Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 24

Review – Jefferson’s, Ridiculously Small Batch, Wood Experiment Collection, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, No. 10, 46%

[image error]“Maybe we should have a garage sale,” I said and swept the dust pile into the driveway.

“But, we’re minimalists,” Jen said. “We don’t have enough junk for a garage sale.”

“Sure we do,” I answered and gave a sturdier swish which caused the larger fragments in the pile to bounce off of the grill of our minivan. “We’ve got plenty of things we could get rid of.”

“Like what?”

“Like, well, about half of the kids’ toys.”

“We can’t do that.”

“They wouldn’t even miss them.”

“Forget it.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “How about a few of the bicycles? There are six people in the family and we have, like, ninety bikes hanging on the wall in the garage, and unless we’re a family of circus performers, no one’s gonna be riding three bikes at the same time.”

“We have six bikes, Chris. There are six of us.”

“Well, you hardly ever ride yours.”

“I’m not selling my bike.”

“Well, Madeline and Evelyn have a lot of Barbie stuff, and there are plenty of other girls in the neighborhood who’d spend their allowance to get a few dolls. There are probably even a few boys who would, too.”

“No.”

“The stuff under Josh’s bed?”

“Chris…”

“Harrison’s Legos?”

“We don’t have enough stuff for a garage sale.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Okay. How about this? You have three cabinets full of whisky. How about we sell some of your bottles?”

“You know, you’re probably right,” I said and put the broom in the corner. “We really don’t have enough stuff for a garage sale. Time for lunch? Great. Time for lunch.”

Phew. That was close. Looks like Jen knows my weak spot. That means that if things go missing from the kids’ stuff, I could lose a few editions here and there. But which ones would she steal in retaliation? There are certain editions she’d never touch because she knows she’d be flirting with divorce. But some of the smaller ones—like these Jefferson’s Ridiculously Small Batch editions—whether or not I actually like them, the fact remains that they are hidden by the bigger bottles. She’s sure to swipe one of these because I’d never even know it was gone until it was too late. With that, and because I fully intend to go forward in secret to downsize the kids’ collections of useless crap, I’d better hurry up and finish reviewing the editions that comprise this little whiskey assemblage. The next in line: Wood Experiment No. 10.

The number 10 is a zesty little dram, breathing out a spicy exhale of cinnamon dusted vanilla. The palate is delightfully similar, handing over the cinnamon vanilla, but even as it is really just the first one through the door, along comes other guests of equally pleasant demeanor—almonds and peppery oak.

These upstanding gents stay for only a short while, and as they leave, they offer a kindly wave of the cinnamon that seemed so prevalent in the whole experience. And they beg to be protected from the relentless and predatory ways of my scheming spouse.

Not to worry, Number 10, I think to myself. Even as the Legos are clicking and clacking into the trash can like a multihued waterfall of plastic blocks drowning the Barbies at its plunge basin, I’ll be sure to keep my wits about me as to your location amongst the brethren. And I’ll keep an eye on the contents of the garbage cans.

Review – Knappogue Castle, 12 Years Old, 40%

[image error]“Asteroids do not concern me, Admiral,” Vader said interrupting Piett’s nervous explanation. “I want that ship, not excuses.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the stiffly obedient soldier responded and bowed his head as the mechanized canopy of Vader’s meditation chamber lowered and hissed shut. He turned to make his way back to the bridge of the Super Star Destroyer when he heard a muffled call through the chamber wall. Vader was saying something else.

Putting his ear to the canopy, Piett asked, “What’s that, my Lord?” Again, there was the low hum of Vader’s mechanical voice, but the command was unintelligible. “Sir, I apologize, but I can’t…” Just then he heard the gears turn as the canopy lifted, but only slightly.

“And some chips, Admiral,” came the frighteningly familiar voice from the chamber’s gap. “I want that ship, and I want some chips, too.”

“Um, any particular kind, my Lord?”

[image error]“I want those tortilla chips that have the hint of lime dusted on them. I think Tostitos makes them. Those are great.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Piett reaffirmed, his heels snapping to attention. He turned once again and motioned for the mechanized door in order to leave.

“Don’t forget the salsa!” Vader called again while lifting the canopy even further, enough to give Piett full view of its interior.

Standing in the doorway, “Again, my Lord, there are different kinds,” he said. “Is there one in particular that I might fetch for you?”

“Whatever you get, make sure it’s mild,” the Sith Lord said sounding a little less stern. “I used to be able to handle the hotter stuff, but,” he raised his hands to make quotation marks with his fingers, “after my little ‘accident’ with Obi-wan on Mustafar, I don’t do well with the spicier stuff.”

Vader’s calmer demeanor gave Piett a moment of ease. “Yes, Lord, I’m the same way. The spicier salsas really do a number on my insides. I had some a while back, and let me tell you, I was in the toilet for at least…”

“Your time in the loo due to your inabilities with salsa does not concern me, Admiral,” Vader said, recapturing the respect due him. “And just so you know,” he growled, “it’s not that I can’t handle the spice, but rather that I wear black leather all day long. Everyone sweats after eating the spicier stuff. How would you like walking around in black leather all day long drenched in sweat?”

There was a pause.

[image error]“Well, how would you like it, Admiral?!”

“I wouldn’t sir.”

