Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 28

Review – Sazerac Rye, Straight Rye Whiskey, 6 Years Old, 45%

[image error]Now that our daughter has Diabetes, “knowledge jousting” has taken on a slightly different form, and I am continually being proven the lesser knight.

“A cup of milk,” I contended, “has twelve grams of carbs.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said looking barely bested. “A medium-sized banana has twenty.”

“Ouch,” I cringed, but managed to stay on my feet. “Well, a cup of Apple Jacks has twenty-five.”

“Two tablespoons of peanut butter has eight,” she volleyed effortlessly.

“A cup of macaroni and cheese,” I returned, “has forty-seven.”

“Silly man,” she gave through a treacherous smile. “You will never win. A half cup of peaches has twenty-five.”

“A whole can of chicken noodle soup has twenty,” I said nervously.

“Yes,” she carried with a steady voice, “a tablespoon of strawberry jam has thirteen and a tortilla wrap has thirty.”

“A… a hot dog bun has… has twenty,” I said reservedly. I was beginning to lose pace.

She was unwavering. “A Nutri-Grain bar has twenty four.”

“A tablespoon of ketchup has four…” I tried with uncertainty, but she interrupted.

“A single ounce of an apple has four grams,” she said and kicked me to the ground. “And a small orange has eleven.” She relentlessly pummeled, “There are fourteen carbs in one ounce of gingerbread. Ranch dressing has two carbs in two tablespoons. Half a cup of applesauce has twenty-nine. Twenty-two oyster crackers make eleven grams. Twenty-seven regular sized french-fries equals twenty-five. Twelve of the jumbo fries are nineteen…”

She was in a vicious frenzy, wildly striking and striking. And there, with the loss of my defenses and nearing the end of my nutrition facts mortality, my mind began to swirl with hallucinations and false truths.

“The vacuum cleaner is forty-seven,” I called out randomly as she struck. “And the TV, it has twelve!”

“Foolish man,” she stood above me in triumph. “Accept your fate in the dust.”

“I won’t!” I wheezed. “I heard that vinyl siding is very low carb, around five or so a sheet. And our Christmas tree is a little more than sixty.” I gasped and struggled to lift my hand to point, “That… that candle. That’s fourteen carbs… but only because it’s scented.”

She laughed with disgust at the pitiful man before her. “Your coffee has no carbs. Your whisky has no carbs. You have nothing. You are finished.”

She was right. Indeed, I had come to my end. Oh yeah, and whisky has no carbs. That’s the glimmering resurrection in my failed combat. At least I know that if I ever develop Diabetes, I won’t have to give up whisky.

But I can give or take the Sazerac Straight Rye. This one is so sweet, I’ll bet it actually has carbs. In fact, I’ll bet my daughter’s blood sugar level would start to rise just by smelling it. There are at least ten grams of cinnamon apples in the nose. My wife, the superior Diabetes warrior, would know for sure.

Of course Evelyn is too young to have a sip, but I’m guessing that if she did, she’d get a good twenty or so grams from the honey and sweet rye carried over in the palate.

And the medium finish, well, now you’d better get out the glucometer and do a blood check. There’s a sweet and somewhat spicy inheritance from the cinnamon and honey. And the apples have become mild Granny Smiths on the roof of the mouth.

My thoughts: The Sazerac Straight Rye isn’t bad, but it’s also not super, either. And my guess is that just about any of us would need an insulin correction—naturally or artificially—after a sip from this sweet-creamed elixir.

https://angelsportion.files.wordpress.com/2016/12/sazerac-rye-angelsportion.m4a

Review – Jameson, Caskmates, Stout Edition, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]Stupid bird.

My van is huge. There are about two hundred square feet of possible target sites—the roof, the windshield, the hatch—but you managed to drop one right on the driver side door handle.

And it wasn’t even an annoying but nevertheless manageable bit of the typical white-black solid resting in a singular spot. It was a spray—a splattering glop—that left no portion of the handle unscathed. It’s like you ate too much fruit and then sought out the worst place on my car to demonstrate that too much fruit does the exact same thing to a bird that it does to a human.

