Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 25

Review – Highspire, Pure Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]Talk about a loving family.

The dinner conversation turned from what we would do on our upcoming vacation to embarrassing events in each of our lives that the others wouldn’t allow us to live down.

Josh started the whole thread by aiming a rather embarrassing moment at his brother, Harrison, and I might as well tell you what it was because we have a photo of it hanging on our wall.

At the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World, Harrison more or less freaked out for a moment. The thing is, we weren’t even on the ride nor were we waiting in line. We were taking a picture in front of a staged crypt near a horseless carriage by the entrance. The picture is a thing of wonder because it was captured at just the moment when he began to lose his cool. Everyone else in the family is looking on and smiling, even his little sister who was about three years old at the time, but Harry is cemented in a leaning pose, as if about to run, with an emerging look of terror on his face.

But in the end, he loved the ride. I know this because I rode it with him, and when it was over, he wanted to ride it again. So, we did.

Still, Josh won’t let him live the photo down. Not to worry, though. There were a few events in Josh’s life that I was able to share with his brother so that he doesn’t remain unarmed in future duels, and some of the stories, well, they’re so much worse than a fearful look in a silly photo at the entrance to the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World.

And no, for the sake of Joshua’s very near future, I won’t be sharing his scars.

[image error]This Highspire Whiskey under the scope, I think it would have a few stories to offer to the aforementioned conversation, although in the end, it would seem that there’s relatively little to shame it.

Right away, you can tell it’s young in that there’s an almost immediate emittance of barrel sour. I was surprised that very little of what one might expect from a Rye whiskey was actually present, although, even as a youthful whiskey, it seems to have a few of the traditional charms.

In the mouth, there’s honey and currants followed by a wash of a drying wood spice at the edge—which appears to be the only real evidence of the rye at its heart. All of this comes together in the medium finish as a downstream wash of the red berries atop a slice of buttermilk pie.

Enjoyable. It starts off with a look of fear, but then the ride itself ends up being better than you expected—just like the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World.

Review – Tuthilltown Spirits, Hudson Baby Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]“Let’s make a quick stop and get some food,” I said. “It’ll be a couple of hours before we can get lunch.” Having already turned the wheel for a quick drive-thru run of the local fast food joint, I asked with a snarky smile on my face, “How about McDonald’s?”

“That’s fine,” Jen said and started to file through her purse for some cash. “Just get me a cheeseburger and a Coke. I don’t want anything else.”

“How about we split a two-cheeseburger meal?”

“Sounds good.”

Before I could bring the van to a complete stop, an automated voice announced, “Welcome to McDonald’s! May I interest you in a McCafé latte?”

“No, thanks,” I said swiftly. “I just a need a two-cheeseburger meal with ketchup only and a medium Coke.”

“I’m sorry,” a completely different voice drummed through the less than high fidelity speaker, “but we’re still serving breakfast.” I looked at my watch. It was 10:55 AM. “Lunch doesn’t begin until eleven o’clock,” she mumbled.

Jen and I looked at one another. We don’t do McDonald’s breakfasts. I mean, have you ever looked at the little bag that holds the hash browns after you’ve eaten them? It looks like someone used it to clean up an oil spill. And how about those pancakes. More like yeasty seat cushions doused in maple flavored insect resin. And I’m absolutely convinced that their eggs are really just spray foam insulation—you know, that yellow stuff used to seal cracks in drafty windows or block rodent holes.

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“Well,” I said and paused. “Are you serving anything for breakfast that’s cheeseburger-like?”

“Um, no, not unless you want an Egg McMuffin. That’s sort of like a cheeseburger.”

I looked at Jen. She shook her head.

“No, thanks,” I said. “Our windows aren’t that drafty.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said and attempted to dodge a punch in the arm.

“Do you want an Egg McMuffin?” the voice asked again.

“How about a Shamrock Shake?” I asked. “Are you serving those right now?”

“Yes, we’re serving those.”

“A Shamrock Shake is considered a breakfast food?!” I called back to the attendant. “Is this McGramma’s or McDonald’s?”

There was a brief pause.

“Would you like an Egg McMuffin and a Shamrock Shake?”

“No, thanks,” I said for the third time and returned a similar pause. “Do you think the folks in line behind me would get mad if I sat here and waited until eleven o’clock so that I could order a two-cheeseburger meal with ketchup only and a medium Coke, or do you think I should just circle the lot a few times?”

“I think you should circle the lot,” she said.

“But the last time I did that I was in high school and I ended up getting pulled over by a police officer because he thought I was casing the place.”