“That’s right. You wouldn’t. It’s pretty gross. So don’t go off laughing with your buddies up at the Admiral’s Club about how Lord Vader can take on a whole regiment of rebel soldiers firing blasters at him and not take a scratch but can’t seem to handle spicy salsa. I can handle it. I just don’t want to be stuck smelling my own stench in this outfit.”

“Yes, my Lord. Mild salsa, it is. I’ll return shortly.”

“And find that ship.”

“I will.”

“And a bottle of whisky.”

“Whisky… sir?”

“Yeah, whisky. What do you have in your room, Admiral?”

“I don’t have any more whisky, my Lord. You confiscated all of my Lagavulin editions last week.”

“Find me some whisky.”

“I believe Admiral Ozzel has some Knappogue Castle Irish Whiskey in his chambers. It’s a twelve-year-old single malt, my Lord. He shared some with General Veers last night. Veers told me as much this morning at breakfast.”

“It’s a good thing Ozzel’s dead, now, isn’t it? He won’t be needing that bottle. Bring it to me. With the chips and salsa. And put the chips into a Stormtrooper helmet. That’s always a fun way to eat chips.”

“Yes, my Lord. Anything else?”

“Nope. I mean… No, that will do, Admiral,” Vader growled once again and pressed the button to lower the canopy. Just before it was sealed, Piett heard, “And find that ship!”

[image error]A few moments later in Ozzel’s quarters on level fourteen, Admiral Piett rummaged through his dead colleague’s belongings until finally discovering the Knappogue Castle bottle. It was lying on its side on the floor between the Dejarik holochess table and Ozzel’s La-Z-Boy recliner, which was surrounded by an inordinate amount of Sy Snootles memorabilia. Snootles, of course, being the lead singer for Max Rebo’s band in Jabba the Hutt’s palace.

Dropping into the recliner, Piett took off his cap and then reached down for the bottle to retrieve it. Once in hand, he let out a sigh and cranked the recliner’s lever to lift his feet. He examined the bottle.

“Bourbon cask matured. Triple distilled. Single Malt Irish Whiskey. Sounds nice.”

[image error]Piett scanned the room for a glass, only to be thankful that there was what appeared to be a clean one sitting on a display table of framed Snootles’ photos within arm’s reach of the recliner. He was tired, and he was intent upon sitting and taking a share of the whiskey before delivering it to Vader. He took the glass, popped the bottle’s cork, and poured two fingers worth of the golden elixir.

Setting the bottle on the holochess board, he swirled and nosed the whiskey.

“Nice.” He sniffed again. “Clean.” He held the glass up to the light and turned it before sniffing one last time. “The vanilla is strong with this one. And fruit—peaches, I think—warmed by the sun, maybe.”

He took a sip.

“Yes, the vanilla is strong, but I was wrong about the fruit.” He took another sip. “Sugared tangerines are soaking here. And the finish—short and clean, with the citrus coating the edges. Nice. Very nice.”

“Admiral Piett!” called the voice of Captain Needa from the Admiral’s communicator. Piett took the rest of the dram’s contents in a single swallow.

“Yes?”

“Our fighters have lost the Millennium Falcon near one of the larger asteroids,” Needa urged with a tremble. “What shall we do?”

“Continue pursuit,” Piett said calmly. “Send a bomber squadron to the surface of the asteroid. We’ll do our best to encourage the rebels to emerge from hiding.”

“Right away.”

“And Captain,” Piett imposed.

“Yes, Admiral?”

“Find me a bag of Tostitos ‘Hint of Lime’ tortilla chips and a jar of salsa.”

“Chips and salsa, sir?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“But sir, remember what happened when you ate salsa at the Officers’ Christmas party last year? You were in the bathroom for…”

“Make it mild salsa. And anyway, it’s not for me.”

“Right. Gotcha. It’s not for you. May I…?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Right. Send the bombers and get you chips and salsa. Right away, sir.”

Review – Suntory, Toki, Japanese Blended Whisky, (No Age Stated), 43%

Here I am with my son, Joshua, and my daughter, Madeline, at the Baymont Inn and Suites in a little town in Illinois. The purpose—to return from Michigan to the general vicinity of my youth in order to celebrate the baptism of my sister’s newborn son, Charles. I’m glad to be here, but when it comes to hotels, you win some and you lose some.

I won’t share all of the grisly details, but it’s important to know that upon crossing the threshold of room 115, we were greeted by a strange odor and a medium-sized spider clinging to the wall near the headboard of one of the beds.

Then there’s this wall in the bathroom.[image error]

I’m pretty sure something terrible happened here. Clearly, it has been repaired. And not very well. I have in my mind that a meeting between two secret agents went horribly wrong and one of them got his head slammed through the drywall and he was later dismembered in the tub.

And since we’re talking about the bathroom, I’m not sure if you can tell from the photo, but if the toilet were any lower to the floor, I think it would be more appropriate to classify as a litter box. All that’s missing is the chalky gravel in the bowl.[image error]

Well, at least we have this wonderful view from the window.[image error]

Never mind. Let’s go try the pool. Ah, looks nice enough.

“Excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you. We’re just wondering—how’s the water?”[image error]

“He says it’s fine, guys. How about getting in and giving it a go?”