Stupid bird. And what are you doing here, anyway? It’s the dead of winter. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere south?

So, what do I do until I can clean this off? Climb in through the back hatch? Go in through one of the rear sliding doors and then climb over the console in the middle? Go ahead and use the driver side door and pray that I left the travel wipes and hand sanitizer in the glove box?

Stupid bird.

Once I figure out how to get into the van, I’m going straight home. I’m going to relax, pour myself a dram, and give thanks that your little gift was the last dig to an already difficult day.

Wait. Not so fast. The docket dram for review tonight is the Jameson Caskmates Stout Edition. I guess we’ll see.

Sip.

Phew. It’s not exactly bird crap on a door handle, but…

The nose of this cheaper Irish Whiskey is really rather fruity—pears in thick syrup and dried apricot leathers. The palate is far too sweet. I expected the beer barrel finish to tone it down, but it didn’t. It added chocolate, warmed sweet cream, and hops. I liked the hops. The other stuff is too discomposing.

The finish brings along the sweets but shakes them up in a burnt barrel. The char is noticeable as the whiskey exits.

As I said, it’s not exactly bird crap on a door handle, but it’s also not too far from a blurred clump on the windshield that was, with the best of intentions, smeared by the washer fluid and wiper blades. Traveling is doable as long as you can see around the particularly sugary annoyances.

Review – Two James Spirits, Catcher’s Rye, (No Age Stated), 49.4%

[image error]“Harrison!” Evelyn bellowed from her tiny frame with enough force to bring each person in the house to an inquisitive pause. “You’re a jerk!” she said and took off after him. I could hear her in the other room bringing down the hammer of swift justice on the boy.

Odds are he probably deserved whatever was happening at that moment. Still, desperately holding back a smile, “Evelyn, honey.” I called, “Talk nicely.”

Even after having been recently diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes—a dreadfully troubling disease with many circling entities of concern—this little girl almost certainly retains the vigor required of any other her age. Most notably, she has everything needed for wrangling any of her siblings in conflict. I dare say that she probably has the gumption to rise, even from a diabetic coma, and throttle a pestering kin if necessary. Sure, she’s knit together a little differently these day, but the coal fire that burns in the locomotive of her spirit is anything but changed—anything but tame.

Sitting and sipping from a bottle of Detroit whiskey—the Catcher’s Rye from Two James Spirits—I’m thinking on the fact that the once great city of Detroit is on the upswing when it comes to big-city stamina. Things are changing. Businesses are coming back. People are moving back. Its engine is still firing. And it’s worth mentioning that the city has gone through some pretty devastating changes rivaled only by war-torn regions of the Middle East.

But having said all of this, while the city is poised for better days, I am still unwilling to go into it unless I absolutely have to. An orchestra performance, a baseball game, a visit to the famed Fox Theater to see a favorite entertainer—no thanks. It’s already too much work getting a babysitter who can handle glucometers and insulin injections. Why would I want to up the ante by choosing a destination where, at least at this point in history, after six o’clock I have a 28% chance of getting robbed or car-jacked at gunpoint? Things are changing in Detroit, but they haven’t changed enough to make me want to visit with any regularity.

Still, I might risk a quick trip if the Catcher’s Rye was only available in the darkened heart of its namesake burg. I think I might suit up—bullet proof vest, Sig Saur P226, and doing 45 in a 25 to make myself harder to catch—I’d roll up to the distiller and get a crate full.

I might—that is, I’d definitely think about it. I kind of like this stuff.

When the cork is first pulled from the bottle, the nose of the Catcher’s Rye is slightly piney, almost fleetingly gin-like. Give it a second, though. Gathering another sniff, this time from the glass, and there’s warmed pasta and a cup of steaming coffee with a drop or two of cream. It’s really rather delightful.

