Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 29

Review – Stranahan’s, Colorado Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 47%

My kids are highly influential and in regularly prodigious demand throughout the world.

Just last week, Evelyn was called to a special session of the United Nations to speak to the current Syrian refugee crisis in Europe. The week before that, Harrison’s skills were required for a Special Operations envoy acting somewhere in the South China Sea. He couldn’t tell me where he was going, exactly, I only knew that I needed to get him to the airport. The week before that, Madeline was giving a lecture at Princeton to a prestigious gathering of brain surgeons on the topic of viral infections leading to seizures. I hear that the paper she presented was both brilliant and well received. This past May, Josh was called up to conduct a mid-afternoon performance of Beethoven’s Symphony #9 with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. I wasn’t able to hear it, but I remember it being heralded in the media as one of the greatest performances of the work since Beethoven imagined it. Next week, Evelyn has a meeting scheduled with Apple to talk through her designs for, in their words, “a world-changing device that will change the way mankind communicates.” Only the Lord knows what brilliant gadget she’s come up with this time.

As you can see, if the kids aren’t scheduled for grand speaking engagements, then they’re meeting with world leaders, helping to coordinate relief (and sometimes military) efforts in troubled regions, or field testing new technologies they’ve designed for major electronic corporations.

At least that’s what I tell the school office when I’m signing them out for an appointment.

Yeah, you know that clipboard in the school’s front office with the “Sign In/Out” paper that no one ever reads, the one with the pen tied to it by a very long piece of fluorescent yellow yarn? Yep, that one. It has the form that asks you through stale regiment to provide your child’s name, the time he or she left, the time he or she returned, and then the reason for the absence.

Yawn.

How about this, instead? How about I do what I can in the few seconds that I have to liven up the mechanical doldrums for anyone who might glance at this snapshot of life. And so I give it a try. Orthodontist appointment? Nah. We’re on our way to Tijuana to meet with a CIA informant regarding the local cartel movements near the California border.

I think the folks at Stranahan’s are working with the same philosophy, at least the guy at the distillery who scribed the distillation date and special comments onto my bottle of Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey. Greg is his name, and his comments are brisk… and completely on the fringe of what is actually present in the whiskey.

“Burritos and whiskey,” he writes. Hah. Nice.

Don’t expect anything burrito-ish about this dram. Although it might pair well with a mildly seasoned steak that, in its after-dinner leftover form, is cut into strips, painted with salsa, and wrapped in a soft tortilla.

Maybe.

There’s a lightness about this whiskey in the nose. It’s cooled barley bread with a little bit of butter and a dab of dark berry jam. There’s a noticeable bit of vanilla wafting from the bread basket.

A sip brings along the sense that the bread is a little undercooked and gooey, but it isn’t necessarily bad. In fact, it works to highlight other ingredients stirred into the batter: butter toffee, blueberries, and cream.

The finish is short, but still rather delightful, giving over a better-than-expected compilation of the vanilla with a distinct sugary nip.

This is pretty good stuff. In fact, the next time the kids are called to the Rocky Mountains for military exercises or some sort of geological expedition, I’ll encourage them to make a stop at the Stranahan’s distillery in Denver for a visit. I’m sure the folks there would be more than happy to receive such celebritous guests.

Life Changes Gears – A few days later…

11-19-16

Had a chat with God tonight. I let Him know I wasn’t happy with the details of His plan for my daughter, Evelyn. He understands. And He mentioned by way of Romans 5:1-5 that He can handle the criticism and that I should rest assured that He isn’t at odds with my little girl—or me and my wife. He loves us. He is doing something wonderful. And we only need to look to the death and resurrection of His Son, Jesus, to confirm this. I reminded Him that I’m still pretty pissed. Again, He gets it and will work with me to get over it. We’re going to meet tomorrow morning in worship to get the ball rolling. I’m pretty much just going to show up. He assured me He’d do all the work.

——

11-20-16

I had my first post-diagnosis meeting with God this morning. I guess it went pretty well. Just between you and me, I was choking on my emotions pretty much the whole time. I figured He was going to say the same things He always says—and I was right. He did. Strangely, though, it was a great comfort that nothing had changed. The consistency and the almost “autopilot” of my time was familiar and very predictable. I appreciated this, especially when everything else seems to be so… well… unpredictable.

There were a lot of people there. Interestingly, before anything started, He took a moment to lead the whole group to understand that the same illness had been detected in all of us, and then without a pause, He treated the whole group with the exact same medicine. I didn’t necessarily feel any different after the dosage, but I do remember reading somewhere that the whole regiment wouldn’t be a sprint, but rather a marathon. Well, the guy who said it—Paul—called it a race.