There was silence.

“I’ll just do some laps,” I said. “But if you see flashing lights, please be ready to testify on my behalf. Let the officers know about our conversation.”

There was silence again.

“I will,” she said. “See you in a few minutes.”

“Will do,” I chimed and pulled forward, eventually making my way to the exit. “Well, that was fun. Let’s just stop along the way,” I said to my bride who was now refusing to make eye contact with me. “Wait, what? You didn’t think I was going to drive around the lot for five minutes, did you?”

Silence.

[image error]The whole scenario reminds me of the Hudson Baby Bourbon Whiskey from Tuthilltown Spirits. I came to the dram expecting one thing, but in the end, got next to nothing.

There’s a nice rye in the nosing—very crisp and rather promising—but with another inhalation, there’s a trailing pungency that distracts from the rye’s pleasantness.

The palate reveals metal—and now I know the distracting smell from before. It’s something like the old Mason jar full of pennies that your grandpa kept in the roll top desk in his den. A sip also reveals a little bit of sugary vanilla, but the hopeful nectar is nudged away by the same metal you met at the gate.

[image error]The finish is longer than you might expect, giving over a riled snap of alcohol and ultimately proving it’s youthful inexperience.

I know a couple of folks who like this stuff, and with that, I was expecting more. But I guess, in the end, when it’s not eleven o’clock, it’s not eleven o’clock—I can either do some laps or just move on.

I think I’ll just move on and pick up something else along the way.

Review – Redemption Bourbon, Pre-Prohibition Whiskey Revival, (No Age Stated), 42%

[image error]I have a terrible back. There isn’t a day that it doesn’t hurt. That being said, I’m willing to do just about anything to make it better. That also being said, have you ever had spinal surgery without sedation? I can now say that I have.

It’s called a Rhizotomy. I won’t go into all the grisly details, but essentially it’s the cauterization of nerves in the spine by way of a radio frequency device fed through needles. The kicker is that the patient is fully aware during the procedure, having been given only a local anesthetic for the initial entry of the probing ungodlinesses. But everything else below the skin is kept awake, and this is required. Even with an x-ray device guiding him, the doctor needs help from the victim. He must ask questions of the patient while twisting the probes into place, pushing in and pulling out slightly, making sure he’s in the right spot before he turns up the dial on the probe and sets fire to the nerves between the vertebrae.

Sounds painful, doesn’t it? Well, it is. Today I had this done in four different locations in my lower back, and just to be clear, the whole thing was the longest forty-five minutes of my life. Well, maybe not the longest. But it sure was pretty close. That time I found myself surrounded by sharks sure felt like an eternity. Oh yeah, and I was arrested in Russia, once. That was an uncertain hour I spent in the back of the police car. Still, what happened to me today was nothing short of the Dark Ages. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have guessed I’d been captured and strapped to a bed by Templars intent on extracting information about the location of the Holy Grail.

I prayed the Psalms the whole time I was being stabbed. Psalm 27, in particular.

When I finally got home, I went straight to my whisky cabinet, reached into the “unopened” section, and took the very first bottle my fingers touched. Who cares if it was only 10:30 in the morning. Do you think that mattered all that much to a guy who just survived an early morning inquisition? I needed a little more than a glass of water. Thankfully, the Redemption Bourbon was there to greet me.

The nose is honey and apples. There’s a distant tinge of something like allspice at the end of the inhalation, but if it was intentional, you should know that it barely serves as the accessory it was meant to be.

The palate is something doddering near the edge of Bourbon-ness. I say this because the first prod seems to be that of something syrupy—cherry pie filling atop a spongy vanilla cake. But no sooner than you suspect such thickness, it thins into a kindlier kneading of freshly baked apple muffins sprinkled with almond powder. It seems to move away from what one might expect from a typical Bourbon. It’s really rather nice.

The finish is a medium coating, not only of the allspice and honey, but of the apple, by this time very faint, and yet still there.

Not bad for a post-surgery dram. Although, in contrast to the drink’s preceding events, I suppose that even a dram of Scoresby would have been acceptable.

Wait. What am I saying? Scratch that. I’ve met Scoresby and I can assure you that I’ll always choose to endure sedation-less spine surgery before drinking that formaldehyde-like sauce. In fact, if in my capture I discover that Scoresby is my only choice, I’d give up the Grail before my very first blink in custody.

