress brought out the bill for our meal, some man just walked over in a blank stare and laid $80 on the tray and then walked away. I tried to get his name and to say thank-you, but he didn’t answer. Isn’t that weird?!”

“Yeah,” Vader said. “That’s really weird.”[image error]

Review – Compass Box, Oak Cross, Blended Malt Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]Everyone has a cross to bear. I know. I have several. In fact, I have more than several.

I also know that Emma Watson, formerly of “Harry Potter” fame and now the star of the live-action version of Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast,” she has one or two as well.

I finally saw the movie, and for all of the critics hollering its praise, I was really disappointed. It was slow, the CGI animation looked, well, animated, the sets were no different than what you’d find at a Disney-themed outlet store, and the only actor who really seemed to fit the role he was given was Luke Evans as Gaston. I liked him. He was cool. And I absolutely adore Ian McKellen, although his dialogue as Cogsworth was boringly silly, and as an actor, he was incredibly underutilized in the film.

But back to Emma Watson. One of that poor girl’s crosses appears to be that she only has three character emotions she can pull from her acting bag.

The first is an angry tantrum bearing the look of disgust while shouting something like, “Ron Weasley, I really like you a lot, but after eight movies you still you can’t seem to figure it out!” or “I’ll never marry you, Gaston!” The second is the slight smirk of sensitive surprise she offers alongside words such as, “Oh, the Beast is so sweet out there in the snow with that horse. I just never noticed that side of him before.” And the third is a blank stare—which is the same look she uses while singing an emotionally rich song on a hillside overlooking her town, or in a darkened forest being chased by wolves while trying to escape the Beast’s castle, or in a fantastically ornate room conversing with objects that should be inanimate but aren’t.

One of Emma Watson’s crosses is acting. Another is the posable “Belle” doll that Disney fashioned for sale from her likeness. I sure hope Emma, who is very pretty, doesn’t ever see this thing. It is shockingly hideous. See for yourself.[image error]

It almost looks as though three different people designed the thing—that is, one designed the clothing, another crafted the body from the feet to the neck, and still another designed the head. But while the clothing and torso designers were on the right track, when they put the whole thing together, they realized that the guy who made the noggin was working with the measurements from when they planned to make the doll a little larger. The head is not only too big for the rest of the doll, but it actually makes Emma look like a man with thick brows and a Frankenstein’s Monster-sized cranium.

For her sake, I sure hope that Disney fixes this, because even my doll-aged daughter said it looked scary. And when a seven-year-old girl won’t let you buy her a Disney doll of her favorite character from a movie that she really liked, that’s a cross.

Now remember, I said I have several crosses to bear, too. If you keep with Angels’ Portion in the least, then you probably know a few of them. But this time around, the burden is an agreeable, blended Scotch called “Oak Cross,” and it’s fashioned from three distinct single malts and delivered by way of American and French Oak barrels from the master storytellers at Compass Box.

The nose of this tale spins on sturdy legs and sings an enthusiastic song of spicy citrus—mainly mandarins and cinnamon. And as it comes back down from the hillside for a dip and a taste in the stream at its base, there is a fresh flowing of vanilla, citrus, and a peated barley run-off from an adjacent field.

The finish is short and just as clean as the whisky’s beginning, offering a parting coolness that’s almost equal to any of its possible warming qualities. What I really liked was the surprisingly strange sense of peppered-dashed limes.

In all, the Oak Cross is an expressive dram well worth exploring—just like acting classes or the pile of applications on your desk from eager but unemployed doll designers.

Review – The Singleton, Glendullan, 15 Years Old, 40%

[image error]I’m beginning to realize just how much potential vacations have for reversing the order of certain things in the universe.

For example, back home, our normal lives as parents involve being awake, showered, and engaged in the day at a much earlier hour. Jen and I work together to keep the house spotless and tidy. Speaking only for myself, I’m not a pretentious guy, but I make the bed every morning. I prefer to use certain tableware. I drink whisky from my finer crystal rock glasses. I keep my relatively few personal possessions—clothing, shoes, and other peripheral things organized and put away when I’m not using them. In fact, I’d venture to say that if you didn’t see me in the family photos on the wall, there’s a good chance you’d never know I even lived there.

