Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 23

Review – Knot Irish Spirits Co., The Knot, (No Age Stated), 50%

[image error]The trip from Cape Cod was already very long, and with at least two more days to the Gulf, he took a chance by stopping in a freshwater inlet town. He’d never been there before. He didn’t know the name, although he thought he’d seen a sign while surfacing which read “Nixon.”

To his surprise, while the place was dim—murky—it was also teeming. He made his way through the crowd, easily marking a spot at the bar as the locals parted.

“Whiskey,” he said, falling exhausted atop the barstool. As he did, the others at the bar moved away. “Two fingers, please.”

“A long swim?” the bartender asked, gliding away toward a bottle of the cheaper stuff.

“Not the cheap stuff,” the guest said, waving a pectoral fin and motioning toward the top shelf. The barkeep stopped, rolled an eye in a glance, and then hovered upward.

“Too long,” he replied. Barely turning to look past his dorsal, he asked, “Where am I?”

“You’re in North Carolina. In the Nixon River.”

Nixon. He was right.

“We don’t get too many Great Whites around here,” the bartender continued, pouring a generous three fingers instead of two. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Gary,” he answered, inching the stool a little closer to the bar. “And you?”

“Mack.”

“That’s funny,” Gary said, giving a toothy grin as the dram was set before him.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re a mackerel.”

“And ‘Gary’ isn’t funny?” Mack said, taking a chance with his new, and much larger, predatory patron. “Gary the Great White?”

“I’m named after my dad’s brother.”

“Was your uncle a sea snail?”

“No, why?”

“Never mind.”

Nodding toward his dram, “What is this?” Gary asked.

“Just know that the good stuff is hard to come by around these parts,” Mack said. “We only get what the drunks drop over the sides of the boats.”

“So, what is it?”

“It’s called The Knot,” Mack answered. “It’s Irish.”

Gary sniffed the mouth of the glass. “I made it to Ireland, once,” he said. “Too cold for my blood, though.” He sniffed again. “And I got into a fight with a giant squid while I was there.” Gary leaned across the bar top and turned to show Mack the side of his head. “He gave me this scar,” he said and pointed to a rather prominent scar that stretched from his right eye to his gills.

“That’s the Irish for ya,” Mack said nervously.

“Yeah,” Gary said, adjusting once again to his stool. “Although,” he added, “I was trying to eat him.” He took another sniff. “This doesn’t smell like whiskey. More like the caramel flavoring runoff from that candy factory up near Canada. I forget the name.” He sniffed again. “I’m a Great White. My olfactory bulb is the best in the biz. I can sense blood three miles away. This stuff is crap.”

“Give it a shot, Gary,” Mack said, slowly gliding backward toward his shelves. “It’s the best I have in the place right now. You might like it.”

Gary took a sip. His massive black eyes rolling backward over the whites, he savored.

“A couple of years back,” Gary started, “there was Canadian ship on its way to England. It was loaded with maple syrup. When that sucker went down, the syrup went everywhere. It was worse than an oil spill.”

He took another sip.

“I attacked a life raft in the middle of that mess, and I ate the only survivor. This tastes like an unbathed Canadian sailor covered in maple syrup and wrapped in a rubber raft.”

He took one final sip and swallowed. “The finish is—”

“Let me get you something else,” Mack interrupted.

“—sticky and long, like that time I tried to eat a hagfish.” Gary wiped a drop of the whiskey from his mouth. “Those things spray thick slime everywhere when you bite ‘em. And it’ll choke and kill you if it gets into your gills. This stuff is like hagfish slime—vanilla-flavored, cotton candy hagfish slime.”

“Never met a hagfish.”

“Nice guys,” Gary said, taking another swig and nodding to confirm his verdict. “Just don’t try to eat ‘em.”

“So,” Mack began, noticing that all of the other guests in the bar were beginning to file out the front door, “you didn’t like this stuff? Let me get you—”

“Honestly,” Gary answered, “I’m a little offended that you put this dross in front of me. It isn’t even whiskey. It’s flavored liqueur. It’s like giving me Drambuie. Or even worse—Southern Comfort.”

“Like I said, friend,” Mack gurgled in a pother of bubbles, “this is the best I have. I don’t get much here in Nixon. I only get what the drunks drop.”

“I have a long swim ahead of me, Mack.”

“I know, I know. Let me—”

“I’m going to need something,” Gary said, once again leaning over the bar, but this time with no intention of showing the mackerel any of his scars.

“Let me see what else I—”

“I’m going to have to eat you, now, Mack.”[image error]

Review – Underdog Spirits, Big House Straight Bourbon, 6 Years Old, 45%

[image error]It’s known by different names.

Some call it “Keep Away.” Others have affectionately named it “Monkey in the Middle.” In the arena that is our vacation pool, it’s called “Death Ball.”

“Why?” you ask. Let me tell you.