“So, Josh, how was it?”[image error]

“Did you have fun, Maddy?”[image error]

“Let’s just go watch TV in the room.”

And so, the TV is on. Josh has selected “Ancient Aliens” on the history channel. At least we get to behold Giorgio Tsoukalosto offering his less-than-educated opinions about who built the pyramids. Maybe he knows why the pool is only a few degrees from icing over.[image error]

Whatever. Now the kids are playing Monopoly on the iPad. While they do that, I’m going to review the Suntory Whisky Toki edition I picked up from the local liquor store. “Toki” is the Japanese word for “time,” and apparently that’s what I have right now.

[image error]With that, a sniff of this eastern blend not only provides a moment of relief from the musty hotel room smell, but it does so through a gentle miasma of red spiced apple rings and light caramel. I’m already tempted to swab the inside of my nose with this stuff before going to bed.

The palate is equally comforting, offering at first a fairly substantive taste of the barrel oak. I like that. In the next moment, there’s a tangling with a variety of fruits—apples and pears in particular. Maybe even a very ripe plum.

Now, if the name of this whisky has anything to do with the finish—as in, there is a reasonable expanse of time in which the whisky remains—then they missed the mark. This stuff leaves quickly. It took me a few sips to realize that the sweeter fruits have become more soured and acidic in their variety—grapefruit, maybe. There’s also the hint of wheat toast.

Speaking of toast… two things. First, if the complimentary continental breakfast tomorrow morning is playing at the same level as the rest of this establishment’s amenities, we’re going to spend the rest of our stay in the van. Second, Josh just beat Maddy pretty badly at Monopoly, which means he gets to govern the remote control, and so now he’s torturing us with another episode of “Ancient Aliens.”

“Hey, Maddy. You wanna go swimming?”

Sigh.

Still, in the end—spiders, crime scene bathrooms, swimming pools with drifting icebergs, and other things left unshared—I must confess that it was all more than worth it.

[image error] [image error] [image error]

Review – Jefferson’s, Ridiculously Small Batch, Wood Experiment Collection, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, No. 6, 46%

[image error]I have a joke for you. It’s kind of long, so bear with me, okay?

There was a wealthy man who so desperately wanted a son. One day, he was granted that son, and he was so happy. He truly believed that life couldn’t get any better.

When his son turned five, he went to him and said, “Happy birthday, son. You turn five today. What do you want for your birthday? I’ll buy you anything you want.”

“Daddy,” the boy said, “I want a golf ball.”

“Son,” the father replied, “why a golf ball?”

“I can’t tell you, Daddy,” the boy said. “But I promise I will tell you someday.”

Years passed and the son turned thirteen.

“Son,” the father said, “Happy birthday. You turn thirteen today. You’re a teenager! What do you want for your birthday? I’ll buy you anything you want—a video game system, a stereo, a horse. I’ll build you your own go-cart track. You name it!”

“Thanks, Dad,” he answered. “These all sound really nice, but all I really want is a golf ball.”

“Son,” the father began, “every year you ask for a golf ball. I offer to buy you anything you want and you only ever want a golf ball. Why?”

“I can’t tell you, Dad,” the boy said. “But I promise I will tell you someday.”

Another passage of time rolls by and the son turns sixteen.

“Happy birthday, Son!” the father said, “You’re sixteen today! What do you want for your birthday? I’ll buy you any kind of car you want—a Porsche, a Ferrari, whatever you want!”

“That’s really nice, Dad, thanks,” the son said. “Get me whatever you want, but just fill it full of golf balls.”

“Wait, what?” the father asked. “All you want are golf balls again? Every year you ask for this. Why?”

“I can’t tell you, Dad,” the boy said. “But I promise that the day is coming soon when I’m going to tell you.”

The boy continued to grow older—turning seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one—and each time the father asked him what he wanted for his birthday. He offered him the opportunity for the most exquisite things money could buy, but all the son ever desired were golf balls.

Time continued to pass, and then one day, the son met a girl. He fell in love. He proposed marriage to the delightful maiden, and she accepted. They were to be married that summer. Excited, the son told his father.

“My boy!” the father shouted with joy. “Congratulations! We must celebrate!” And they did. The father took his son to a fine restaurant. He ordered the finest drinks for everyone in the establishment. He covered everyone’s dinner expenses, and with that, the whole establishment was lively and full of excitement for the young man who was preparing to be wed.

“Son,” the father said and leaned over toward the young man. “I want to buy something special for you and your bride-to-be. You name it. Anything you want—a house, a boat—heck, I’ll even buy you a houseboat! What would you like?”

“Dad,” the son replied, “that’s really nice of you. But my fiancé and I have already talked about it. You can buy us whatever you want, but just be sure to fill it full of golf balls.”

“Son!” the father said. “Enough! It’s time to tell me why all of these years, ever since you were five years old, all you’ve ever wanted were golf balls! You need to tell me, and you need to do it now.”

“Dad,” he said softly and gently, “I can’t tell you just yet, but the day is coming soon—sooner than you know, in fact.”

That night, as they were leaving the restaurant, they were crossing the street when the son was suddenly struck by a car. Lying on the pavement, covered in blood and struggling to breathe, he reached up for his father’s hand. The father took his hand and then scooped him up enough to cradle him in his lap.

“Son,’ the father softly, “I don’t think you’re going to make it.”