The kids, on the other hand, exist only to be dragged from bed, force-fed their meals, clothed, and propped up like lifeless mannequins in the store front of humanity. Because they’re too lazy to empty, load, and run the dishwasher, they’d eat and drink from dirty dishes if we didn’t forbid it. They leave their crap everywhere and have to be told a thousand times to clean it up. I just asked my daughter, who at this very moment is sitting across the table from me eating a bowl of cereal, if this description seemed accurate. She gave a glare and said, “It’s close.”

But here on vacation, the earth begins to spin on its axis in the opposite direction. Again, speaking only for myself, I appear to devolve while the kids appear to evolve.

I only bring three changes of clothing for a ten day vacation, and yet keeping my laundry off of the bedroom floor feels like shoveling the driveway back home after ten inches of snowfall. I do it, but it’s overwhelming. Once the bedroom floor is finally shoveled, making sure the clothing gets to the washing machine is even harder. Beyond the bedroom floor, I’ll set things down and then five minutes later lose all recollection as to where I left them. I’m awfully tempted almost each and every day to let my morning swim in the pool count as my shower since lathering up with soap and shampoo takes work. I’m more than willing to drink my whisky from a cracked water glass, and I’m fully capable of going right back to bed after a couple cups of coffee and my morning dance right here at the computer with all of you.

I swear the kids are up at dawn. They’re still slobs when it comes to their stuff, but they’re slobs who make their beds and prefer to drink their morning milk from wine glasses or champagne flutes while admiring the various works of art throughout the home.[image error]

I expect that by the end of the week, the dinner conversations between them will sound more like:

“O my, dearest Evelyn,” Harrison says adjusting his tie. “That dinner dress is just smashing.”

“Why, thank you, brother,” Evelyn replies in a blush, tipping her high brim bonnet. “I do so enjoy the bright colors and the light fabric.”

“Indeed,” Madeline adds. “And with such beauty, no few number of lads along the boardwalk this day have lent an eye to your direction.”

“Oh, you flatter, kind sister.”

“Enough with the pleasantries,” Joshua interrupts. “Young sir, young ladies, be swift with your dining as father and mother have requested our presence in the gallery. We are to gather together on the chaises for an episode of Shark Week.”

“Oh, I do so enjoy Shark Week,” Evelyn giggles. “Master Harrison, do you find it agreeable, as well?”

“Yes, sister,” Harrison smiles, taking a sip of milk from his wine glass and giving a bright wink. “I rather think I do.”

Yeah, definitely. If we were to stay here another week or two, this would most certainly be the scene. A bit more time in the right kind of environment has the potential for bringing about change. In my case, it may not be all that good, but when it comes to my kids—and perhaps The Singleton Glendullan series—it appears to be a good thing.

I didn’t like this whisky’s 12-year-old sibling. It was bitter and burnt, like a lazy child playing video games who’s asked to load the dishwasher. But this 15-year-old edition is much better—more refined and mature. It offers a much fresher perspective on what that child can become with a little bit of time and careful direction.

The 15-year-old gives over scents of honeycomb, red raspberries, and a pinch of cinnamon. A sip sets a comparable scene, although replacing the honeycomb with malted chocolate. A touch of water enhances the fruity character.

The finish is medium in length, drawing on the whisky’s sweeter side—I’d say the raspberries from the nose and the chocolate from the palate.

In all, this is a good whisky, and for the price—around $45—it’s even more so enticing.

Although I have the feeling that if I stay here in Florida for much longer, even as my kids will most likely ascend to seats of a much higher class, I stand the chance of devolving beyond all care for any of the whisky details I’ve shared. In fact, I think it’s quite possible that the carefree nature of life combined with the relaxing sunshine will see me under a bridge on I-4 with a bottle of Scoresby in a paper sack.