The game involves a rubber ball, and in our watery bouts—which, mind you, are never for the weak—it is an inflatable sphere adorned with the terror-inducing characters from the Disney movie “Frozen.” The ball is just small enough to be gripped by most with one hand, and large enough that it can’t be held too tightly lest an opponent never be able to steal it away. It is slippery, especially when handled by children buttered with sunscreen, and it stings when it hits bare skin.

The game is blinding fast. The water churns and foams when the battle ensues.

A point is given for each possession. In other words, if one player manages to toss it to another of the same team, a point is given. If the ball is lost in a splashing, blood-water melee outmatched only by a shark attack, the one who emerges from the depths with the ball—child or shark—gains a point for his or her team. Beyond this, there are very few rules other than the bigger players must be mindful of the smaller players. Still, you can shove, grab, and do anything reasonably necessary—other than drowning or clawing your opponent—to get the ball. You can only get out of the pool to retrieve the ball. If you exit for any reason other than the need to use the bathroom, your team loses a point. If a player discerns that you’ve chosen to forego a trip to the bathroom, chancing a quick pee in the pool in order to stay in the contest, your team loses five points.

And by the way, the ball can be thrown as fast or spiked as hard as the little white-skinned Michiganders can rocket it, even if the unsuspecting receiver ends up with a swollen and stinging image of Olaf on his forehead.

You snooze, you lose, friend. This is Death Ball. Suck it up.

Okay, so, maybe it isn’t this brutal. And no one has ever peed in the pool. At least not that I’ve discovered. But as I said, the game does get pretty loud and fast-paced, and the kids love it. Although, I think the neighbors are eagerly awaiting our departure. There’s something about a vicious game of Death Ball going on at the villa next door that’s certain to ruin your backyard barbecue.

[image error]But it could be worse. You could be flipping burgers and sipping from a dram of Big House Straight Bourbon. Let me tell you, this stuff is most definitely a bare-skinned wounding from Elsa and Anna at a hundred miles an hour.

There’s a medicinal burn to the nose—something like heated polyurethane. Or perhaps it’s more the sensation of the Death Ball ricocheting off of your face toward the poolside lounge chairs while leaving behind the smell from the bin at Walmart where you first retrieved it. Sure, there’s a little bit of something sweet in there, but the burn is what’s most noticeable.

The palate gives over the taste of bitter vanilla, as if your tongue was out when you were hit by the Death Ball and you managed to ingest some of the greasy Coppertone lathered on its surface. Not good, that is unless you sunbathe with your mouth open.

I wish the finish was short, but it’s not. It’s medium. And it’s pretty much everything you get from the nose and palate, except you can add to the list an oak plank that was used to cook whitefish.

In all, I think I’d much rather be in prison than drink this Bourbon named after one. And I suppose that if the Thoma family isn’t careful to get its Death Ball matches under control, the neighbors might place a phone call to the ones who can see to such a thing.

Review – Traverse City Whiskey Co., North Coast Rye, (No Age Stated), 47%

As it is with so many of you, there’s a reason that vacations are so important in life and in the lives of families. It’s because there are things that absolutely must be removed and set aside for a little while from life’s equation no matter how important they may appear to be.

I’m on vacation right now, and with that, consider the following image. This is a screenshot of my phone less than eight hours after clearing all of my notifications.[image error]

I’m not so concerned with Facebook and Twitter, but rather the email.[image error]

There are eighty-two email messages, most of which have to do with things related to church or school business. Not all of them are important and can certainly wait until I return, but a good number of them are requests for information of some sort that in most circumstances assume and expect an immediate response.

Fortunately for me, over the course of the next twelve days or so away from our home in Michigan, I will prove my full capability in fiber and spirit for ignoring each and every one of them. That number on the screen will only get bigger. And I won’t be bothered in the least. Jen, of course, doesn’t believe me. She thinks that each time I go into the bathroom, I’m clicking and responding to all of the urgent messages because I never seem to be able turn it off. But I’m not. And I can. Truly. Maybe a few years ago I wouldn’t have held such a capacity to disconnect, but not anymore—which brings me back to where I began.

There’s a reason that vacations are so important in life and the lives of families. As a pastor, I’m on call 24/7. And a work week is rarely less than eighty hours. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I signed up for this stuff. And what I signed up for is everything I expected. And the people I serve, I love them all. Still, when I’m vacationing—which is just this one, tiny fragment snatched from within a billowing cumulus of 365 days—I have learned to turn it all off, and with that, I feel better.

[image error]And for the record, if I do have my phone with me in the commode, it’s merely to scroll through the photos from the day or to respond to Angels’ Portion pings from this or that app or friend. Nothing more. Nothing less. And that’s no big deal. Of course, I also do what I went into the bathroom to accomplish in the first place.