The palate, a little more refined, gives other gifts to appreciate. With a zesty spice and a tinge of fading white grapes, the whiskey adds to the cadence a tap of sugar and little bit of wood char.

The finish is everything I just mentioned minus the grapes.

Too bad Detroit can’t be everything I previously mentioned minus the robberies and car-jackings.

Review – Booker’s Rye, Limited Edition, (No Age Stated), 68.1%

[image error]Imagine for a moment the following scene: It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Aisle five of Walmart is the location. The fluorescent lighting casts itself brightly upon the bustling crowds in search of daily sustenance. My arm is outstretched. The pickles are only inches from my grasp. Intending the slightest tilt of my upper body coupled by what I sense is mostly involuntary muscle control, the pickles are soon to be mine.

“Hey, Andy!” the older man calls, his wife accompanying him and smiling brightly.

“Um. What? Me?” My arm returns to my side. I give way to the voice.

“It’s good to see you again,” he continues and pats my shoulder. “Long time no see. How’re things?”

“Um, hi,” I say.

I’m afraid. I do not say, Are you speaking to me? because the situation is by no means unclear. He touched me. He has approached, addressed, and reached out to touch the man in aisle five who is reaching for the pickles at four o’clock. He has done these things with the tenor of a close friend.

“I’m not Andy,” I say abruptly. It startles him. His wife’s smile breaks its stride and becomes a grin. They both look at one another.

“Yes, you are,” he says. “We just met at church today. I’m Bob, remember?”

“No, I’m not,” I speak calmly. “My name isn’t Andy, and we’ve never met.”

“Sure you are,” he insists. “You were wearing that same red coat. We talked at the church’s coffee shop.”

“I’m not Andy.”

“You said it was your first time at our church, Andy.”

“My name is not Andy.”

“It was right before nine o’clock church.”

“What church would that be?”

“The Freedom Center.”

“Sir, I can assure you that I was not at the Freedom Center this morning for worship at nine o’clock.”

The moment is growing incredibly dolorous. He shifts his stance. She gathers more closely to his side and takes his hand as though she will lead him away from the stray dog that at first he believed was friendly.

“You don’t remember?”

“No offense to you, sir, but it’s probably only because, as I said, I’m not Andy. The real Andy would probably remember.”

“You sure look and sound a lot like Andy,” he says adamantly. “You’re not just kidding with me, are you? The Andy I met seemed like a real kidder.”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m not kidding.”

“Any chance you’d be willing to show me your ID?”

“Not a chance. But I’ll show you the groceries in my cart that I’m trying really hard to buy so that I can go home.”

“Well,” he says, his countenance becoming more constrained. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No bother,” I say. “Blessings in your search for Andy.” He and his bride walk away.

“He sure does look a lot like Andy,” I hear one last time as they turn the corner toward aisle six. I retrieve my pickles and make my way toward aisle four—just in case.

[image error]Apparently there’s a gentleman named Andy lurking somewhere amidst the roads, bridges, churches, and Walmarts of the tri-county area who bears a precise resemblance to me. Apparently there’s also a whiskey out there called Booker’s Rye that has been mistaken for the Whiskey of the Year for 2017.

Sure, it’s a good whiskey. And it is one worthy of kindly commendation. But as with Murray’s selection of the Crown Royal Northern Harvest as 2016’s champion, I’m concerned that we’re experiencing another case of mistaken identity.

If there is perfection in the Booker’s Rye, the nose is its only locale. There you will experience a gentle lapping of caramelized rye and a breath of something akin to sun-warmed citrus without the sour. I could sit and smell this whiskey for an hour.

The palate is grand, indeed, but as the initial spice recedes, there is an aftertaste of something caustic. It lasts for only a moment before becoming an overly salted caramel chew and a minim of rye crust.

The medium finish is pleasant enough, giving the impression that the 68.1 ABV has been intentionally restrained by being sponged into vanilla cream cookies. Delightfully sweet. But then there’s that that acidic aftertaste again. It lands on the back of the tongue, just above the throat, and gives a pinch and holds it. I don’t mind it, but it is distracting enough to exclude it from the highest rank.