“I… don’t think so… either,” the son said with a gasp.

“Son, before you die, you need to tell me why all these years all you’ve ever wanted were golf balls.”

“You’re right, Dad,” he said. “It’s time.”

Looking up into his father’s eyes, tears beginning to trickle down both of their cheeks, the son inhaled.

“Dad, the reason… I wanted all… those golf balls… all those years… is because…”

And then he died.

[image error]Okay, okay. Settle down. How about we just get to the review?

Hey, where’re you going?

Fine. Whatever. Anyone else gonna stick around and find out about the Jefferson’s Ridiculously Small Batch No. 6? No? Okay, you? No? Fine.

[image error]Oh, good, you’re still here. This means one thing. You have patience. You’ll need it with this particular bottle in the five-pack, my friend.

The nose of this dram takes a little time to breathe. Give it fifteen minutes or so after the pour before you attempt to lift the particulars from it. When you do, you’ll be rewarded with evergreens, vanilla, and freshly sawn wood.

You need to work with the palate, too. It’s a bitter jab of peppery spice until you add a drop or two of water. Then it becomes a bowl of sour apples topped with cinnamon.

The finish is where patience is the key. It’s almost long. It leaves a bit of a sour aftertaste at first, but if you avoid the temptation to take another sip of something—whether it be the whiskey or water—it isn’t much longer before the sharpness recedes and becomes the vanilla you experienced in the nosing. But there’s also somewhat of a syrupy aftereffect that I liken to a gulp of decarbonated cola. I could’ve done without that note.

Yes, you waited all that time for this. Like I said, you have patience. I admire patient people. Patient people are mindful people. They get the most out of everything with which they interact, and most often it is that they are rewarded—except, of course, in the case of the father whose son had a mysterious fetish for golf balls.

Review – Distillerie Warenghem, Armorik, Double Maturation, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]I can’t believe it, I thought and gave a quick scan of my row. I’m at the Academy Awards. I’m sitting next to my wife. Gerard Butler is sitting beside her. And they just called my name as they prepare to open the envelope to announce the award for Best Actor in a Short Film. I didn’t know there was such a category.

The air was thick. But that’s only because Beyoncé was sitting to my right, and I’m thinking she has halitosis.

“I hope you win, bro,” Chris Pratt leaned back and smiled. “You deserve it. That was the best portrayal I’ve ever seen of a man just out to mow his yard and all the while doing his best not to run over a rabbit hole filled with baby bunnies and fighting back the undead. And he never spilled his whisky. Dude, you nailed it! Totally believable!”

“Thanks, Chris,” I said and took a handshake. “That means a lot.”

“Yeah, great job,” came another voice from over my shoulder. It was Norman Reedus.

“Thanks, Norm,” I said. “It’s easy to do when it feels like it’s your life story.”

“You bet,” Butler leaned over to affirm through a copious Scottish accent. “Life is the best inspiration, my friend.”

Jen gave a wave of her hand and shushed the circle of chattering men. “She’s about to open the envelope,” she said.

Sigourney Weaver—standing beside a pokerfaced Bill Murray—took the envelope from the podium, and with a slide of her finger, it was opened and she removed the note.

“And the winner for Best Actor in a Short Film goes to… Momma, I feel sick.”

There were exhales of disappointment around me. Even Beyoncé appeared upset. Chris turned to offer a condolence. Norman nudged Jen’s shoulder, “Momma, I don’t feel so good.”

Gerard leaned over, and with a dissatisfied guise, offered, “My stomach hurts and I can’t sleep.”

It was then that Gerard’s face faded into the misty realms of nethersleep and became that of my 12-year-old daughter, Madeline. She was poking at the shoulder of my sleeping wife and trying to wake her. And once I realized the content of her words, I made haste in forming a coherent sentence.

“If you’re gonna be sick, Maddy, don’t lean over us in our bed! Get to the bathroom!”

She scurried from the room and into the bathroom. Mom and dad both followed. Madeline didn’t get sick, thankfully. But now I was awake.

Oh, well. Apparently I didn’t win the award, anyway, so there’s no use in trying to close my eyes and find my way back into the dream. Still, I’m guessing that this must be the kind of dream one has when one sips French whisky before bedtime. Weird. And telling, because while the whisky was by no means bad—that is, it had some really great moments—it didn’t necessarily come away with the win.

There’s a depth to the nose of this dram. Straight from the bottle, the neck focuses its aim and sends up blackberries and a nimble sherry. In the glass, the sherry becomes more prominent. But then with a swirl, along comes a very, VERY, spectral kiss of smoke. Just to be sure, I tried it again, and sure enough, it returned. Just barely.

On the palate, the whisky takes a turn from the sherry distinction and steers into a yet-to-be baked apple pie. It’s as if the cinnamon and nutmeg in the recipe had yet to be absorbed into the filling and crust, leaving a far too distinct nip instead of falling into a balance. I wasn’t put off by this, but I wondered if something could have been done to improve it. I added a drop of water and then took another sip. I added another and sipped again. That fixed it.

The finish of the whisky (without water) is generous, leaving behind a buoyant cast of toffee, almond flavored coffee creamer, and an alcohol-sodden cherry. Somewhat artificial. Like Hollywood. But also entertaining. Like Hollywood.