Like your job and homestead, there are certain whiskies that deserve to be set aside and forgotten, too. Although I’m pretty sure that the Traverse City Whiskey Company’s North Coast Rye edition isn’t necessarily one of them. If anything, this stuff is pleasant enough, even if only for a moment, to make me regret leaving home.[image error]

In the nosing, there’s a calming warmth of rye soaked in molasses. A sip delivers a little bit of a briny, but also sweetened, butter on freshly toasted rye bread.

The medium finish does little to pester. While it does seem to suggest that the bread may have been in the toaster a little longer than what one might normally prefer, still, by this, the emerging char submits that you may have been under-toasting your bread in the past. In that sense, it teaches you something new.

In the end, this whiskey isn’t too complex or imposing. It’s pretty straightforward, easy, and unforgettable—unlike email and everything like vacation.

Review – Compass Box, Asyla, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]“How about this,” I suggested, being careful to keep my eye on the GPS—which I’m surprised I really needed at all because I most certainly know the way. “Since it’s getting late and the kids want to swim, I’ll drop you guys off at the house and then I’ll go and do the grocery shopping.”

We’d only just arrived in Florida and were making our way from the airport to our favorite destination. Nope, not Disney, but rather a little house just outside of Davenport—one that is clean, has a pool, comfortable beds, board games, a reasonably sized TV and a comfortable couch for watching Shark Week on The Discovery Channel, and a few extra amenities that make it just perfect for resurrecting six Michiganders exhausted by life’s extreme tempo.

“We can all go with you,” Jen said, turning to look toward the back of the van. “Right, guys?” Her eyes met with the disappointed faces of our four children. One of them—and I won’t say who—let slip a grousing, “Awww.”

“It’s 6:30 now,” I proposed. “It’s getting late. We’ve had dinner. I can take you guys to the house and drop you off, and then I’ll run out and get the groceries and be back as quickly as I can.”

“You sure?” Jen asked with concern. She knew I wanted to get to the house just as much as the little ones.

“I’m sure. You know how I shop.”

“I can go with you,” Josh interrupted.

“You stay and help, Mom,” I returned. “I’ve got the list. I’ll get there and get right back.”

“But it’s everything for the whole ten days,” Jen added, “because last year you said you didn’t want to keep making trips to the store every day.”

“I know.”

“Would you please go to Walmart instead of Publix?” Jen asked. “It’s cheaper and we’ll be able to get a little more out of our food budget.”

“Sure.”

And so went my doom.

We arrived at the house a few minutes later. The van was unloaded, bedrooms were claimed by those who’d had them the years before, and clothes were taken from the suitcase and put into dresser drawers. A favorite board game—one so ironically entitled “Frustration”—was already on the dining room table before I could walk back out the front door.

Leaving the subdivision, I paused at the main road. Looking right, I thought, If I go this way, there’s a Publix just around the corner. Looking left, And this way, I’m pretty sure there’s two more between me and Walmart.

Keeping my word, I turned left.

After about a ten minute drive, finally, there upon the horizon was the radiant sign of my terminus, and in preparation for entry, I changed lanes and made my way into the right-hand turn lane. But as I turned, I noticed something dreadful. The parking lot was full.

Not kind of full. All the way full.

After a few minutes of searching, I eventually decided to park in one of the only empty spaces at the furthest border of the stores concrete coop. Never in my life have I found it necessary to remember the row and section number for the location of my car in a supermarket parking lot—as though I were at an amusement park filled with happy travelers and at risk of losing it among an undulating sea of minivans. But this time was different.

I walked toward the front the door—and walked—and as I did, I absolutely expected to see a convenience trolley drive by being piloted by an exchange student wearing a nametag identifying his country of origin.

Eventually I made it, and as the motion-sensor doors were in a constant battle to close, but because of the steady flow of patrons were really only able to bang against the outer edges of their frame, my stomach dropped into my ankles—and maybe even further to my toes. In fact, I think I felt a tug at my guts from something lurking malevolently below the surface of the pavement—something demonic, something hellish.

Sheer terror.

I won’t give you the full details of the experience, only the highlights—I mean the lowlights.

First, the store and its contents were as that of a wheat field being visited by a swarm of locusts. The shelves were bare.[image error]

Second, the aisle ways that allowed for access to the remaining items were almost entirely unnavigable. There were lines to get into each one, and once you were finally able to push through, it was easy to see why. It wasn’t just that there were thousands of people all vying for the same things, but also a train of carts filled with replacement stock lined each aisle so that what was at one time a three-way thoroughfare was now only capable of accommodating two directions of traffic—and one of the pathways was only big enough for a person to walk through since the stock carts were slightly off center.