On second thought, even as a homeless bridge-dweller, I’d never stoop so low as to consume Scorseby. I’d at least beg for the lesser The Singleton 12-year-old.

Review – Still Waters, Stalk and Barrel, Red Blend, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]Clank—cling—clang.

Per usual, one of Evelyn’s eating utensils was fifteen feet away from her on the restaurant floor. I think she may have done it purposely this time since it came to rest not too far from the lobster tank.

When we first walked in, Evelyn was quick to press against and peer into the tank. Recognizing her intrigue, the host asked all of the kids if they wanted to see one of the lobsters up close. Madeline wasn’t all that interested. Neither was Josh. But Harry and Evelyn were more than agreeable. With that, the man reached in and lifted one from the tank, and then proceeded to explain the anatomy and physiology of lobsters.

After a few minutes, while placing the oceanographic cockroach with pinchers back into the tank, it fanned its tail and swiped at the tank water sending a small wave onto my shirt, shorts, and arm. Needless to say, knowing what they do in that water, I felt the urge to go straight to the bathroom and wash my hands.

But anyway, back to the fork on the floor.

“Ohhh,” the seven-year-old girl said with narrowed lips and wide eyes. “Now I understand.”

“Understand what?” I asked, half-expecting her to reveal something important that was just now making sense for her from the recent science lesson on lobsters.

[image error]Holding up her other fork—the clean fork—she said, “Now I know why they give you two forks in this place.”

While I know that’s not why they give you two forks at Red Lobster, even if only for a moment, the imagined restaurant stratagem made sense, and with that I thought, Now I know why there’s a Stalk and Barrel Blue Blend and a Stalk and Barrel Red Blend—just in case one falls short and ends up on the dirty floor near the lobster tank—so to speak.

I didn’t like the Blue Blend all that much. It was drinkable, but thin and not all that interesting. But the Red Blend, that’s a different story altogether. It’s the fork that remains safely on the table.

[image error]What I think I found most intriguing about this Canadian prize came right at the beginning. Almost immediately after its pour, there was the distant, but still distinct enough, scent of ripened papaya. A moment or two later, much closer to the nose and definitely more prominent, came the malted grains and a generous portion of sun-warmed honey.

In the mouth, the malt and the vanilla are there, but then along comes another fascinating fruit sensation—the starchy, but still mildly sweet, taste of plantains.

All of this rolls away in a very slow warmth, which is nice. At such a pace, there’s plenty of time to find each of the whisky’s notes.

In all, the Red Blend is a pleasing Canadian whisky, and if I had access to it here in the United States, I’d probably keep it on hand both for solitary consolation and for sharing. The Blue Blend I’d leave to the lobsters.

Review – Glenmorangie, Bacalta, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]I won’t tell you the name of the place due to the fact that some of the information I’m about to share could be considered “spoiler” material.

Essentially, the establishment is one that offers four different escape scenarios. In other words, you pay to be locked in a series of rooms, and in order to escape, you need to find clues and solve riddles. We reserved an hour-long session in the pirate-themed scenario, which was comprised of three distinct rooms. The end goal was to get through all three of the rooms and then solve a final puzzle that would eventually reveal the location of a golden medallion. If the medallion is discovered within the allotted time, the players win.

Once the timer begins and the challenge is engaged, you are allowed three free clues. You get these clues only when everyone in the group agrees to the need for one and then calls out to the monitor who is watching and listening by way of cameras and a PA system. This means that while you are playing, you can talk to the monitor, and the monitor can see and talk to you.

In all, the game was a lot of fun, and everyone in the whole family participated—although I think I need new glasses because I really struggled in the dimmer light. Nevertheless, there was one particular moment during the game when I felt the need to either pull my phone from my pocket, do an internet search for a particular image, and then put the image up to one of the closed circuit cameras so that the monitor could see just how incredibly wrong she was, or simply yank the camera from the wall, kick open the last of the locked doors and call it a day. For the sake of my family and the remainder of our vacation, I chose to do neither.