I’d say, give it go. And do it before bedtime. Then be sure to send me an email and tell me the award for which you were nominated, and whether or not you won.

And a bit of advice: Take a breath mint with you to bed—in case you discover yourself seated beside Beyoncé.

Review – Jefferson’s, Ridiculously Small Batch, Wood Experiment Collection, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, No. 4, 46%

[image error]We have a Google “Home” device sitting atop a chest of drawers in our kitchen. Jen bought it this past Christmas. The kids love it. Jen does, too. Because it is connected to the internet, all you have to do is say, “Hey, Google,” and then ask it to do something—set an alarm, play a song by a certain band, share what the weather will be like tomorrow, or in the case of our youngest daughter with Diabetes, give the carb count in a cup of strawberries or whatever.

Of the multitude of things it can do, the one I think I enjoy the most, is making shopping lists. Not for me, of course. I hate shopping. Unless it’s for whisky. But Jen makes shopping lists, and oh how I love to sabotage them. And what’s great about it is that the Google Home will sync the list to her mobile phone, so as she’s traversing the supermarket aisles, I can be sure that she won’t forget to pick up the items I’ve added.

As I sit here, I’ve called out to the Google Home to share the makings of the current list. Here’s what’s on it:

yogurt

french fries

milk

butter

The Millennium Falcon

eggs

shredded sharp cheddar cheese

colby jack

deli turkey and ham

C4 explosives

bottled water

large cooking tray

a copy of the book How to Prepare and Cook People

a copy of the book How to Live with an Idiot

cereal

bread

hamburger

chicken breast

clothes to cover the naked chicken and provide it with some dignity in death

detonators for the C4

coffee

creamer

whisky-flavored creamer

broccoli

bananas

a house elf for Maddy because her sister Evelyn isn’t really working out

gabba gabba gabba gabba

pizza tree seeds

trip to Scotland

lightsaber

strawberries and seedless grapes

tomatoes

bag of potatoes

bag of pixie dust

colonoscopy

solar powered back scratcher

leave my shopping list alone, Chris

cement

sodium ferrocyanide

it’s my shopping list now, yo

one two buckle my shoe

a book on how to tie my shoes so that I can finally put shoe buckling behind me

I mean it Chris this is annoying

a billion Easter eggs shaped like monkey heads

jackhammer

ballet shoes and a leotard for dad

a disco ball

a bigger puke bucket for the kids

make it a puke bucket they can actually climb into

kyber crystals to power the lightsaber

you’re going to regret this, Chris

flowers for my patient and beautiful wife

Like I said, the Google Home is a useful little tool for accomplishing very important things. And with that, “Hey, Google, play ‘Rock of Ages’ by Def Leppard while I review the Jefferson’s Ridiculously Small Batch.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help with that.”

Sheesh. Too much in that request.

“Hey, Google, play ‘Rock of Ages’ by Def Leppard.”

“Alright. Here’s ‘Rock of Ages’ by Def Leppard.”

“Thanks, Google.”

[image error]Anyway, the whiskey being scrutinized today—the second of five in the pack—is the Wood Experiment Number 4, and like Number 3, it is a delightful little dram.

Cork removed and set aside, the lifting scent of grapes in light syrup is the first to meet the nose. There’s a hint of spice, but barely.

[image error]In the mouth there’s the taste of a fruit-filled chocolate candy—like something from a heart-shaped box one might receive on Valentine’s Day—except it’s the good kind of filling and not the weird flavored stuff you try and then spit out. There’s also a trace of nougat followed by something metallic.

The finish is medium in length, offering a drying spice to that fruit-filled chocolate you discovered while savoring.

“Hey, Google. What’s in that stuff in the center of the chocolates from the heart-shaped boxes that people give to each other on Valentine’s Day?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help with that.”

“Hey, Google. Don’t feel bad. No one really knows the answer to that question.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help with that.”

“Hey, Google. Add ‘I love you’ to the shopping list.”

“Alright. ‘I love you’ has been added to your shopping list.”

Review – The Glenlivet, Single Cask Edition, Kymah, 16 Years Old, 60.1%

[image error]The question is a simple one. It is comprised of two words, one a contraction and the other a proper noun. And yet, when joined together and aimed at the appropriate informant, they are as a divining rod to water. They hold the potential for discovering a bounteous wellspring of information.

“Where’s Josh?” I asked the bright-eyed seven-year-old girl playing with her Barbies.

“He’s in his room,” she responded without breaking the imaginary gymnastics competition that Barbie was undoubtedly winning. “And he’s texting on his phone. His room is a mess. His bed isn’t made and he has clothes all over the floor. He pushed some of them under his bed. He also has a glass and a bowl in there. And the Chicken-in-a-Biskit box. Didn’t you tell him not to do that? I don’t think he’s done his homework or studied for the test he has tomorrow in math, either. If he’s not texting anymore, he’s probably sleeping because he stayed up after you told him to go to bed last night.”

“Thanks, Evelyn.”

“You’re welcome. Do you want me to go get him?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“No, honey, I’ll get him,” I said. “You’ve given me enough intel to get the special ops team prepped and ready. You’d better just stay here and play with your Barbies, because when the team engages the target, if he learns who gave him up, it could get messy.”

“Can I put Barbie on the banister to watch?”