Third, the inhumanity of the people in the store was breathtakingly crass and sad. As one mother screamed profanities at her infant child, I witnessed another man walking away from the milk cooler and drinking from his gallon of 2%. The bottled water aisle held one woman calling out, “Hey, Perry! We only need six water bottles. Just tear open the 35-pack and grab a few.” And Perry did just that. In the snack aisle, a woman had already consumed a third of a carton of Oreos. In the produce section, when I finally made it that far, two small children in a shopping cart parked too closely to what was left of the grapes were eating the remnants at the bottom of the bin while sometimes taking the opportunity to throw a few at each other and passersby.

These are but samplings of what comprised the swirling tempest of chaos at the Walmart I “chose” to visit, which again was a ten minute drive from the house as opposed to the Publix which was right around the corner.

In the end, after two hours of combat—both outwardly and inwardly—I deemed my cart’s contents as sufficient enough for at least seven of our ten days, and with that, I made my way to the check-out lanes at the front of the store. It was there that the last of my hope was stolen.[image error]

I left my cart right there in the middle of the aisle—about sixty feet from the entrance to the store—and I walked away.[image error]

As I made my way back to the van parked at the edge of the world, I contemplated the fruitlessness of the whole event. I’d been gone for over two hours and had nothing to show for it. And I supposed that even if I’d returned with what I’d managed to gather into my cart, all of the cold items would have finished the process of spoiling by the time I made it back.[image error]

I called Jen throughout the whole ordeal, sending her texts with photos as proof of the surrealistic event that was unfolding before me, and so when I walked through the front door, she already knew where I was on the scale of irritability. She was very brave to suggest that we both go to Publix together.

“I’m not going anywhere else, tonight,” I said. “I’m done.”

“We have to, Chris,” she said. “Your Diabetic daughter needs things.”

A moment passed. We went to Publix.[image error]

We didn’t come home without first having stopped at the liquor store next to the Publix. It was Jen’s idea, and it was a good one. She knows I appreciate this store as opposed to any of the others in the area because the very first year we vacationed here, the proprietor recognized me from his copy of The Angels’ Portion. The interaction led into a kindly conversation between two gentleman, one of whom was a complete stranger and yet knew so many of the stories I’d told of life and whisky. It was a pretty cool experience, and the warmth of the event returns each time I walk through the door.

Anyway, here I sit with this Compass Box Asyla edition before me as the culmination of the day’s complexity. Venting its cap, the elixir holds a decent bit of malt in the nosing while at the same time teases of apples and zinfandel. I don’t like fruity white wines, but at this particular moment, I’m up for anything that helps me to soften the effects of having willfully crossed a River Styx-like parking lot that I might peer into and eventually venture through the sliding, motion-sensing (and banging) doors of Hades.

Thankfully, the palate is rewarding. It’s a gentle delivery of vanilla, grains, and mixed berries—all the things I either saw flying through the air or missing from shelves at the Walmart in Davenport, Florida.

The finish is a light-hearted and compassionate voice at the end of the day, one that asks in a whisper, “So, it didn’t go so well this evening, eh?”

“No.”

“You know, it’s only 10:30,” it encourages. “The kids are in bed.”

“Yeah. So?”

“You up for a swim?”

Hmm.

Review – Ardbeg, Kelpie, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]“I’ll bet you’ve never heard this one before,” I said, calling to the rear passengers. I scrolled to the song, pressed play, and adjusted the rearview mirror to watch.

The beat was steady. The moniker bass line known by so many gradually began to permeate the expanse of the van. Evelyn’s head started bobbing in time. Madeline did what she could to shift her shoulders within the confines of the seatbelt. Harrison’s smile got a little wider as he tapped at his armrest.

And then Barry Gibb started singing.

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk. Music loud and women warm, I been kicked around since I was born…

Harrison’s enthusiasm came to an abrupt stop.

“He doesn’t sound much like a woman’s man,” he said.

I’m sure glad there weren’t any post-modern, gender-neutrality proffering snowflakes listening in. Although, had any been riding along with us in, they would have learned very quickly what a formidable foe Harrison can be when it comes to defending objective truth wrapped in logic and sprinkled with plain ol’ natural law—all the societal ingredients that no one ever thought to question until it was fashionable.

As it relates to the Bee Gees, he was, of course, referring to the upper-register character of Gibb’s voice. He wasn’t singing down where one might expect most men to sing. He was much higher—much more in the feminine range. And I tried to explain to him that despite his unusual voice, back in the 70s, Gibb was considered incredibly masculine. I showed the kids a picture of Barry Gibb on my phone when we got to our destination. Madeline was sure to critique his open shirt collar and the massive tuft of chest hair that looked as though it were a Wookie reaching up to grab his chin. Again, I shared that open collars displaying hairy chests were fairly popular back then.

“Just because it’s popular,” Harry argued, “doesn’t make it right.”

Bam. Take that you fidget-spinning lemmings.

“Do you have a really hairy chest, Daddy?” Evelyn asked. I guess she was far too busy the last few times we went swimming to notice.