I know that there will be plenty of folks willing to debate my conclusions. Not to worry, my dear friends. If I can handle an insistent argument in Walmart that my name is Andy, I can handle your criticisms and still get my pickles.

Review – New Holland Brewing, Beer Barrel Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 40%

“Sir,” the officer began, “do you know why I pulled you over?”

I took a breath and then stepped into my guilt. “Because I really gunned it out of that parking lot? Yeah, I was trying to get into traffic before the light at the corner changed. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s not why I pulled you over.”

“Oh, it’s not?”

“No.”

“Is it because I didn’t put my seatbelt on until I pulled up to the stoplight?”

“No.”

“Oh, good. Is it because you saw me check the time on my phone while I was driving?”

“No, sir.”

“Is it because my rear passenger side turn signal is out?”

“No.”

“Is it because my tabs are expired?”

“No.”

“Maybe because my left brake light is burned out?”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Should I keep guessing?”

“Probably not,” he said having already taken out his note pad to scribble.

“Then may I ask why you stopped me?” I pestered politely.

“Because it’s pastor appreciation month, and when I saw you, I just wanted to thank you for your service.”

A moment passed—a potently obtuse moment.

“I should probably expect you to show your appreciation by way of a ticket, right?”

“Just one?” he asked with a grin that revealed my question as having entertained him.

“Two?”

“At least.”

Let this be a lesson to those of you who pursue knowledge in certain contexts where, in the end, questioning will be more self-revealing of one’s stupidity as opposed to one’s capable intellect. In other words, sometimes it’s better to just to accept that you are ignorant—that you don’t really need to know the intimate details—and move along.

I sort of feel that way about the Beer Barrel Bourbon edition from New Holland Brewing, the crafters of New Holland Artisan Spirits.

I was intrigued that this artisan microbrewery would venture into the whiskey realm, although I am also well aware that just because you make booze, doesn’t make you an expert in each of its forms. So with that, when I took a skeptical sip, I was pleasantly surprised that they hadn’t miss-stepped, although they most definitely want you to know that there’s beer in the bottle somewhere.

The nose is beer. It’s a stout, for sure. There’s a tinge of dark chocolate in the elixir which leans ever-so-slightly away from a typical bourbon sweetness to something salty—almost blood-like. And to my prior point, I don’t want to know what that “something” is. I fear I’ll stumble into a news article about a brewery worker who went missing and whose last know whereabouts was near the whiskey still.

The barley malt is present in the first sip. The chocolate returns, and so does the salt from the nosing. At this point, the consumer will begin to realize that the beer soaked barrels in which this whiskey is finished has indeed thrown into an upheaval everything one would expect from this bottle that, technically, carries the label “Bourbon.” It’s a strange concoction. Again, not all that bad, just weird.

The finish is a little sour, although it manages to maintain nearly all that is described in the palate.

By the way, I received this edition as a birthday present from my good friend, Shawn, who is also a State Trooper. At least I assumed it was a birthday gift. I try not to ask too many questions of officers of the law.

Oh, yeah… and the story of a certain preacher getting pulled over and asking a bunch of stupid questions is complete fiction. It never happened. Never ever. Not ever. Nope.

Review – Rabbit Hole Distilling, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 47.5%

“Did you buy any yogurt that’s just strawberry?” Madeline asked in frustration at the opened refrigerator door. “All that’s in here are mixed berry and blackberry harvest.”

“The mixed berry has strawberries in it,” I said from across the kitchen. “Eat one of those.”

“But it also has blueberries and bananas and stuff,” she whined. “I only like the strawberry ones.”

“I thought I bought a few of the strawberry ones. Look around in there.”

“No, you didn’t,” she whined again. “There’s a whole bunch of mixed berry and blackberry harvest.”