One more thing. At one point during the meeting, He introduced me to a guy named Isaiah who He’d already instructed quite a long time ago to tell me something. Essentially, he said that by virtue of the very same medicine God had already given, a time was on the horizon when my daughter’s disease would be reversed, that the sadness pressing upon me and my wife would be healed, and all would be long forgotten. And then before he finished speaking, he reminded me that even now, God was always on call for us. In fact, he said before we would even try to call for Him, He’d answer.

I’d say it was a pretty fruitful appointment. He gave me some reading assignments to prepare for next week’s meeting: Jeremiah 23:5-8; Romans 13:8-14; and Matthew 21:1-9. He asked me to pay very close attention to the last one because when we get together again, He intends to tell me why the Season of Advent—the beginning of the Church Year—starts with the telling of the Palm Sunday account… the gateway of the Lord’s passion. He said something about knowing what to expect from a most particular baby to be born in Bethlehem and how each and every one of the doses I will receive from here on out, like Palm Sunday, will be pointing to (because they’re taken from) a Friday He likes to call “Good.”

Not sure if any of this makes sense. These are just my notes from the session. I’m still sorting through them. And I’m still pretty pissed, by the way. But again, God is aware, and as before, He told me He can handle it. It doesn’t change anything between us.

More to come, I would imagine.

Life changes gears…

We just found out our 7 year old daughter Evelyn has Type 1 Diabetes.

The last two days in the hospital have been spent stabilizing her as well as doing what we can to both learn and stomach the detail that her life will forever change. She will be required to endure a regular regiment of needles in various forms every day. And because she is not currently a candidate for a subcutaneous pump, at this point, this is to be considered something that will walk beside her for the rest of her life.

She is scared. The poking and prodding makes her cry. We know this will eventually become easier, but right now, she is overwhelmed and suffering… and we are too as we watch.

While I have several upcoming posts that are ready and in the hopper, I can’t seem to hit the “publish” button because of the predominate sadness. It just feels wrong right now since some of these posts include her.

With that, I’m going to be missing in action for a week or so while we get ourselves situated.

You’ve read so much about this little girl over the years. I dare say she’s already given so much to so many. I humbly ask you now that you would give a little to her. If you are so inclined, please pray for her well-being and an acceptance of what must be. And if you are so moved, leave a comment here of encouragement. I’ll be sure to share each one with her.

Jennifer and I thank you.

-Reverend Christopher I. Thoma

Review – Cleveland, Christmas Spice Flavored Bourbon, Batch #5, (No Age Stated), 43%

My phone was humming on the kitchen counter and calling for my attention.

“Guess who’s at Walmart?” the voice on the other end of the line said dryly.

“What?” I asked. The mobile signal was momentarily choppy.

“Guess who I just saw here at Walmart?”

“Who?”

“You’ll never guess.”

“Who?” I prodded.

“Santa.”

There was a moment of silence between us.

“But it’s… it’s only the 4th of November,” I said stunned. “We still have, like, a billion more days till Christmas.”

“Yep,” came my wife’s solitary reply from the other end of the line, previously stern but now more than obviously amused by my surprise.

“Do me a favor, will you?” I asked with as serious a voice as I could.

“What’s that?”

“Go find Santa and punch him in the face.”

I could hear her muffled giggle.

“No, I’m serious,” I said. I wasn’t laughing as I continued, “And then go find the store manager and punch him, too. And then go back to Santa, and if he’s somehow managed to recover and is back to work, maybe even with kid on his lap, wait for the kid to leave and then push him into the Christmas trees.”

“I’ll see you soon,” she said with a half-chuckle and ended the conversation.

“Get a selfie, if you can,” I hollered just before the connection was lost, although I’m not sure that she heard me.

I feel terrible that I put a hit out on Santa at the local Walmart, and of course I was just kidding. But seriously, do we need to usher in Christmas this early? For crying out loud, Home Depot had their outdoor Christmas décor—trees, ornaments, you name it—all configured and in full glory as early as mid-October. I was completely of the mind to roll a couple of gas grills right into the middle of it all, fire up a nail gun, and then hunker down in the plumbing aisle like a sniper to take shots at the propane canisters until the whole scene went up like a Schwarzenegger film finale.

Of course, Home Depot is still standing, and in a sad sort of way, I guess I’m no better because here I sit sipping and reviewing a “Christmas” whisky the very day after giving my wife the only instructions that felt right at the time. Shameful. Just shameful.