Review – Midleton, Very Rare Irish Whiskey (2015), A Blend, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]As some of my regular readers will know, I’ll sometimes find the story of this or that whisky stirring a remembrance of words spoken by one of the wiser folks of humankind. In other words, I’ll sometimes discover a quotation from Twain or Dickens or whomever. I shall do this again now.

“Friends are friends until they’re not,” my brilliant wife has observed. And the substance of her meaning is a direct outflow from her life as a pastor’s wife. She knows all too well that her husband is always just one decision, action, conversation, or sermon away from ticking someone off and seeing that which once was become a thing of the past. She knows all too well that if she shows up on Sunday and gets the cold shoulder from someone who only last week was as fresh and friendly as a springtime sprig, it’s because of something I did.

Actually, let me rephrase that. It’s for three specific reasons, at least. First, it is entirely possible that I screwed up. But there’s one thing that the people in my congregation know very well about me: When I make a mistake, I’ll go to the very edge of hell’s gate to apologize and remedy it. I’m pretty forthright in sharing that the ability to apologize and amend are qualities I hold in the highest regard, and so I practice them. Second, it’s possible that because fewer and fewer church members these days take the doctrines they confess very seriously, when they run into a clergyman who does, the relationship can get a little dicey. Third, maybe they do take the Christian faith seriously—that is until the tenets are applied to them personally. Then the level of acceptance changes slightly and they find themselves on the same rocky road as those who could care less about the Church’s teachings.

In the end, a good portion of the troubles are because folks simply struggle to actually believe that the field of theology is in any way an objective thing. It is, instead, in every way subjective—what they want, what they think they need, what they’d like to see happen, what they believe to be true—with very little room for being guided by an outside source of objectivity. To make things worse, they call upon a guy—a pastor—to administer the objective truths to which they say they subscribe, but then they fail to ever believe that he can be an objective administrator in their particular circumstance.

In all this, like I said, the pastor walks a very thin line and is always only a singular event from a friend becoming an enemy.

“Friends are friends until they’re not,” the wisest of the Thoma family has said. I completely agree.

[image error]Thank God whiskey doesn’t work this way, though. In a sense, you can count on it, and it’s always very honest. It has qualities that are—permanently and completely—objectively true.

Now, not all whiskies wield this wonder in faithfulness, but there are more that do than don’t. The limited edition of the Midleton Very Rare Irish Whiskey (2015) is one. It’s a friend that will never betray.

A generous pour into a Glencairn, rock, or plastic cup—no matter your carelessness—this whiskey rises to greet you at its gate with what is at first a kindly embrace of sweeter vegetal notes. With intention, it holds you in that moment in a way that lets you know you are welcome in the visit—giving over a graze of barley and dried fruits.

[image error]Once inside and seated, the first sip—a conversation between friends—reveals a gesture of salt, butter, and almonds alongside a jovial sharing of dried banana chips with a sprinkling of pepper to make them crisp.

Your stay with this friend is medium in length, and you’re glad for this because it was starting to seem as though you should eat the entire batch of peppered chips, and with that, the bite on your tongue could easily have become too much. Still, the visit was extremely pleasant, and it was one that you’d welcome time and time again.

I guess, in the end, when the Gospel is despised and a relationship is found coming undone, I wonder if such a delightful dram might be the inroad to repair. It seems possible as they sure are a lot alike.

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Review – J.P. Wiser’s, Union 52, Blended Malt, (No Age Stated), 45%

[image error]His Australian bur was thick, but I tapped and whispered along with the song from the 80s that I knew so well.

Traveling in a fried out combie, the voice poured with familiarity. On a hippie trail, head full of zombie. I met a strange lady, she made me nervous. She took me in and gave me breakfast. And she said…

“Is he speaking English?” shot the interrupting opinion of the seven-year-old seated directly behind me. “I just can’t understand a word this guy is saying.”

“I think he met someone and now they’re eating breakfast,” Madeline encouraged and turned the page of her Harry Potter book.

“No, they’re not,” Evelyn protested. “I think he said he has a javelin, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to stab a zombie with it.”

“That isn’t what he said,” Madeline called from behind the blinkered younger. “He was traveling and he met a lady and now they’re eating breakfast.”

“Whatever, Madeline,” the little sister protested. “You don’t know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No. You don’t”

“Yes, I do. I heard him.”

“No, you don’t, and do you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not speaking English and you don’t know any other languages.”

“You’re ridiculous, Evelyn,” Madeline huffed and went back to reading her book. “And yes, I do know another language. I know some German. And I can count in German.”