“She could be on the forward team, if you want. I’m on that team and I could take her with me. Is she a fast runner in case things get crazy?

“Not right now. She broke her leg in the last competition,” Evelyn said and showed me the doll with a bit of toilet paper wrapped around and taped to one of its legs.

“And she’s still competing?”

“She’s Barbie. She has to win,” the little girl said appearing surprised. “Haven’t you seen any of her movies?”

“Have you ever heard of Nancy Kerrigan?”

“Who’s that?”

“She was a figure skater who…”

“This isn’t skating, Daddy. This is gymnastics.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Barbie can sit on the banister.”

Over the course of the next few minutes, several things happened. Most notably, and first, Evelyn was right about pretty much everything, and this made for a contentious but successful engagement with my seventeen-year-old son. Second, when the newly awakened and unsteady sloth finally emerged from his room to help set the table for dinner, Barbie was knocked from the banister and fell ten feet to her death at the bottom of the stairs. Looks like her nemesis, Valerie, will be winning the world gymnastics competition this year. And probably the next… at least until there’s a “Barbie Rises from the Grave” movie that can set a new precedent in Barbie lore.

Of course, after such a lively pre-dinner sortie, it was only right to both celebrate the mission’s success while toasting to a “fallen” comrade with a sip from an untapped edition. The evening’s celebratory dram was The Glenlivet’s Single Cask Edition Kymah 16-year-old.

[image error]Casked in 1998 and bottled in 2014, this exquisite concoction is not only uniquely sourced from the Kymah Burn—a stream that feeds the River Livet—but it is an extremely limited bottling sold only through the Heinemann shops at the Frankfurt airport. There are only 528 of these in existence, and I am really quite fond of mine.

There’s a gentle, wine-like accent in the nosing. The sherry cask maturation is there, but its signature is thinned slightly by the scent of honey and brown sugar. Once in the mouth and on the tongue, there’s a generous spate of whisky-making intel. It reveals a carefully crafted whisky set for engaging the consumer with gently honeyed citrus, warm and buttery almonds, and chocolate chips.

The finish is as slothfully traipsing as a 17-year-old son—but in a good way. It moves slowly from one point to the next, leaving a trail of nutmeg and wood spice to keep you warm long after its gentler attributes have departed.

So, the lessons learned: Barbie doesn’t always survive the adventure, the CIA needs to start hiring seven-year-old girls, and The Glenlivet Kymah is a most excellent dram for calming one’s spirit after dueling with an abruptly awakened and accused teenage son.

Review – Traverse City Whiskey Company, Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]Do you think it hurts the paperboy’s feelings when he rolls up to throw the Sunday edition into my driveway and he sees that last Sunday’s paper is still resting in the same place he tossed it seven days ago?

There it is—untouched and rotting right there in the plastic bag.

[image error]I suppose the real issue at hand here is that if I don’t pick it up myself and throw it away, it will stay there through the next four seasons—kids riding over it with their bikes, drawing around it with sidewalk chalk, rolling around it on their scooters—all the while the innards of the flimsy little plastic casket are becoming a gelatinous mess of degrading newsprint soup. They certainly won’t pick it up until I mandate it. And even then, they’ll argue about it. Having become so accustomed to its presence, they might not even know what I’m talking about until I actually point it out.

“What paper?”

“The one that’s been in the driveway since last Christmas.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That thing, right there.”

“Wait, that doesn’t belong there?”

“Oh, no. Not that. That’s a just a cholera terrarium I thought I’d start right in the middle of the driveway. Yes, that, you squatter! Pick it up and throw it away!”

I love my kids, but when it comes to the little things—like putting dishes into the dishwasher, turning off the bathroom light, or even sparing that extra bit of energy to turn just enough to flush the toilet after doing some significant work of internal cleansing—they’re pretty useless. I suppose the only real reason we keep them around now is because we’ve already introduced them to way too many people. We’ve passed the point of no return on being able to tie up so many loose ends. Oh yeah, and we can write them off on our taxes. That’s a plus. But other than those few things, they’re pretty much freeloading.

Jen thinks I’m kidding when I say that for each of their 18th birthdays, my gift to them will be that I pay for movers to pack up their stuff. Well, maybe I am kidding a little. They don’t have that much stuff. I could probably just do it myself.

Okay, okay. I love my kids. They can live here as long as they want. As long as that means 18.

[image error]They might be able to bribe me, though. I suppose I’d be happy enough to extend their stay if they kept a steady offering of Traverse City Whiskey in my cabinet. It’s decent stuff.

The nose of this stocky dram is one of blackberries and a hint of maple syrup. There’s a slight pull of the rye, but it’s gone no sooner than it arrives.

In the mouth, this whiskey has a spicy exactitude that will make your eyebrows rise, and not because you’re surprised by an overwash of something unpleasant, but because you’re taken aback by the way the wood spice seems to chisel away at the alcohol and bring it into a balance. With this, you’re able to recognize the caramel and those darker fruits you noticed in the initial inhalation.

The finish does the whiskey no favors in that it borders on the edge of short to medium. I was hoping that the grains would finally take their place in the spotlight, but alas, I got a pasting of honey and another go with the palate’s spice.

Okay, so maybe this wouldn’t be the only whiskey I would require of my offspring for keeping residence in my home, but it certainly is one that I would expect to receive as recompense for those special moments of uselessness.