What I mean is that at one point, there was a riddle involving a series of images—six in all. Each of the images was different and had two letters printed on the reverse side. Having already solved a previous puzzle, we knew that we only needed three of the images—a skull, a compass, and an octopus—and with that, we would only need to combine and unscramble the letters from those particular images.

But there was a problem. Two of the images were that of an octopus. Again, on a hunch (and for the sake of vindication), I did an internet search later that evening when we returned home, and sure enough, the folks running the game merely downloaded the images from the web, printed, and laminated them. The following are the exact same images of the octopi that were used in the game.[image error] [image error]

There on the floor in the second room, with almost all of its mysteries solved and less than fifteen minutes to go in the game, we disregarded the picture of a mermaid and another of a sailboat. The four remaining lay before us.

“We only need the compass, the skull, and the octopus,” Josh said hurriedly.

“But there’s more than one octopus,” I spoke just as frantically. “Which one do we use?”

I flipped both over and tried to make sense of the letters between the two of them. It was then that the monitor called through speakers, “You were right. You only need the compass, the skull, and the octopus.”

“But there’s more than one octopus,” I half-shouted toward the camera.

“One is an octopus and the other is a squid,” the voice said crisply.

“No,” I returned. “They’re both octopuses… octopi… whatever.” I leaned toward Josh, “I’ve watched enough of The Discovery Channel to know the difference between a squid and an octopus. The creatures in both of these pictures are octopi.”

“No, they’re not,” the voice said dryly and firmly. She’d heard me. “One is a squid,” she continued, “and the other is an octopus. An octopus has a round head. A squid has a pointy head. Use the octopus.”

“Whatever,” I muttered once again toward Josh. “I think the eye-in-the-sky wants us to use the more round-headed of these two cephalopods.”

And so, tossing aside the octopus with the cowlick, we unscrambled the letters and solved the last of the lock boxes. Within was a key which led to the third room.

Now, one last time for the record. This is a squid.[image error]

And this is an octopus.[image error]

Two very different creatures from among God’s vast creation.

Hmm.

Events like this don’t happen all that often; that is, there are few times when someone is so clearly and objectively adrift in such a simple and obstinate wrongness that everyone else around him or her is wondering how the person has lived so long, let alone has been granted the freedoms to do such things as use a gas stove, have children, or drive a car.

“Ma’am,” the officer says, “that was a stop sign you ran back there.”

“No it wasn’t,” she argues. “It was a yield sign.”

“Ma’am,” he continues, “a stop sign is an octagon and a yield sign is triangular. That was a stop sign.”

“No,” she insists, “I’m pretty sure a stop sign is more rounded and a yield sign has a minimum of three flat edges. That was yield sign even though it had a few more than the minimum number of sides.”

“Uh. Okay. License and registration, please, ma’am. And I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle and give me your keys.”

The only thing left to do after such an idiotic run-in is to turn to an establishment that knows, produces, and ultimately exceeds the standards of rightness with nearly everything they set before the public for consumption. The Glenmorangie and Dr. Bill Lumsden’s Bacalta edition is a case in point.

Initially wrapped in the scent of glazed biscotti dusted with almonds and soaking in medium roasted coffee, the palate of this gem is one of warmed malt, toasted bread, orange marmalade, and a slight measure of all-spice.

The medium finish is unmistakably malt, both sweet and sour citruses, and little bit of dark chocolate.

It’s right. Very right. So right, in fact, that had the eye-in-the-sky demanded I affirm that her octopus was a squid in exchange for a dram of the Bacalta, I might have succumbed to the urge to sacrifice truth for a lie.

“Say it!” she says and pours. “It’s a squid, right?!”

“Oh, yeah,” I offer and sip. “Whatever you say. It’s got eight arms, a rounded… I mean, a pointed head. That’s a squid, alright. Definitely a squid. Don’t be stingy, now…”

Review – The Singleton, Glendullan, 12 Years Old, 40%

[image error]The sun is rising on Day Four of our annual Florida vacation. The coffee is brewing. The family is still sleeping. I’m at the computer in a reasonably comfortable chair at the kitchen dinette. There’s a partially consumed bowl of Special K cereal beside me. I’m ready to go.