“Wow, Maddy,” Evelyn said with an instigating draw. “Maybe he’ll start counting while he’s stabbing the zombie and you’ll understand him.”

“Whatever,” Maddy said and concluded her participation in the duel.

She sure does put up with a lot. But not to worry. I came to her defense and told Evelyn that indeed the words were English, and while some of them were difficult to understand because of his Australian accent, her sister was right. I started the song again and spoke the lyrics in stride with the lead singer.

“Now, Evelyn, what do you think you should do?” I asked and glanced through the rearview mirror.

“I should learn to speak Australian so that I can understand these guys,” she said without missing her own mark.

“No, Evelyn. You need to apologize to your sister.”

“Sorry, Maddy,” came a near-silent whine.

“Are you speaking English,” I prodded, “because I can’t understand a word you are saying?”

“Sorry, Maddy,” came the same words, still whiny, but with a little more volume.

“That’s okay,” I heard Madeline say.

Like I said, she sure puts up with a lot from her little sister. But on the other hand, they are more often allies than enemies when it comes to actual sibling warfare. It just so happens that they were having a linguistic border dispute on the way to school, and in the end, it was easily remedied.

I can only imagine what Evelyn might say if she ran into a Canadian. The differences between Canadian English and American English aren’t vast, but there are enough pronunciation variants at work to keep our borders securely in place. The first time someone says aboot instead of about, I can pretty much guarantee that she’ll notice it, and that she will fall into a stare, being very careful to watch the speaker’s lips to see if he’s being intentional in his misarticulating.

[image error]Silly girl. And yet, I think these observant qualities suggest that she might just be the one to take over AngelsPortion when I eventually lose what’s left of my feeble eyes and mind and am unable to carry on. Who knows? She certainly is strange enough to do it. And even if she never gets over her grammatical prejudices, I’m sure she’ll be able to press through and enjoy the other aspects of nearby English-speaking cultures. I was able to do it, and so, here I sit enjoying another fine Canadian dram from the good folks at J.P. Wiser’s. This time, it’s the Union 52, and it is a beauty.

The nose is most definitely the woodiness of the barrel. And I liked it. It wasn’t off-putting, but instead, it was really rather inviting in the sense that you are suspecting some really great things were kept in that barrel—things like fresh fruit soaked in spiced rum.

The palate suggests that the soaked fruit may have been oranges, and the booze wasn’t spiced rum, but was actually an edition of Glenmorangie Scotch Whisky. My guess—Finealta, or maybe Astar. The spice is merely a sprinkling of singed nutmeg. This carries one seamlessly into a medium finish of unctuous sweetness.

This is a delightful dram, full of flavor (or flavour for my Canadian friends). You need to know that it’s certainly far better that a two-four on the chesterfield after a long day of waiting in line at the pogie wicket. Sheesh. After all that, it is aboot time you took a break, eh?

Dude, are you speaking English, because I can’t understand a word you are saying?

Review – Sutcliffe & Son, Exceptional Blend, Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 43%

[image error]There’s a heating and cooling company in the metro Detroit area with a rather interesting radio commercial.

In short, the commercial presents the company’s services by introducing the owner who, over the course of about thirty seconds, speaks in a way that implies that he’s performed some sort of scientific analysis of the wants of his customers. Eventually he ends the bit by saying something like, “And what I discovered is that people want to be treated as I would want to be treated.”

Hmm.

I think I understand what he’s trying to emphasize. He, like anyone else, would want a good product at a fair price, and that’s just what he intends to do for his clients. But I should mention that by presenting his business practices this way, he made it sound as though he only recently learned this very important tenet of capitalism, and the discovery came only after significant data mining. In context, the whole commercial could be interpreted as trying to communicate that he’s been in business for forty years, but over the course of the last thirty-nine of those years, he would have ripped you off. The last thirty-nine, he would have given you a crappy product at an ungodly price. But now in his fortieth year, the numbers prove that’s not the way to do business.

Again, hmm.

I know, I know. Any reasonable person probably wouldn’t dig that deeply into the commercial’s actual—as opposed to perceived—messaging. But still, here’s what you said. Here’s what implications come from the words chosen and then arranged. I’m not sure I want to do business with you because it took thirty-nine years to figure out something that I have to believe is fairly basic to business administration.

I’m not a business man, but even as a kid selling painted rocks at my mom’s garage sale, I knew there was a very real delta where price and quality met. I was nine. I needed money to buy new handlebars and grips for my bike, and I knew that I couldn’t sell these ridiculous things for a dollar. But with a price tag of fifty cents and a pitiful look, I could probably unload a few. Still, even with such a risky business plan, I knew that for fifty cents, the rocks better be painted pretty frickin’ amazingly, otherwise I’d most certainly be filing for bankruptcy before my mom yelled for me at noon to come in from the sun for a sandwich.