“Josh!”

“What?!”

“You didn’t flush the toilet, again!”

“Okay. I’ll get a bottle to you later tonight.”

What a delightful boy. “Hey, Harrison!”

“Yeah?!”

“You left your underwear on the floor in the bathroom, again!”

“Sorry about that, Dad. I’ll get over to the liquor store after class tonight.”

“Be sure to pick up a bottle for the paperboy, too. He’s still ticked.” Oh, I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say goodbye to these kids. (Sniff.)

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Review – Jefferson’s, Ridiculously Small Batch, Wood Experiment Collection, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, No. 3, 46%

This following review was inspired by a Twitter post I saw from Darryn King. I have included it below. Truly, it made me laugh—out loud. And by it, I imagined Joyce Kilmer traveling along in observance and conjuring his famous poem “Trees.” With that, as you should expect, I was stirred to jot down what I was imagining and then seek its inner truth… as it relates to whiskey, of course.[image error]

[image error]“What a beautiful day this Year of our Lord 1908 has produced,” the young poet, Joyce Kilmer, mused as he rolled along in his Holsman High Wheel. “The sun is beaming its warmest gilding upon the earth’s face. The sky is singing a clear, blue song of cloudless joy. The grasses in the fields are waving, yes, as if to me, to share a greeting with all passersby who would, and should, smile in return and tip their hats so fondly.”

He bumped along and looked higher. “And the trees, oh, the mightiest of the fieldlings! How lovely they are!”

And suddenly, he sensed it. The furnace of whimsical regard was unexpectedly, and again, aflame within the youthful lyricist, and so he began to chime what he could feel venting from both his heart and mind.

I think that I shall never see , a poem as lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest, against the earth’s sweet flowing breast.

Titling his cap only slightly and scratching his head, “I rather liked that,” he said. “I pray there’s more,” he petitioned into the air while scanning an approaching farmstead. He went to repeat the phrases that had only moments before rolled forth so easily.

I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a… EGADS, MAN, AND GOOD LORD!

[image error]Kilmer swerved, nearly missing a stone-framed bridge, and just in time to turn into the rounded carriage path that almost touched the front stoop of the farm house he’d every intention of passing only moments ago. Turning the wheel and stopping just past the stairs, he climbed down from the motorcar and observed the monstrosity a few meters from his pose. After a few moments, he turned and climbed the steps to the front door. He reached out to announce himself with what was a goose head doorknocker. As if already in wait, the inhabitant, a bedraggled but well-dressed fellow, opened the door with a swift pull by the third rap, startling enough to send the morning visitor back to a lower plank.

“Whatchee want?!” the man said and leaned through the doorway.

“Ah, yes, kind sir,” Kilmer fumbled and removed his cap. “I was wondering about that thing in your yard,” he said and pointed to the frightening upcrop.

“The tree?”

“Is that what that is?”

“Eeyah,” the man said for yes. “Thar’s a tree. A very ugly tree.”

“Indeed, sir,” Kilmer continued, “it is truly peculiar. When I beheld it, it nearly caused me to steer into the marshland beyond your stone bridge.”

The man stared. The poet considered that one of the man’s eyes was a tad lower than the other. To break the discomfort, Kilmer interrupted, “Ah, yes, well then, pray tell, might you have a callbox that I may ring a friend and speak with him right quickly?”

“Eeyah,” the man answered. “I’ve a Stromberg Carlson. Me wife fancied it for complaining to her mum in Canada. She’s dead, though. Me wife, that is.”

“Splendid,” Kilmer said.

“I thought so, too. Buried her near to where that ugly tree is growin’.”

“No, I meant splendid that you have a callbox, although I’m terribly sorry to hear of your bride’s deceasing.” The man in the door laid his stare upon Kilmer again. “So,” Kilmer continued, “may I have a borrow?”

“The tree or me wife?” he asked. “Whichever, you’ll have an ache trying to dig ’em up, me thinks.”

“Ah, no,” Kilmer chuckled at the edge of his nerves. “Your callbox, I meant. May I have a borrow to ring my friend?”

“Eeyah,” the man growled and stepped aside just enough for Kilmer to see the callbox on the wall above a hall table filled with photos that appeared to have been knocked over. “But be hasty, as I’m expectin’ the sheriff,” he said and leaned out to scan the horizon of his property. His words and posture explained his ready presence at the door, and yet stirred for the young man a moment of dread.

“I see, and not to bother you any further, good sir,” Kilmer added. “I’ll just continue on my way and speak in person with my friend when I arrive to town. He’s a man with a photographic device, you see, and I’m sure he’ll be quite interested in your… well… tree.”

“However you’d like,” the man said, gave a gruffly scowl, and then shut the door.

Back in his high wheel and somewhat stunned by the morning’s events, the prosaic furnace within the young man was stoked once again, although its embers were producing a different incense. “I guess there are ugly trees,” he thought and then rhymed:

I think it is I shall not see, a tree or man as strange as thee, both set to cause me ’wareness grim, a fear to lose my life or limb.

[image error]Thankfully, it would appear that Kilmer was still able to produce the infamous “Tree” poem in 1913, even after having gazed upon the disagreeable one in the man’s yard. Nevertheless, we can learn something from this little yarn, which by the way, is a story I cannot guarantee actually took place.