It serves me right if I choke on this stuff.

Speaking of choking, it won’t take much of this whiskey to provoke your gag reflex. When it comes to capturing the flavors of Christmas, the folks at Cleveland Whiskey have succeeded, but not in the sense of the season’s warmth, charity, tradition, and such. Instead, they’ve managed to bottle a pine wreath overloaded with pinecones and dusted with nutmeg and cinnamon. At least that’s what it smells like. Quite literally—there’s a wreath in the bottle.

It’s only slightly different on the palate. There’s the overwhelming sense of the seasonings I mentioned, but add to that the other spices mentioned on the bottle’s label. There’s a hint of citrus and a shard of clove that’s been piercing the hide of a glazed ham… that’s been strapped to a barkless, sap-drenched pine tree stump… in the middle of the woods… for over week. Sounds like a complex whiskey, right? No? Yeah, it’s pretty bad.

The finish is sour. That’s all I have for you.

My suggestion: Avoid this stuff. I know it sounds like a great holiday gift idea—like something you might give away to a whiskey-drinking friend in a “Secret Santa” gift exchange—but trust me, don’t do it. After the first sip, he’ll interpret the gifting no differently than had you filled out the accompanying gift tag as such:[image error]

If you decide to disregard my warning, then I beg you to at least try the stuff first. Really. Just pour yourself a dram and give it go. I guarantee you’ll feel like you did when you bought that mechanical squirrel adorned with a Santa hat and singing “All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth” in a voice like Alvin the Chipmunk. It was an impulse purchase born from marketing efforts designed to stir premature Christmas shopping. There you were across from the lawn mowers near a display of knick-knack Christmas items. You suddenly found yourself in the Christmas spirit. You thought the squirrel was cool. It seemed right to buy it. But now you regret it.

Just like that swing you took at Santa in Walmart.

Review – Kilchoman, Sanaig, (No Age Stated), 46%

I think if you asked, most folks would tell you they have a hero. They have someone who always comes to mind as inspiring, someone who emulates a natural prowess within the field of this world’s most admirable qualities, someone who brings a smile to their faces, and not because the person is perfect, but because he or she resides at a higher level—an almost impenetrable consistency of character—that is lacking in a good portion of our society.

Their hero is often the breathing, moving, and speaking vessel into which they would place each and every thing they would describe as good, thereby making the vessel itself “good,” and not as an adjective, but rather as a noun.

I have a hero who fits this scene. It’s my wife, Jennifer.

As someone who works fulltime, each day experiencing the daily grind of social work, regularly dealing in the depths of those things from which most of us would prefer to avert our eyes—as a fulltime, nearly single mother and house manager, Jennifer is the epitome of hard work, devotion, thoughtfulness, encouragement in the face of challenge, supporting strength against opposition, and cheerful kindness before critical down-lookers. She is a never-ending trove of love and energy for her children while mothering them through storms they encounter or create and must endure. She is a secure ear of confidence, a creative homemaker with little time and yet a careful eye, and a genuine friend to any who need one. Above all else, she is humble, which is why she would argue each of these descriptors. She never needs recognition, and yet she deserves it so much more than most.

She is my hero. Today is her birthday. And so, when I sip in honor of anyone of such high caliber, I must always choose a worthy dram. This time around, while she is eating a well-earned piece of homemade cherry pie and opening a batch of gifts that in no way match her value, I am looking on in bewilderment, a dram of the Kilchoman Sanaig in hand, and wondering how I could have ever been so blessed.

I should mention that the Kilchoman distillery and I have a very uneven relationship. I give them money, and they give me crappy booze—that is, the two editions of the Machir Bay that I’ve tried haven’t been good. Well, let me rephrase that. One was terrible and the other was slightly less terrible.

But the Sanaig… ah, the Sanaig… this edition is surprisingly lovely and well worth every penny collected from the couch, floorboards, and street.

The nose of this pleasant little Islay dram is one of peat and campfire conversations breathing in and out the lazily hanging haze of scorched cedar planks and sizzling meats.

A waterless taste reveals that the peat has an animated edge—brown sugar and fresh pepper at war with one another for the seat of most prominence. Neither wins, but rather they both eventually tire out, allowing for an ashier, more oily finish. And still, there’s room for another surprise—a faint sip of Pinot Grigio and a pinch of salt.

To conclude, there is something telling to be observed among all that is occurring at this moment. Jennifer absolutely despises these smoky whiskies, and she prefers that I not open them near her nor try to steal a kiss after having imbibed. And yet, here I am enjoying the Kilchoman Sanaig during her birthday celebration. Even more so has she already granted me a gentle graze with her cheek.