“Sheesh, Maddy,” I started. “Give a man a break. I was just standing in the dairy section throwing yogurts into the cart. I didn’t see what they were. You should just be glad that none of them are leaking.”

She was visibly disgusted with me.

“Just pick one and eat it,” I said and waved my hand as if brushing her off.

“Can we go back and get some strawberry yogurts?”

“Girlfriend,” I said, “just eat the mixed berry. What are you, a fruit racist?”

“Huh?!”

“What, you don’t like your strawberries mixing with the other fruits, like the blueberries and bananas need to be kept in the back of the fridge?”

“What?!”

“Separate but equal, Maddy,” I said shaking my head and holding to my faux-serious tone. “Separate but equal.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” she said and put her hands on her hips while tipping her head with concern. “And anyway, what’s a ‘racist’?”

“You know what a racist is,” I said. “And it hurts me to see you acting this way with the yogurt. It’s pretty closed-minded.”

“I don’t know what a racist is,” she said firmly, this time giving a bit of a stomp.

And so I explained the term—even shedding a little light on the Civil War. The fact that I had to have this conversation says an awful lot about Madeline. As I’ve shared on so many previous occasions, Maddy is one of the sweetest, most loving young girls I’ve ever met. Her gentleness and humility is astonishing sometimes. Because of this, she makes friends with anyone and everyone. Their particulars matter little. She just wants to be friends and for them to know that she cares.

With that, Maddy is most definitely not a racist, although, after the discussion, she came clean and admitted to being one with her yogurt flavors. For her, God gave an extra bit of excellence to strawberries, and so now they are to be considered unrivaled by all other fruits. Period. Silly girl.

“Does anything come in at a close second?” I asked.

“I guess oranges are pretty cool,” she said.

“Well,” I offered with another faux-serious tone, “that makes me feel better. Since strawberries are often grown in the north and oranges are mostly grown in the south, at least we don’t have to worry about there being a fruit Civil War.”

“Whatever, Daddy,” she said and skipped along her way.

“You forgot your mixed berry yogurt, honey,” I poked. She didn’t respond.

Conversations like this, while sort of weird at first, are good. This is true because they allow for a different avenue—a more comfortable in-road—for discussing a less than comfortable topic. And I suppose that when it comes to a whiskey producer like Rabbit Hole, which at the time of this writing is pretty much a brand new distillery working to break through long-established Bourbon barriers, it fits. Whiskey racism—that is, holding to one as the best while maintaining an unwillingness to consider others—well, this will keep so many from experiencing the depth and character of something new, something that is, perhaps, more than equal and unworthy of being kept separate from the favorites.

Personally, I don’t think it will be difficult for Rabbit Hole to break through. I say this having been somewhat fearful of accepting the sample pack Veronica sent for review. I am brutally honest in my reviews, and I’m also not the biggest fan of Bourbon. My fear was that I’d find myself needing to say some pretty harsh things. And yet, the sample that was sent is one of the better Bourbons I’ve tried, and if they can keep this up, the only thing I can figure is that long-standing titans will eventually find themselves humbled, and household liquor cabinet commonalities will be left to rot in the corner. This is really good stuff.

The nose is an exceptional capturing of red berries—raspberries and strawberries—together and equal, although I thought I sensed in the distance a ripened plum. The nutmeg mentioned in the sample pack’s promo leaflet is definitely there, although it wasn’t overpowering. The fruit reigns supreme here.

The palate and the finish are nearly identical. No need to keep them apart. The red fruits become rich and ripened cherries, moistened with a touch of honey and rolled in oatmeal and pecan powder. This is very nearly a dessert whiskey—something, perhaps, to serve to friends at Christmas.

Although I fear that when Madeline turns 21 and becomes a fellow whiskey imbiber alongside her Dad—and I know she probably will because she loves to smell the different whiskies as well as pour them for me and test my abilities to claim the particular edition and its distillery—Madeline might just right out reject the Rabbit Hole Kentucky Straight Bourbon because of the comingled berry profile I just described.