Okay, so, I made it up. Still, what may be learned?

For one, don’t set truisms that you may have to recalibrate later. Such things may lead you to places you’d prefer not to go. In my opinion, Kilmer must not have lived near any significant number of trees. If he had, he would have understood the backbreaking labor required when autumn comes calling, and I’m guessing had he ever experienced an entire day blistering his hands with a rake, he might not have written his poem about the loveliness of trees. With that, and perhaps more to my point, not every tree is beautiful. Some are downright ugly. Maple trees, in particular, are terrifyingly ugly. I’m allergic to maple trees. This makes them ugly.

I’m wandering a bit.

[image error]As all of this applies to whiskey, at one time I held to the maxim that Bourbon was the lesser dram of the whiskey world. But having been introduced to the Jefferson’s lineup, I’m recalibrating my original maxim with each edition I try. And it looks as though I’ll have plenty of fine tuning to do as I make my way through the six bottles contained in the Jefferson’s Ridiculously Small Batch Wood Experiment Collection. The first of the group—Wood Experiment Number 3—was positively delightful.

[image error]The nose of the whisky is one of sweet molasses brought to a boil and readied for making rum. If you sip with your eyes closed, you may even discover that the molasses is boiling in a seaside vat which, every now and then, catches and mixes some of the salty air into its plumes.

The palate is just as ornate, packing quite a bit of charm. There’s the American Oak noted on the label—singed and peppered—followed by what I had a harder time defining. My guess, at least what came to mind, was the image of strawberry shortcake warmed in a pie crust.

The finish carries you back to what was experienced in the nosing, except now the warmed molasses has been used to sweeten cornbread.

If Wood Experiment Number 3 is at all a foretaste of the feast to come in the other bottles offered in this collection, I’m sure the days before me will be inspiration-filled.

Even now I feel a poem emerging.

I think that I shall never see, a Bourbon whiskey fit for me. Alas, my dear, behold, I’m wrong. Jefferson’s is a whiskey song…

By the way, a special thanks to my good friend, Shirley, for the gift box!

Review – Early Times Kentucky Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]I’ve made a list. It isn’t long. It’s a short roster of ten things I could go without in a single week. It is inspired by events that occurred a few weeks back.

First, I could go without pulling up and into the left turn lane at a stoplight and seeing the person to my right with her pinky finger so far up her nose that the ring she is wearing on the same finger is barely visible.

Second, I could do without the burning sensation that follows the holding back of a forceful sneeze while preserving a mouthful of whisky.

Third, I could do well without the embarrassment of seeing ducks in my pond bobbing up and down in an unusual way, calling the kids to the window to observe the strange sight while I put on my glasses only to realize that the ducks are doing what ducks do in order to make baby ducks.

Fourth, I would have a dandy week without traveling to the furthest corner of the local Walmart for a gallon of milk only to have the clerk at aisle nine counsel me that the gallon I’ve retrieved must have a very small hole as I’ve managed to leave no insignificant trail throughout the store.

Fifth, I suppose I might call it a good week if I don’t open the closet door into my face.

Sixth, it would be a glorious phenomenon to go an entire week without having to plunge the toilet in the kids’ bathroom.

Seventh, I’m guessing that most men would count it all good if as they are trimming their beard, one of the thicker hairs doesn’t shoot up and become lodged in a nearly irretrievable position in the corner of their eye.

Eighth, I would posit that it’s been a decent week for most when each time you sit on the couch, the youngest daughter doesn’t ask to sit on your lap as if seeking quality time together when in fact she’s only trying to fart on you—and by way of several angelic apologies, she manages to trick you into allowing it multiple times.

Ninth, I whole-heartedly believe that it has been a splendid gathering of seven days when the sour cream you put on your softshell taco wasn’t from an expired tub. Cue the gulp from a cask strength whisky to counteract the ravaging bacteria.

[image error]Tenth, and finally, I’m pretty sure you’re on a roll when you manage to have a sip from a dram that isn’t Early Times Kentucky Whiskey.

Yeah, your days are well ordered when you aren’t smelling what seems an awful lot like a sludge of stale candy and gasoline. Sure, there’s at least the candy, but it’s that mystery candy that the older folks in the neighborhood give out at Halloween. You know, that strange molasses type chew wrapped in an orange or black wrapper with no label. I think they’re called Mary Janes, but I can’t be for sure. All I know is that if you take one of those and soak it for a month in gasoline that’s been sitting in the shed through a very harsh winter, you get the scent of Early Times Kentucky Whiskey.

Actually, on second thought, you know the smell that comes from the dishwasher when the plastic spatula falls down onto the heating element and melts during the dry cycle? That could be it, too.

[image error]With that, I’d say you’re doing pretty well when you aren’t palating a whiskey that tastes an awful lot like it’s been aged in a plastic barrel used to tag and bring up sharks. It’s abnormally bitter with a little bit of saltiness and very little wood character. And maybe there’s a little bit of something sweet in there, but again, consider the candy from the nosing. No one eats those. Everyone throws them out.

Lastly, your life is blessed when you aren’t faced with a medium finish in which the only thing you can do is buckle over and petition God to please bring the wretchedness to an end.

Yeah, if none of these things happen, you’re week is going pretty well.