“Not really,” I said.

“Good,” Maddy interrupted. “Cuz it’s gross.”

At this point, the temptation to turn up the heat on the conversation was far too great.

“Oh, the girls loved a hairy guy,” I said. “There were all kinds of commercials on TV where the girls would comb their hands through the hair of a man’s chest, and let me tell you, whatever product they were trying to sell, it sold big time.”

Maddy left the conversation without a word. Harrison reiterated that popularity doesn’t necessarily coincide with truth. He pointed to Christopher Columbus as an example. Evelyn told me she’d still love me even if I had a gross, hairy chest.

“Thanks, honey,” I replied.

“And,” she added, “I’d even try to convince Momma to keep loving you, too.”

That being said, here’s to all of the women and daughters out there who continue to embrace their Sasquatch-like husbands and fathers—men who, even as they exist in a time far removed from the follicly fashionable 70s, continue to show the rest of us the true meaning of a long drawn five o’clock shadow. And how better to honor them than by lifting a dram of something you would expect to be potent enough to put hair on your chest: The Ardbeg Kelpie.

Unfortunately, while this stuff is really good, if you were bald beforehand, you’ll be bald afterward. This isn’t a typical Ardbeg. It’s incredibly mild and short-lived. And as one bearing the name of a mythical, predatory water beast at that, I almost felt a little betrayed. I expected to be grabbed and pulled to a peaty death beneath salty isle tides. Or maybe, at least, sprout some hair from my hairless places. But neither occurred.

The nose is gently peaty—almost fruity—as though the peat were soaking in fruit cocktail juices. And there’s a sense of something powdery and sweet. It brought to mind the dust at the bottom of an empty Apple Jacks cereal box.

The palate is a morning tide that, while it barely licks of peat, leaves behind a foam of sea salt carrying a hint of the flavored cargo from a sunken East India Trading ship hauling malted tree nuts.

The finish is swift, and by its mildly ashen character suggests that the ship sunk because it caught fire. Even more, the whisky doesn’t really fade, but rather is pulled, as though it were being reeled from the shore back into the sea by something waiting below the surface at the edge of the deep.

Hmm.

My guess is that it’s not a Kelpie. The whisky’s not that fierce. My money is on a hairy-chested “Barry Gibb” look-alike merman.

Yeah, that’s probably it.[image error]

Review – Still Waters, Stalk and Barrel, Blue Blend, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]It’s dark in here. The grove is very dark.

My eyes are open, although I feel the urge to squint, as though there may be a chance of finding focus. But there’s nothing. It is a lightless void—the deepest kind of night.

And musty. I can smell it. I can taste it.

With each inhalation, the moistened air carries into my lungs. With every exhale, I can palate the filthy dust hovering in the air, the rot unchecked by gravity, lifting up, up and into invisible currents of steam.

Yes, very musty, as if something were rotting but still breathing.

I think it may have rained. The ground is softer—no stones or roots—much more unsure than the times before. At least I think so. I think I’ve been here before. But I can’t tell for sure.

It’s dark in here. The grove is very dark.

The effort, the direction, the course—it began as the others. The sounds are the same. There is the familiar sense of the spying fauna, the awareness of a familiar geist suspended above me in the outstretched branches, the annoyed but receiving pathway carpeted with thinning weeds and populated by long, squirming insects that tangle and twist around one another. I can hear their clicking.

Food for the birds, I suppose. They hear it, too, if even they can navigate this blackness.

It’s dark in here. The grove is very dark.

Where are the stars? The moon? Is this place—this dark coppice—is it a somewhere that not even the heavenly things would tread? Is it much too much of a lurid somewhere pitched against even them, causing a fleeting of celestial courage?

Perhaps.

But I’ll press on. Never mind the loneliness. Never mind the lurking terrors. Yes, I know you are there. I can smell you, too. You’re close. I can feel your breath against my legs, my arms, my neck, my face.

My sweaty skin absorbs your stares, and at once, I can see you.

It’s dark in here. The grove is very dark. But I can see you.

“How is this?”

Because I fear nothing—I fear nothing.

“How is it that you are so bold?” a hissing whisper breezes from below, beside, above, behind. “You are surrounded.”

“You are mistaken,” I whisper in reply to the gloom. A common breath is quickly stolen. The branches snap and the insects scurry away. “You have been invaded.”

[image error]

Ah. Feels good to get that out. I certainly was determined.

I know. Weird, huh? What does it mean? I don’t know. I just started writing. A fine few minutes and this is what came out. Maybe the psychologists in the crowd are already itching to offer commentary. Feel free. But you’re probably wrong. Just know that up front.