Well, too bad for her. The little fruit bigot will just have to miss out.

Review – Rabbit Hole, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 47.5%

“Did you buy any yogurt that’s just strawberry?” Madeline asked in frustration at the opened refrigerator door. “All that’s in here are mixed berry and blackberry harvest.”

“The mixed berry has strawberries in it,” I said from across the kitchen. “Eat one of those.”

“But it also has blueberries and bananas and stuff,” she whined. “I only like the strawberry ones.”

“I thought I bought a few of the strawberry ones. Look around in there.”

“No, you didn’t,” she whined again. “There’s a whole bunch of mixed berry and blackberry harvest.”

“Sheesh, Maddy,” I started. “Give a man a break. I was just standing in the dairy section throwing yogurts into the cart. I didn’t see what they were. You should just be glad that none of them are leaking.”

She was visibly disgusted with me.

“Just pick one and eat it,” I said and waved my hand as if brushing her off.

“Can we go back and get some strawberry yogurts?”

“Girlfriend,” I said, “just eat the mixed berry. What are you, a fruit racist?”

“Huh?!”

“What, you don’t like your strawberries mixing with the other fruits, like the blueberries and bananas need to be kept in the back of the fridge?”

“What?!”

“Separate but equal, Maddy,” I said shaking my head and holding to my faux-serious tone. “Separate but equal.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” she said and put her hands on her hips while tipping her head with concern. “And anyway, what’s a ‘racist’?”

“You know what a racist is,” I said. “And it hurts me to see you acting this way with the yogurt. It’s pretty closed-minded.”

“I don’t know what a racist is,” she said firmly, this time giving a bit of a stomp.

And so I explained the term—even shedding a little light on the Civil War. The fact that I had to have this conversation says an awful lot about Madeline. As I’ve shared on so many previous occasions, Maddy is one of the sweetest, most loving young girls I’ve ever met. Her gentleness and humility is astonishing sometimes. Because of this, she makes friends with anyone and everyone. Their particulars matter little. She just wants to be friends and for them to know that she cares.

With that, Maddy is most definitely not a racist, although, after the discussion, she came clean and admitted to being one with her yogurt flavors. For her, God gave an extra bit of excellence to strawberries, and so now they are to be considered unrivaled by all other fruits. Period. Silly girl.

“Does anything come in at a close second?” I asked.

“I guess oranges are pretty cool,” she said.

“Well,” I offered with another faux-serious tone, “that makes me feel better. Since strawberries are often grown in the north and oranges are mostly grown in the south, at least we don’t have to worry about there being a fruit Civil War.”

“Whatever, Daddy,” she said and skipped along her way.

“You forgot your mixed berry yogurt, honey,” I poked. She didn’t respond.

Conversations like this, while sort of weird at first, are good. This is true because they allow for a different avenue—a more comfortable in-road—for discussing a less than comfortable topic. And I suppose that when it comes to a whiskey producer like Rabbit Hole, which at the time of this writing is pretty much a brand new distillery working to break through long-established Bourbon barriers, it fits. Whiskey racism—that is, holding to one as the best while maintaining an unwillingness to consider others—well, this will keep so many from experiencing the depth and character of something new, something that is, perhaps, more than equal and unworthy of being kept separate from the favorites.

Personally, I don’t think it will be difficult for Rabbit Hole. I say this having been somewhat fearful of accepting the sample pack Veronica sent for review. I am brutally honest in my reviews, and I’m also not the biggest fan of Bourbon. My fear was that I’d find myself needing to say some pretty harsh things. And yet, the sample that was sent is one of the better Bourbons I’ve tried, and if they can keep this up, the only thing I can figure is that long-standing titans will eventually find themselves humbled, and household liquor cabinet commonalities will be left to rot in the corner. This is really good stuff.

The nose is an exceptional capturing of red berries—raspberries and strawberries—together and equal, although I thought I sensed in the distance a ripened plum. The nutmeg mentioned in the sample pack’s promo leaflet is definitely there, although it wasn’t overpowering. The fruit reigns supreme here.