I think I sold four or five. When I dropped the price to twenty-five cents, I sold ten more in half the time. Of course it was to various grandmothers who really only did so because they felt sorry for me. Sure, it took me two or three hours in between to find the balance, but either way, its premise was instinctual.

Again, maybe I’m being unreasonable. Maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe. But go ahead and admit it—it’s nitpicking like this that’s necessary when it comes to offering or withholding whisky endorsements. If I (and so many others) didn’t listen to every word of each dram’s pitch, you might end up wasting your hard-earned cash on something you wish you hadn’t. Of course, in the end, it’s all opinion. You can take it or leave it. But one thing is for sure: The person sitting where I’m sitting is listening very carefully.

[image error]I “listened” very recently to the Exceptional Blend from Sutcliffe & Son, and once again, these guys are proving to have all of the whisky instincts in place and up front for a really great dram. No, Sutcliffe and Son isn’t a powerhouse distillery. Last I heard, it’s barely a handful of folks, and all are very dedicated to fashioning good whisky—not selling it—making it. The proof is in this blend.

The nose is one of fine inspiration. I could hear—um, I mean, smell—the influence of a honeyed Balvenie and a sherried Macallan. Of course I can’t say for sure that these even exist in the blend. You’ll have to look somewhere else for that information. Nevertheless, these sweeter waftings sing a tender song that carries you into a palate of glazed walnuts, thinned cream, nougaty cherries, and maybe even turning toward something a little drier—something Merlot-like.

The finish is a swift end to the melody, although there are a few instruments still ringing after the symphony has quieted—namely the cherries and the glaze.

In the end, Sutcliffe and Son aren’t trying to sell you painted rocks. They certainly aren’t giving the impression that they’re figuring out this whole whisky-making thing as they go. These guys know what they’re doing and they’re mixing up good stuff.

But there is one fault I need to share. I’ll be darned if I can’t get this stuff here in Michigan. It makes me crazy. I have to review these tiny little vials that contain a little more than a shot, and once they’re empty, they have me leeching on them like a deer tick.

“Just… a… little… more…”

Sheesh. For cryin’ out loud, get this stuff to Michigan, already!

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Review – Highland Park, Ice Edition, 17 Years Old, 53.9%

[image error]“When hospitality becomes an art, it loses its very soul.”

Sir Henry “Max” Beerbohm, the English essayist wrote this in his book And Even Now. Remember it, because he was right.

By way of example, there was at one time a member of my parish who was quite skilled at dinner décor—so much so, in fact, that she probably could have been called upon from time to time to stage the cover images for Martha Stewart’s “Living” magazine. The problem, however, is that when folks found out that she would be the one behind the table settings for any particular event, some would be hesitant to attend. I know why. It’s because they knew that the easier nature of the event would be lost. They knew that what would normally be a comfortably casual, potluck style gathering of church friends and family would be in jeopardy of becoming a more rigid, loftier occasion—one that would feel disconnected from itself, ultimately making the attendees feel an edge of discomfort in a setting where such a specter should be completely absent. Also, for some who’d stepped up to serve in such ways in the past, the ghost of inadequacy might appear.

Of course, you could always count on most in attendance to wander around the gala speaking of the loveliness of the tables adorned in stately cloth and gilded with every possible frill—and yet those same tables so oddly held a mish-mash of old dishes and plastic containers filled with mac-n-cheese, barbecue meatballs, and potato salads—but once seated, those same folks would lean in toward one another and whisper, “You know, this is a potluck, not a wedding reception.” I know they said these things. I heard them. And like Beerbohm, they were right. They had sensed the loss of hospitality’s soul. It had become about showcasing the artful skills of the host and not the joyful opportunity for togetherness.

[image error]I sometimes wonder if certain distilleries are treading dangerously near to a similar edge when it comes to the packaging of their whiskies. Take for example the Highland Park Ice Edition.

What a spectacular parcel of well-crafted wood, glass, and whisky; and while the whisky inside is indeed a kindly dram that is, most certainly, to be shared among friends, the sumptuous packaging suggests it be left corked and set aside, saved for that unexpected visit from Margrethe II, the queen of Denmark.

I don’t know the woman. With that, I opened the bottle.