[image error]What’s even weirder is that I just wrote not all that long ago about how I rarely, if ever at all, fail to have something to scribe, and yet it’s been several days since I’ve felt the least bit motivated to sit and type anything. I’ve been writing sermons, newsletter communiques, and editorials, but nothing that I could apply in this particular locale. All I can say is that it’s felt a little like I’ve been choking on something—particular words strung to particular emotions—all keeping me from breathing, preventing me from composing anything ethereal. But I’ve finally cleared my throat and whatever was bending my attempt at keeping pitch has finally broken loose and been spit.

As I said, it feels good to get it out. Now I can get back to work. How about a whiskey, you know, to celebrate the victory? Don’t mind if I do…

My friend, George, sent me a few Canadian gems rather recently, one of which is the Stalk and Barrel Blue Blend from Still Waters. It’s not bad, although I’m cautious in recommending it.

[image error]The whiskey’s nose is exceptionally full. You’re sure to take in singed oak and caramel apples. But then the palate comes along and calls out so miserly, “Egad, men! Don’t be too generous with the treasures!” Wait, what? How could it be that something so rich might be so thin, so pale? There’s a little bit of vanilla. The apples are there, too. But both are soggy.

The finish is the dram’s helpmate. It matches the nose while adding the tiniest sprinkle of pepper. With this, it’s given a little bit of grip.

As I said, I’m cautious in recommending it. I suppose if you’re looking for something to sip after mowing the lawn, this one might do the trick. It’s the difference between Miller Lite and Guinness.

Whatever you do, don’t add water to it. Drink it clean lest any of its finer qualities disappear completely. [image error]

Review – Tuthilltown Spirits, Hudson Manhattan Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]Someone just told me today that I’m a great communicator. That was nice. Although I’ll admit I rarely feel that to be true, at least not in a holistic sense. Just ask my wife.

As far as the comment is concerned, I’ll confess to my written persona being far different than my public persona. I’m not so sure that many writers would admit to this, but I will. I’m more than willing to say that the guy you meet here could be someone completely different than the one you might meet at the supermarket. A personality disorder? Maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has accused me of such a thing. Thankfully, those diddlers don’t exist in my neck of this earthly sphere anymore. They’ve moved on and found other clergyfolk to torment.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I find myself in a completely different zone when I’m at my keyboard than when talking face to face with someone. At my keyboard, when I’m tip-tapping away in a steady flow, there seems to be in this wonderful little drama of keys and fingers, a sense of liberty—an opening up of the throttle on the open road; the hand of my heart, soul, and mind just outside my window riding the crest of the wind’s unending wave. But standing beside you in aisle six at Walmart, I’m much slower with my words. I’m guarded, careful, almost hesitant. The conversation may take a little while to get started, and when it does, I’ll choose each word precisely.

But again, here at the keyboard, it isn’t that way. I perform each sentence once and then move on to the next, and with that, I feel like I could write and write and write for hours. In fact, I know can. I did it while at the seminary. I could produce a ten page paper in a single night, all because I have this strange ability to write a lot in a very short period of time. Now, I’m not necessarily saying that what I produce is any good, but, take for example, my book Ten Ways to Kill a Pastor. I wrote that in five days—ten hours of writing and I was done. It was in print and on shelves in less than two months.

[image error]So, why share all of this? I don’t know. But remember, every whiskey stirs a story, and this is what came to mind while sipping on the Hudson Manhattan Rye Whiskey sample I received from a distributor visiting one of my local haunts. Maybe it came to mind because having tried a sample straight from the bottle at the store, this sample went home with me for review, and when I poured it into the Glencairn, it was something completely different than what I remembered only thirty minutes prior.

Same dram. Completely different experience.

At the store, in the bustle of customers coming and going while we sat in the corner and sipped, there was something burnt in the nose. I remember crisp-crusted rye bread with sesame seeds and a light butter glaze. At home, just the two of us, the rye was there, but now it was soggy and unwilling to give up more than the smell of fresh dough being kneaded.

The palate there—aggressively minty with a touch of vanilla and minced pecans. Here—the dram was stingy, giving little more than the alcohol while hinting to the grains that sourced it.

The finish in both circumstances was the same. Both were swift and to the point—and the point being cinnamon laced vanilla chips slightly burned.

As you can see—same whiskey, different zones, different experiences. The containers make a difference, too, I think. But in all, I can’t explain it. Maybe the container wasn’t clean. Or maybe my Glencairn had dishwasher residue in it. I don’t know. I guess I’ll need to buy a bottle of this stuff and try again. Sounds like a good excuse to add another edition to my cabinets.[image error]

Review – Jefferson’s, Ridiculously Small Batch, Wood Experiment Collection, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, No. 12, 46%

[image error]Poetry. I like it, I do. With poetry, I am no stranger. As proof, you should know that I have a fairly sizeable collection of poetry volumes which spans the likes of the usual to the obscure—from Poe, Dickinson, and Frost to Lorca, Dowson, and Merton. I, myself, write quite a bit of poetry. You’ll find some of it right here at The Angels’ Portion. I even wrote a book about how poetry can serve the homiletical exercise—that is, that preachers can become better at their craft through the study and practice of poetry.