Let the reader understand and behold—my awesome hero!

Review – George T. Stagg, Buffalo Trace Antique Collection (2015), Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 69.1%

The air is cool, but there is no precipitation. The road is clean. The sun is just beginning to rise and give light to what promises to be a comfortable day.

There are two available lanes to this thoroughfare.

The speed limit is 55 mph. You and your Prius are holding steady at 48 mph. You are occupying the left lane—the passing lane. Your “#BringBernieBack” and symbol laden “Coexist” bumper stickers are made glaringly bright by my headlights. The notion to nudge you into the ditch is awakening.

There is a driver to your right—and elderly woman in a Buick—matching your velocity. A line is forming behind me. The anger is beginning to stir. Drivers are abruptly swerving in toward the median to get a better view of that which is obstructing them. Headlights are beginning to flash. A horn’s angry scream is not absent. I steer, only slightly, to the right-most edge of the lane to let the gathering nation of rage-filled travelers see that it isn’t me who holds them hostage.

Get. Out. Of. The. Way.

But you do not care if they know it’s you. You do not care what they think.

I don’t know what their problem is, rattles in your mind as you nonchalantly reach to tune to NPR on the radio, giving a carefree whistle and acting as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening. I’m driving safely, you think to yourself. These people are acting like lunatics.

No, they aren’t. But you should know that they’re about to.

There’s a primordial telepathic ability retained in man that emerges during times like these. Suddenly, and without warning, there are those of us who have the ability to link minds in order to coordinate and accomplish amazing things. The information is transferred by merely a glance, and from this the plan is set and a carefully choreographed dance—one that all itinerant drivers know—begins.

The driver immediately behind me—a black Chevy Malibu—swerves into the right lane and moves up toward the bumper of the Buick. He glances at me. I give him a nod. The elderly woman feels pressured to increase her speed to the appropriate 55 mph. Dear woman, we are so sorry to force your involvement, but it is necessary. Her compliance allows for the Malibu to gradually overtake the Prius. I remain in place behind, giving the Prius very little room to move.

Once past, the Malibu’s pilot steers sharply to the left to get in front of the Bernie supporter. Without using his brakes, he begins to slow down. There is now an ever-widening window between the Prius and the Buick which allows for all of the drivers in the line behind me to get through. And they do. One by one, they weave around the troublemaker who is now very angry and showing that he is anything but willing to coexist. The Malibu and I work to keep him contained while forcing him into an ever decreasing pace, at one point shepherding him very near to 15 mph.

And yet I must be ready for the last car in the very long line. When he passes me, I must fall in behind him without hesitation. And I do. He speeds away cheerily while I again remain behind to maintain a very slow pace directly beside the Malibu. This is our dance for at least another mile. The Prius’ operator is swerving from one lane to the other. All too soon, the wingmen exchange friendly waves, and then fly away.

Lesson learned? I don’t know. But the man in the Prius sort of reminds me of the George T. Stagg 2016 edition as it compares to the 2015 edition. If the 2016 is your only experience with this particular whiskey release from the Buffalo Trace Antique Collection (BTAC), then your view is obscured.

These were my thoughts regarding the 2016.

The 2015 is much, MUCH better—an adorable gem—one that needs absolutely no assistance from others in maintaining the rules of the road.

In the nose, even without a kindly nudge of water, this high-octane masterpiece is a steady pace of more-than-noticeable caramel and extremely pleasant wood spices. A drop or two of cool agua with a moment of pause and the whiskey moves into the passing lane with an enhanced warmth and nuttiness.

The palate is Mario Andretti. I know, I know, this is an American whiskey. Shouldn’t it be Dale Earnhardt, Jr. or Kyle Bush or even Danica Patrick? Nope. It’s Mario Andretti. It’s a veteran. It’s not bulky like NASCAR, but rather crisp and clean like Formula 1, with little body armor. And it’s moving at 200+ in the straightaways—giving over Bonieri Italian chocolates rather than Hershey’s Kisses. No offense to my NASCAR friends—and just so you know, I love NASCAR just as much as the next guy—but there’s nothing “Bud Light and travel trailer” about this stuff. It is a top-shelf edition.

The finish is long and is everything given in the nose and palate. But add to that what almost seemed like a very distant smoke.

If only I could find this stuff somewhere. Yeah, good luck with that. I can’t even find the 2016—which, as you can see, is nothing in comparison.