The nose of this Nordic-inspired trophy is that of malt with slight pulls of peat. A deeper dig produces grapefruit.

The palate proves the citrus and then adds a light smack of smoked honey and salted butter—all simmering to a foam. The heat renders a longer finish which, as it moves on to other realms, leaves behind a memory of what the nose promised.

“It’s a great dram, to be sure,” I say as I wander around the packaging in awe. Taking my seat and leaning to the friend beside me, “But you know, this is a potluck…”

Review – The Lost Distillery Company, Gerston Blended Malt Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 46%

[image error]“Hey, guys!” I called to the kids from the living room window. “C’mere, quick!” Already well acquainted with the enthusiastic tone of my voice, the room thumped from the sound of all four running toward discovery.

Behind our house is a large outstretch of wetlands, and with that, it isn’t uncommon for us to be treated to wildlife displays as we are sometimes visited by the various inhabitants of the neighboring acreage. Deer, foxes, muskrats, vultures, trespassing neighbor children, snapping turtles, beavers, groundhogs, turkeys, snakes, and even bald eagles—we’ve seen a plentiful cast of wily creatures. My voice signaled the possibility of having observed something new.

“Do you see it?” I asked in a half whisper and pointed to the shore just beyond the pond.

“What? Where?” they each asked and scanned the scene.

“It’s there,” I said and pointed. “It’s sitting in the weeds just a few paces to the right of the trail.”

“I don’t see it,” Harry said with concern.

“Me either,” Madeline said softly.

“Where do you see it?” Josh asked attempting to align his gaze with the direction of my finger. Evelyn pushed in from beneath her siblings, her head bobbing up and down as she fought for a place to observe whatever had snatched my attention.

“It’s right there, just past the pond,” I nudged one of them and pointed again. “It’s in the taller grass in front of the bushes. You have to look very carefully, otherwise you might not see it. It’s sitting very still.”

“I still don’t see it,” Josh said beginning to sound frustrated. “What is it?”

I gathered them closely together so that they could peer down the length of my arm to my pointed finger barely pressing against the glass. “It’s a wild garbage can. I think it may be nesting.”

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There was silence.

“Isn’t that neat?” I said. “We’ve never seen a garbage can in the wild before. We usually only see domesticated cans. I wonder if she’s had her babies already.”

The silence continued. Glares were added.

“It looks like it may be a young garbage can, too, not fully grown,” I said and leaned more closely toward the window. “You know, some garbage cans can get pretty big, as big as a small car.”

“Nice,” Josh said and walked away.

“Daddy,” Madeline gave through the teeth of an annoyed grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Oh, man,” Harry said with a little more exuberance. “I thought maybe there was a bear back there. Or a puma.”

Evelyn—the queen of my imaginative heart—met me right where I was.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “it’s so cute!”

“Shhh,” I hushed her. “Garbage cans have really great hearing. I’ll bet she can hear us through the window and we don’t want her to run off. She needs to take care of her eggs.”

“She sure is sitting very still,” Evelyn observed.

“Yes, she is,” I said. “Why do you think that is?”

“It’s so that predators don’t see her,” Evelyn began with a hushed tone. “She’s camouflaged.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I said to praise her. “You’re so smart.”

“What if she’s sitting so still because she’s hunting?” the little girl added.

“I never thought of that. Maybe she is.”

“Naw,” she said and returned to the original thread. “There’s probably a whole bunch of garbage can eggs under her.”

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

“I wonder when the babies will be born,” she said with a smile.

“Maybe in a few weeks,” I answered. “Spring is coming and that means lots of other animals will be having babies—the turtles, the deer. And just in time, too, because the pizza trees will be starting to bloom very soon.”

“And then we’ll have fresh pizzas,” she said without losing stride, “which is what garbage cans like to eat!”

“Amen to that, sister,” I said and hugged her. “There’s nothing like pepperoni pizza right from the tree.”

“Bye, Daddy,” she said abruptly and skipped away. “Let me know if you see anything else out there.”

“I will, honey.”

The window at which we had been standing is right beside one of my whisky cabinets. What else could I do in that moment than reach for something new, something I’d never experienced before, something imaginative? With that, I happened upon an unopened bottle of The Lost Distillery Company’s Gerston edition.