The palate and the finish are nearly identical. No need to keep them apart. The red fruits become rich and ripened cherries, moistened with a touch of honey and rolled in oatmeal and pecan powder. This is very nearly a dessert whiskey—something, perhaps, to serve to friends at Christmas.

Although I fear that when Madeline turns 21 and becomes a fellow whiskey imbiber alongside her Dad—and I know she probably will because she loves to smell the different whiskies as well as pour them for me and test my abilities to claim the particular edition and its distillery—Madeline might just right out reject the Rabbit Hole Kentucky Straight Bourbon because of the comingled berry profile I just described.

Well, too bad for her. The little fruit bigot will just have to miss out.

Review – The Lost Distillery Company, Auchnagie (Blended), (No Age Stated), 46%

I used to write and post four or five whisky reviews a week, but now I’m only doing two. And I know some of you have noticed because, well, you’ve told me so.

It’s not that I can’t come up with the necessary narratives that are signature to my efforts, or that I am in some way losing interest in the whole endeavor. I could write all day every day and never run out of words. It’s all but a disease. And what a difference it would make if I could get paid to do it. Nevertheless, the reason for the slowdown is that I need to be more mindful of two things in particular.

The first is that I need to do a better job of pacing my whisky purchases. Remember, rarely do I review anything that I did not purchase with my own hard earned dollars. Every now and then I receive a sample, mainly from various friends—rarely from a distillery. And so with that, I need to be mindful of my funds.

Second, unless I start receiving samples more often (or get paid for my reviews so that I can pad the whisky coffers), I fear that when it comes to Scotch, in particular, I am very near the end of all that’s reasonably available in Michigan. And with the prices rising and many of the already top-dollar whiskies skyrocketing into the $1,000+ stratosphere, I need to pull back on my output. I know that I still have plenty of other regional whiskies that I can review, but as most of my readers know, I just don’t get the same enjoyment from Bourbons and such. Scotch is truly my thing. And why should I do any of this if it can’t be enjoyable?

Take, for example, the Lost Distillery’s Auchnagie edition. I’ve been swirling, smelling, and sipping so many Bourbons lately that a brief interlude with a dividend like this is like leaving a ruckus hotel swimming pool overrun by a bus full of travel-team athletes after a tournament for an untouched freshwater tributary kept just warm enough by an underground volcanic flow. It’s clean. It’s calm. It’s easy.

The nose suggests that while you soak in the natural spring, a footman is nearby with warmed English muffins lightly painted with salted butter and barely a touch of marmalade.

In the mouth, the Auchnagie is another visit by an altogether different caretaker, this time bringing along a campfire-warmed marshmallow and the salty—nay, oily—flesh from a perfectly grilled, and very fatty, ribeye.

The finish is a very brief visit from the first steward who returns with bread in hand but also offering a less-than-spectacular sip of decarbonated cola. Ah, no matter. Just look around you. In all, the experience is divine.

I want to stay here.

Sigh.

Maybe I just need to start a GoFundMe page.

Review – Copper Fox, Rye Whiskey, 18 Months Old, 45%

Midshelved it sits, lest you find it too soon,

Is the Copper Fox Rye as a ruby-red rune.

Nah. There’s nothing poetic here. Let’s try something else.

It was just past the edge of midnight. With this, it was all but certain that the sun would rise and we would be found alive. If not for the near empty bottle of Copper Fox Rye, all resident hope would have been lost already. Still, there were hours to go and we were all but spent.

Hmm. No. Not feeling it. How about this?

It was Walt Whitman who pondered, “I accept reality and dare not question it.” The reality is that I find a story in nearly every whisky I try. Usually there’s a hidden bit of inspiration revealed at some point during the tasting—whether it be a narrative of culture, a story relative to my family, or a lesson learned along the way in any given day—it’s almost always there.