This is the routine every morning and I love it.

Jen, my incredibly thoughtful wife, mentioned to me a few days ago that she gets nervous for me when it comes to this particular scene that I just described. She knows that I look forward to vacation every year, that writing whatever I feel like writing each and every morning is a huge part of the physical and emotional rest that I need. She knows that I could wake up and do this every morning of every year for the rest of my life. Her worry, however, is that one day I’ll sit down and not be able to come up with anything to say.

Silly girl. My fear is just the opposite, and with that, I’m going to take a slight detour before merging once again with the flow of my usual whisky narratives.

I feel as though I have a vast collective of stories—both fictional and non-fictional—being stored in a particular room in my brain. Each day as I observe and go about life in general, that room housing the stories becomes more and more filled, and the only way to make space in my mental storehouse is to take one of the stories from one of the shelves and put it onto the computer screen and set it before the masses.

And believe me, there’s always a story to tell. Careful observation is very rewarding in this regard. If you’re paying attention, if you’re at least concerning yourself with the living things involved in most everything occurring around you, you’ll have something to talk about when the time comes and you are put to the test. It takes practice, but after a while, it becomes rather natural.

“But not everyone can turn these things into stories,” Jen says in response. “Not everyone likes to write.”

“I know,” is my reply. “And not everyone likes birdwatching—including me. But if it involves Pterodactyls, now, that’s something I’d probably do.”

The point is, if there’s nothing to write about, first of all, remember there’s always something to write about. Just look around. Second, remember that whatever you discover is never self-contained. Things connect to other things. Think about what you’ve done, where you’ve been, what you’ve seen and heard, and then change the rules and tell the story you want to tell—that you’d like to tell—as it relates to whatever you already know. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter. Who knows? Maybe the Shark Week reruns you’ve been watching while cuddling with the kids on the couch might make good fodder for a whiskey review about a Great White named Gary stopping in at a bar in Nixon, North Carolina.[image error]

And now, as an example of how this all works while at the same time rejoining with the freeway that is a clergyman’s whisky narrative…

I heard a radio commercial a few days ago that I filed away in my mind’s storehouse. It was one that troubled me. It offered a peppy little jingle with some memorable lyrics being delivered by an exuberant narrator. The problem with all of this is that the company that I was supposed to recall by way of the commercial was DumpMySpouse.com, which is an online legal group that makes it easy and cheap to get a divorce. In fact, the commercial seem to glorify as fun what so many already know as a dreadfully painful and family-thrashing experience. It sang along and sold, “When matrimony turns to acrimony, go to DumpMySpouse.com…”

Seriously?

Still, things connect to other things. Good or bad.

As soon as I heard the commercial I thought of my experience with The Singleton Glendullan 12-year-old. A few weeks back, a whisky shop proprietor convinced me—so peppily and so exuberantly—to give the edition a go. But he did so by presenting it as all but having been gifted from the very hand of God. And yet, one sip of this inexpensive offal and I knew I’d been sold a cheap divorce from some hard-earned dollars.

The whisky is by no means divine. As an experienced whisky consumer, it’s just barely above the threshold of okay.

When the cork is popped, there is at first a pleasant enough rendering of what seems to be apples and walnuts, but in that next moment, as the whisky is given over to the glass, you realize those tree crops were incinerated—probably because they were your wife’s apples and walnuts, but the judge assigned them to you in the divorce, and if she couldn’t have them, she certainly wasn’t going to stand idly by and let you have them.

The carbonized fruits seep into the palate, but their edges are dulled by a sweeter kiss of sherry and a sprinkling of powdered sugar. But again, as the dram proceeds, these too get torched, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste in what teeters between a medium and long finish.

Like divorce.