But “dance poetry”? Am I so sheltered that I didn’t know this is actually a something? And not just any something, but an exercise in expression that you can actually pay big tuition dollars to a major university in order to learn and one day be adorned with a degree that gives you the right to be called “master.”

Did I mention that dance poetry appears to be an appropriate form of expression for commemorating the victims of a mass shooting? Indeed, ’tis true. I dare not deceive you. I witnessed it. I turned on the television, and with my own eyes did I behold such an event on the campus of an American university.

Rightly, I’ll admit that as I watched, I was intrigued—as one is intrigued while watching a four hundred pound man make his ninth trip by motorized scooter to the all-you-can-eat buffet table. I say this admitting that, even as the folks who swayed and ducked and twisted and turned for the cameras were most likely called up as the Top Guns from among the dance poetry ranks, as they performed their plotted maneuvers, to me it appeared as though one of two things was occurring—either they were performing a wildly dramatized and slow motioned reenactment of the tragedy, or they were brazenly mocking it. It looked ridiculous—like they were high. But maybe that’s what it was supposed to look like. I don’t know. I cannot say for sure. What I can say is that, thankfully, the Christian Church hasn’t succumbed to employing such jip in her solemn moments and holy spaces.

Wait… what…?[image error]

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Ah, dangit. I forgot about liturgical dance, the Church’s version of mocking solemnity.

Well, now. Hold on. When you really think about it, it’s not that hard to see the connection between a swirling flock of silk-donned prancers in leotards and the story of salvation through the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. It really does make complete sense—at least as much sense as the same goslings spinning in interpretation of a gunman killing 32 people and injuring 17 more.

Too bad we can’t employ dance poetry or liturgical dance for other events or locales of great seriousness. Wouldn’t it be neat if hospitals had a regular troupe of dance poets in their emergency rooms who, through silent alienesque movements, could help the visitors bridge the gap between suffering and, well, whatever exists in the wordless world of people who think dance poetry is appropriate for such a venue? Even better, what if funeral homes did the same thing? Mourners could sit in those little folding chairs near the casket and watch coiling liturgical dancers contorting and poeticizing the importance of, you know, what it means to really feel the uncomfortable pall of death at a loved one’s funeral.

I better quit before this gets any stupider—because it’s starting to feel pretty stupider.

In fact, just thinking about the foolishness of it all, I need a distraction. Or a drink.[image error]

I’ll take the drink. And I’m going to make it the last in the collection of the Jefferson’s Ridiculously Small Batch Wood Experiment editions—in particular, the No. 12.

Sniff. Sip.

[image error]With an undulating spin, the cap is removed and the ambered broth is made to find its way into the Glencairn. There it gives an unhurried but sparkling swirl while fanning a creel of skinned fruits—cherries and wild raspberries. Pleasant. Very pleasant.

In the moments that follow, its motion is careful, fervent, entrancing. It crafts a nimble arabesque of mint, a tendue of cashews, and a sissone of vanilla. And with that final leap, it retires quickly to a softer, sweeter nectar—pear syrup and wheat bread.

Ah, yes. This was a fine and diverting dram. It kind of makes we want to dance. I think I may need to keep a hip flask of this stuff close at hand, especially when I take the car over to the fix-it shop later today. I’m sure that the others lounging around the waiting room anticipating the despair from the inevitable announcement that their repair will cost about a thousand dollars might just benefit from a little bit of dance poetry to help them ease into the suffering.

Or I could do what’s more appropriate; that is, sit still and pray.

Review – Pendelton, Midnight, Blended Canadian Whisky, (No Age Stated), 45%

Oh, look what came in today’s mail.

Happy birthday from your friends at Jiffy Lube, the postcard reads.

Aw, they remembered. That was nice. Although, they did forget the last two letters of my first name. And they added an “s” to my last name. My last name is Thoma, not Thomas.

Whatever. I get it. Still, I’m not stupid. And so I went ahead and redesigned the postcard. Here is, essentially, what it really says…[image error]

By the way, it’s the 13th of May. My birthday is in the middle of October—many months beyond May.

[image error]But hey, since we’re celebrating my birthday, how about popping the cork on something new and pouring a few fingers worth. This Pendleton Midnight looks nice, and it’s been sitting here a while unopened. I guess I forgot it was here. Maybe it should’ve sent me a postcard.

Never mind.

The nose of this blended Canadian gem gives away the fact that it spent some time in casks that at one time held Brandy. There’s also a hint of malted chocolate that moves from the nose into the first sip. With this malty delight, the palate sees the addition of a hint of distant concord grapes—very sweet, but mildly so.