Not this time. Sorry. But let that be a forewarning of my words regarding the Copper Fox Rye Whiskey. I could find neither love nor hate for this edition. It was a mid-mood producer; nowhere near the level of Scoresby, and yet something I’d surely set out for friends unashamed.

There is a prominent fruit cocktail of apples and cherries in the nosing. For a frat boy set upon getting his date drunk, this (as well as the price) may be an enticement. For me, it was concerning. It smells like flavored whiskey, and thus far in my travels, flavored whiskey is anathema to me.

But then the experience changes slightly.

The palate is the whiskey’s savior, and it almost certainly shuts down the college predation event, thereby saving the young girl, too. There’s the sense of smoldering cedar and a light smoke that only a true whiskey lover would find enjoyable. But there’s also something reminiscent of Elmer’s glue. All of these combine to form a flavor that no college girl anywhere would find enjoyable—no matter how emptied of self-esteem she may be. Nice try, Chet.

The medium finish sees the young girl regain her senses, ask for a glass of water, and thank Chet for a nice evening. There’s sour applesauce, the watery syrup from a can of Del Monte pears, and a little bit of oak ash seasoning.

Well, look at that! There was a story hiding in this one. I get the feeling that the Copper Fox and Chet are in cahoots.

Review – The Macallan, Edition No. 2, (No Age Stated), 48.2%

We’ve just experienced one of the most nationally divisive presidential contests in modern history. Racial tensions are the worst they’ve ever been. World super powers are threatening one another in ways reminiscent of the cold war era. Cops are being executed. Terrorism is spreading like an incurable virus. School and workplace shootings and stabbings are becoming commonplace. The national debt is at an unprecedented level. And your news agency is either deliberately avoiding this tidal stream of newsworthy items or is being run by a complete imbecilic moron with oatmeal where his brains should be. I say this as one of your top headlines reads: “Which Fast Food Restaurants Give the Most Fries?”

Really?

Yes, I get that this could be interesting, but not right at the top of today’s feed. Surely there are more important things to report. With this in a headline position, you’ve sent the message that your priorities are misaligned. You’ve communicated, “The world is burning, but hey, we thought it most important to provide you with a little ‘comfort food’ news; that is, here’s where you’ll get the most fries while you watch our beloved sphere being incinerated to smoldering ash.”

Certain things deserve high-priority and immediate attention. Certain things need to be right out there in front—in our faces and before our eyes—so that we aren’t caught without a measure of right knowledge, a cache of something that will help us survive in a world coming undone.

With that, I present The Macallan Edition No. 2.

There must be something innately comforting about The Macallan whiskies. I do remember writing that I’d prefer the Rare Cask edition if I were prioritizing life’s essentials during a zombie apocalypse. I recall finding an overabundance of contentment in the Rare Cask Black during another apocalyptic type event: the presidential primaries. I remember a divine peace while steering the Millennium Falcon with an unspillable dram of the Double Cask 12-year-old in hand.

Although not as fantastical, The Macallan Edition No. 2 is kin to these and would offer a sizeable ration of abatement to heart, soul, and mind while sitting atop your roof and watching the world devour itself.

The nose is a gentle breeze of bygone summer days, one that carries in its breath the freshness of your grandmother’s berry garden and the flower beds that formed its border. In that same breeze is the promise of another spring planting followed by a harvest of strawberries, blueberries, and black raspberries. It’s all there. And Grandma, too, with a freshly baked ginger pie cooling in the kitchen window.

A sip is but a nibble of the pie and a discovery that Grandma has been generous with fresh vanilla and a layer of the garden’s raspberries. With each swallow, medium in length, you grow to realize that cardamom is her secret ingredient.

So stuff your face with fries if you must as the world approaches the t-minus ten mark. To be sure, I’ll take a seat beside you. But I’ll tap my foot to the ticker’s cadence with a picture of Grandma in one hand and a dram of the Edition No. 2 in the other. And with that, I’m sure we’ll survive.