My thoughts: Pay attention and then write about whatever you want to write about. Oh yeah, and since we’re already talking about it, know that marriage isn’t easy, but it certainly can be a grand carnival of joy when you’re invested in it and putting in the muscle to make it work. With that, cherish what you’ve been given. Give in return. Most importantly, forgive as you would want to be forgiven. Unless, of course, your spouse buys you a bottle of The Singleton 12-year-old for your birthday. With that, I guess there’s always DumpMySpouse.com.

Just kidding. Drink the whisky, smile, and say thank you.

Review – Tin Cup American Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 42%

[image error]The sky was gray. The rain fell in thick streams. The little boy pressed his forehead against the pane of the sliding door leading to the pool. Even as the lights flickered when a rather tremendous flash of lightning connected heaven to earth and pressed our chests with its thundering crack, he kept his eyes to the carpeted floor below him and maintained his frown.

“Why can’t we just go swimming, anyway?” he pouted.

“You’re willing to chance a swim against being turned into a crispy critter?” I asked.

“What are the odds lightning will hit our pool?” he swiveled to ask without lifting his head from the glass.

“That last one was pretty close,” I said. “I’m guessing the chances are better than average.”

Turning his gaze back toward the floor, “I’m more likely to get attacked by a shark than be struck by lightning,” he whispered.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Harrison,” I said. “The odds go up exponentially when you put yourself in certain environments.”

“No they don’t,” he argued. “I read in a book that I’m more likely to get attacked by a shark than struck by lightning. There’re no sharks in the pool, so I’m definitely not going to get struck by lightning. The odds are the odds.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“You can’t argue with the mathematics, Daddy.”

“Seriously,” I offered again. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” he said and smiled. “Can we go?”

It took me a moment to unlock my stare.

“Sure, okay,” I replied. “But first we need to get some sharks and put them into the pool so that your ratios are a little more accurate.”

“Huh?”

“The lightning is all but hitting the houses around us,” I said. “Let’s get some sharks into our immediate vicinity, too. I’ll bet whatever your book said about the odds will prove true. I’ll bet you get attacked before you get struck by a lightning bolt. But I’m also willing to bet that while the sharks are feasting on your bloody carcass, both you and the sharks will get struck by lightning and end up looking like the fish served up in the Admiral’s Feast I ate at Red Lobster last night.”

The skinny kid with pasty white skin and his forehead still pressed to the glass turned his head toward me once again and chimed with a bright smile, “So does this mean I can at least get into the pool while you’re out looking for sharks?”

Sigh.

It’s almost impossible to successfully dissuade a ten-year-old kid born and raised in the snow-swept state of Michigan from getting into a swimming pool even in a lightning storm, especially when that same kid has waited over 350 days to enjoy it. The odds are better you’ll be struck by lightning fired from a shark’s eyes than find victory in such a fracas. You’re better off saying no at the first sign of moping. When the feisty little chum nugget asks you why, just stay the parental course and use one of the standard go-to responses—something like, “Because I said so” or “Go ask your mother.”

And then pour yourself a calming dram and be glad you either outsmarted the kid who almost outsmarted you or successfully pawned him off on his mother, leaving time for you to reach for a calming, victory dram. As far as calming, I would recommend the Tin Cup American Whiskey.

Created by Jess Graber, the co-founder of Stranahan’s, this whiskey is cut with Colorado water, and the resulting potion is an exceptional sipper from start to finish.

The nose is a wafting of buttered sweet corn that’s been grilled and not boiled. There’s also far more than a hint of vanilla sprinkled with crushed almonds.

The palate gives over a preliminary peppery sensation that eventually turns toward the bronze shoreline of melted brown sugar.

The finish, while short, is full of surprises. After an initial nip of the pepper you first experienced in the palate, there’s a swift fading into something briny—perhaps cornstarch and salt—and then it almost immediately becomes something sweet—like saltwater taffy.

I suppose that in one particular scenario, the only bad thing about this whiskey is the tin cup that comes attached to the bottle. It’s definitely something you don’t want to have nearby while serving as a lifeguard for a ten-year-old kid in a swimming pool during a lightning storm.