One thing you need to know about editions like the Gerston is that, as I said, they begin with a certain level of imagination. The whisky inside is a guess at what once was, not an actuality, but an imaginative proposition with some data to drive it. If the data driving this particular edition is anything like the stats that Evelyn and I were dealing with—that wild garbage cans roam the wetlands of Michigan, or that pizzas grow on trees—then one can appreciate the lore of the whisky while knowing that it is to be taken lightly. But knowing what I know about the folks at The Lost Distillery Company, while it may seem more like a gimmick to release such editions, I’m pretty sure they’re an integrous bunch working diligently to connect us to whiskies of former days. In the end, it remains an intriguing angle to the whisky industry.

The Gerston edition, for the price, is a reasonably drinkable dram. Its nose is one of faint peat but secure malt. You may even sense something trying very hard to be honey but ending up as overly salted toffee. The first sip proves you were right about the salt, but wrong about the toffee. It is malted honey spread over toasted sour dough bread. There’s a small wedge of pepper jack cheese in there, too.

The finish fades from sea water into a malty and peated fresh water and then to the shore. In other words, there’s a saltiness that quickly becomes a thinned, but clean, malted peatiness. Shortly thereafter, it’s gone.

I like this stuff, and again, for the price, it should serve most whisky drinkers fairly well. It’s not necessarily a celebratory whisky—as in one you might lift in a toast to celebrate a flock of garbage can hatchlings—but it is one you might sip after spinning a fantastical yarn for your children, whether they go with it or not.

Review – The Balvenie, Single Barrel First Fill (Cask 1481), 12 Years Old, 47.8%

[image error]Maybe it was said and maybe it wasn’t, but either way, the statement remains incredibly righteous. “Only the white man’s leaders,” the old Indian chief observed, “would cut from the top of the blanket and sew it to the bottom and believe he’s made it longer.”

Daylight Savings Time is a pestilence upon this land. It’s a pall of demonic blackness that chafes life’s skin, relentlessly shearing away until the emotional nerves are exposed and the mind is alight with disorienting misfires of confusion, pain, sorrow, and general frustration.

What good is it? What does it accomplish? I’ll tell you what it accomplishes—nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true. It is the crowning blueprint for ushering in death and destruction. Over the course of the three days that follow the clock’s change, heart attacks increase by 24%. Strokes increase in tandem. Automobile accidents and incidents of road rage rise dramatically. Bouts of depression are triggered. And with this, I dare you to try something. I dare you to set yourself into the perilous den of a family with small children. Just ask the parents what blessings are bestowed by the hands of this vile scourge. My wager is that they won’t even answer you. They’ll just kill you and feed you to the cranky little beasties whose body clocks are so terribly misaligned that they’re tummies are growling while at the same time they’re trying to figure out why they have to go to bed when they’re not even tired.

Daylight Savings Time is of the devil and should be wholly shunned by humankind, and it doesn’t matter whether it’s the fall or the spring—whether you gain or lose an hour—by it there is only suffering.

The blanket isn’t longer, folks. It’s just being used to smother us.

It has to be Daylight Savings Time that would make me tap the following on my keyboard. It has to be this stirred animus that would cause me to utter these words: I didn’t like this edition from The Balvenie.

I can’t believe I would ever say such a thing. Can you?

I love The Balvenie. I’ve never been betrayed by a single dram poured from this Dufftown bloom. But the Single Barrel First Fill 12-year-old, unfortunately, didn’t seem all that great.

The nose is pleasant enough, promising sugared barley and butterscotch. But with the first sip, the whisky has an initial bitterness that confuses the palate and makes discerning its other contours a challenging endeavor. Another sip—readied, this time—reveals oak, sour citrus, and vanilla beans. Not vanilla, but vanilla beans. You’re sucking on unwashed vanilla bean stalks.

The finish hovers at the edge of medium to long. There’s an aftertaste of oak that I normally wouldn’t mind so much, but here it’s a little too sharp.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just in a bad mood.

I hate Daylight Savings Time. Whoever came up with the idea should be sentenced to one 24-hour period in prison, except at the 59th minute of every 23rd hour, we should inform him that we’re setting the clock back an hour to save him some time.

Review – Pendleton, 1910 Canadian Rye Whiskey, 12 Years Old, 40%

[image error]Although I’ve written about it in passing, I feel as though I need to visit with the point more intentionally.

Whole-hearted apologies take incredible courage.

What I mean is that it takes a valor born from an entirely different sphere to accept responsibility for one’s own faulty actions. And it takes an extra measure of that same bravery to follow with a full-throated concession to the wrongdoing. In my opinion, this is a authentic bravery that has the potential for overcoming the shadiest, and yet most natural, instincts of fallen man. It bears the muscle for real change between people, and it has so much of what’s needed for fixing a broken relationship.