The medium finish is like the postcard I received in today’s mail. It savors the chocolate and offers a dark raspberry sweet and kindly “Happy Birthday.” But it only does this to keep me coming back for more. In the case of this whisky, I will.

To conclude, and in all, this is the perfect dram for celebrating one’s birth five months in advance. I suppose I have Jiffy Lube to thank for that.

Review – Canadian Club, Reserve, 9 Years Old, 40%

[image error]“I see a cloud that looks like an alligator,” Evelyn said and pointed to the clean blue horizon beyond her car window. We were sitting at the longest stop light in town.

“I see a polar bear,” Maddy offered with a similar finger point.

I scanned the sky past the windshield. “I see a canoe,” I said. “And there’s a robot toaster in it holding an oar made from a helicopter propeller. I think he’s being chased by a piranha with a slice of lasagna in its mouth.”

The girls didn’t respond, but I did catch Madeline’s glare in the rearview mirror.

Leaning over to her sister’s window, “I see the polar bear, too, Maddy,” Evelyn said. “And I see a puppy.”

“Where?” Maddy asked.

“Above the polar bear.”

“Oh, yeah. I see it.”

“I see a cloud that looks like the Pope,” I offered. “It’s not Francis, though. It’s John Paul. And it looks like he’s performing an exorcism. Or maybe he’s just waving his hands and parting the waters at a public swimming pool. Yeah, that’s it. I can see the high dive over his shoulder.”

The light turned green. We turned left and made our way toward home. The girls continued to call out images.

“I see a bunny,” Maddy said.

“There’s a flower,” Evelyn added.

“There’s a great big floating school bus,” I said. “Hmm. That’s weird. It looks like it has surface-to-air missile launchers on the top. I suspect Raytheon made those bad boys.” I gave a quick glance to the back of the van. Maddy was set in her signature look. Evelyn was looking out the window and listening to me. “Oh, look!” I added. “There’s a squirrel in fatigues punching in a launch code and turning the key. Hit the deck, girls!”

“Are you really seeing those things, Daddy?” Maddy asked with a rhetorical tone while donning what could have been judged a partially hopeful grin.

“Sure,” I said. “And look! That cloud looks like an X-Wing fighter. And take a look at who’s piloting that rebel hot rod. It’s R2-D2! And C3PO is in the back. It’s about time the little astrodroid got to fly one of those things.”

Maddy rolled her eyes. Evelyn patted her arm, “I see it, Madeline! There he is! R2D2!” Maddy stole a quick look out the window but then almost immediately sank back into her seat. Opening the book in her lap, “Whatever,” she said. A moment later, we were home.

I liken these events to the perceptions held by many as they sip a whiskey while reading the reviews that guys like me scribe. In fact, I would imagine that there are plenty of other reviewers out there who’ve received the prodding commentary that sounds a little bit like “How do you get all of that from this whiskey? All I get is the burn.” They think we’re making it up. They’re seeing polar bears and we’re seeing robot toasters in canoes being chased by pasta laden carnivorous fish. Our abilities to discern the details astound them.

The truth—and I’ll only speak for myself—is that I’m really rather sensitive to the nuances in every single thing I taste. I don’t know why. I just am. My nose is the same way. I can smell things well before others do. Sometimes it’s a blessing. Other times it’s a curse. When it comes to whiskey, if the dram is incredibly wonderful but has a price tag that far exceeds anything I can typically afford to spend, it’s a curse. It can also be a curse when your gassy seven-year-old daughter farts in the car. While it’s merely a laughable annoyance to the rest of the passengers, for me, it’s a chalky mouth and nose full of toxins in a gas chamber. For the record, even if it’s 30 degrees below zero, all the windows in the car get rolled down until all is fully ventilated. And as their tiny tears freeze to their tiny faces, I can breathe again and all is well.

In the case of the Canadian Club Reserve 9-Year-Old edition, my abilities are both a blessing and curse—a blessing in that I have detected several little delights in this dram that make it well worth the purchase, but a curse in that I almost didn’t buy it because I’ve been mostly disappointed by the usual suspects I’ve discerned in other Canadian Club editions I’ve tried in the past.

This one, however, is pretty good.

The nose is crisply rye-like with a touch of orange marmalade. The palate is just as pleasant. The rye is there, but the marmalade begins as a sweeter citrus only to become a tad sour—but not in a disappointing way. It’s an interesting shift from orange to lime, and all the while this is happening, there’s a sense of white chocolate with almonds serving as the fruit’s carriage.

The finish is like the polar bear cloud—simple and not all that imaginative. About all I could find was the rye and barely a hint of vanilla.

“You found all of that in this whiskey, Reverend? Hey, look! That cloud looks like an alligator!”

Yes, I did. And yes, it does. But if you take a little bit of time to examine and ponder that alligator, you’ll see that it’s actually an African crocodile. With a bowtie. Watching TV.[image error]