But let’s just go ahead and steer into the unfortunate factuality that within the radically individualized society in which we dwell, apologies are scarce. Sure, folks say they are sorry for this and for that, but what’s common to so many of these passing confessions is the fear of real self-exposure, and with that, the darker inclination for the preservation of ego is engaged. Nowadays, apologies are so horribly riddled with holes. Almost every malicious deed, even as it is admitted, is also explained away by its perpetrator as being a justifiable reaction to a precursory event.

Take, for example, the following rather generic, but common, apology. We hear politicians employ it in various forms and for various shortcomings with regularity. It is often weaponized in our neighborhoods, schools, and homes. It is the common vernacular for so many.

“I’m sorry I said those terrible things about you. I didn’t mean to do it.”

Parse the sentence. Yes, sorrow is communicated, but it’s done in a way that the guilt that comes with wrongdoing—bona fide guilt—may be deflected. The apology is flanked by a cowardice of insistence that the victim is wrong for assuming that the aims of the offender were intentional. This is a loophole. It is an escape clause which allows for the offender to apologize, but to do so unscathed. Perhaps worst of all, there’s no petition for forgiveness. But why would there be? That would only be to certify the crime.

Now, consider the wording of the apology even more simply—as though it were spoken to a child—or a Spock-like alien from another planet. “I’m sorry for what I did. I didn’t mean to do it.” The logical follow up would be, “If you did not mean to do it, why then did you engage every available tool at your discretion to see it accomplished? I do not understand your human ways.”

Speaking of children…

There’s another kind of apology that works in a similar way, but what’s interesting about it is that while it can be a rather full confession, it is given in a way that removes the one giving it from all accountability. Parents are rather skilled at such treachery when it comes to facing off with their misdeeds before children. It goes something like this:

“Mommy is so sorry for using those bad words. She feels terrible about it and she really hopes you will forgive her.”

Nice. Third person. Very subtle. You didn’t do it. Mommy—that existential identity hovering beside but not within you—she’s the perpetrator. She did it. You are in no way responsible for her actions.

Talk about confusing our kids. Talk about setting them up for an adulthood of searching for loopholes. Talk about cementing them to an identity of complete incapability for taking responsibility for their own actions or reconciling with others.

Someone who has the courage to unreservedly apologize, actually ask for forgiveness, and seek to amend the wrong—in this day and age, such a person is the image of a rare valiancy of honesty and should be heralded as a giant among commoners.

Unfortunately, such honesty is probably as Thomas Fuller offered in his Gnomologia: “He that resolves to deal with none but honest men must leave off dealing.” Or perhaps Shakespeare narrowed the point when he offered in Hamlet: “Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.” Such people are becoming fewer and fewer, if not completely extinct.

So, what does this have to do with whisky?

Plenty. Well, two things, at least.

First, besides the Gospel itself, whisky may just be the only other thing that God has provided for a soul’s consolation when truly harmed by offense. We can’t necessarily expect our offenders to apologize sincerely, but we can always reach out to God for help, and then to that favorite bottle in order to enjoy a singularly calming dram before heading back out into the fray. I did this very thing last night by way of this ornately presented bottle of Pendleton 1910 Canadian Rye Whiskey. God is good. He provides.

Second, I am whole-heartedly sorry for being so intolerantly tough on Canadian Whiskies. I am discovering so many more than the usual suspects like Crown Royal and Canadian Club (which so often end up dominating the Canadian whiskey section on shelves in the American marketplace), and both my fascination and appreciation has grown.

This Pendleton 1910 Rye 12-year-old is a delightfully affordable concoction of craft and the care that sustains it.

The nose of this whiskey is busy. With the cork’s release, there’s an initial invisible mist of something rum-like. After a minute or two in the dram, the rum scent is accented by the inferred rye, a dash of cinnamon, and the call of something fruity.

The palate unveils the fruit and quite a bit more. The whiskey is thick with minced cherries and honey over a slice of steaming rye. In that sense, the bread is soft and sweet, not toasted. If you’re really paying attention, you may just pick up on something with a little bite—a spice of some sort that’s not exactly the cinnamon from the nosing, but perhaps something more involved. My guess: Allspice.

The finish is a medium scene held together by the rye and cherry characters. I sensed a little bit of something sour, but it wasn’t enough to change the overall contours of the experience.

Well done, Pendleton.

And Canada, please accept my sincerest apology. With that, I’ll await an honest letter from you, as well. You know, for the likes of Crown Royal and Canadian Club.