Hey, I just had a great idea for a bumper sticker for your Prius: #BringBackThe2015Stagg. Just make sure you are driving in a way that allows for me to read it in passing.

———

*Thanks again to the ScotchTestDummies for the sample. And to Jim, a member from a neighboring parish, who had a bottle he’d purchased while in North Carolina and was willing to share it when I lost my notes from the first sample. I’m pretty sure they fell out of my pocket in a hospital parking lot.

Review – Jameson, Cooper’s Croze, (No Age Stated), 43%

“But I don’t want to do reviews of beer.”

“Well, you should.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“You’re sort of being a booze snob.”

“Wait. What?”

“You’re being a booze snob if you’re only going to write about whisky. Why not beer, too? Or wine?”

“But I don’t just write about whisky. I write about other liquors. Haven’t you ever read my stuff before?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’ll see that I don’t just write about whisky.”

“But you don’t write about beer.”

“Because I don’t really want to.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I’m a Lutheran. Of course I like it.”

“Then you should write about it. I’ll bet people would read it.”

“I don’t care if people would read it. I don’t want to write about beer. I want to write about whisky. Maybe you should write about beer.”

“I’m not a very good writer.”

“Well, you’re just being a word snob.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You only choose to communicate by way of the spoken word and you exclude the written word. You’re a word snob.”

“No, I’m not. I just don’t write very well.”

“Do you know how to write?”

“Yes.”

“Face it, then. You’re a word snob and you’re making excuses. You choose only to talk when you could write, too.”

“That’s just stupid.”

“Yes, it really is, isn’t it?”

Not sure why I’m sharing this, except to say to someone in particular—and you know who you are—that when you try to shame someone into doing something you want, especially someone older than six, it’s probably not going to work. And the last thing you want to do is to try it on someone who has a blog. It could very well end up as a post… like this.

I don’t want to write about beer. When it comes to writing about alcoholic beverages, writing about beer is just about as interesting to me as writing about water. Both are, essentially, thirst-quenchers in my opinion. Beer rarely rises to the level of anything more than that. Now, that’s not to say that there aren’t countless types of beers out there, all with distinguishably unique qualities. My point is… well… I don’t know what my point is. I just don’t want to review and write about beer, so stop asking. And whatever you do, don’t call me a booze snob. I’m pretty darned eclectic, my friend.

In fact, for cryin’ out loud, look at what I’m dealing with… I mean, reviewing… right now—the Jameson Cooper’s Croze. I waded down into the mire of “variety,” both good and bad, in order to come back from its swirling tars with either a commendation or a warning. In this case, I’d say it’s the latter.

If you like the smell of toothpaste flavored cake frosting with a little bit of cigarette ash sprinkled in, then this stuff is for you. And you’ll savor the exact same thing on the palate, although you’ll get a splash here and there of vanilla, as well as a nip or two of cashews. I hope you aren’t allergic to tree nuts.

The medium finish will have you reaching for a toothbrush. I mean, you might as well, right? The toothpaste remains, except now it is distinctly homemade—baking soda, salt, and instead of spearmint, someone added the tiniest drop of citrus—and it’s all mixed together with a charred wooden spoon.

Did I like it? No. Would I use it as a mouthwash? Maybe. Do I ever intend to do reviews of beer? Well, my word-snobby friend, I’ll get to that right after I begin a regiment of reviewing the vast array of toothpastes.

Review – Old Weller Antique, Original 107, Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, 53.5%

The young runner’s eyes were clearly beginning to roll into the back of his head as he made his way toward the finish line, the last 100 yards ricocheting from one side of the chute to the other like a slow rolling bowling ball on a bumpered lane making its way to the pins. Once he crossed the line, he collapsed into the arms of one of the parents and was led to a clearing where he vomited. He wasn’t the only one. Two or three more kids crossed the finish line and more or less collapsed. One young girl was crying as she was carried away by two people and laid out on a picnic table.

This was my first visit to one of my oldest son’s cross country meets, and all I could think while I watched this pay-to-play sport was, I gave the school money to perpetuate such childhood suffering? I feel sort of dirty.

My son does pretty well in it, but far too many others looked as though they were doing something they’d rather not. And I know this is true because before the race, there was one team that gathered together in a huddle and pretty much shouted it. With their coach leading the charge, they shouted, “The faster you run, the sooner you’re done!” For me, that sort of translates into: “I know you guys don’t want to be here, so if you want to get this over with so that you can go home, just run as fast as you can. I’ll be waiting at the finish line with some Gatorade and a puke bucket.”

Really motivating, huh?

But I suppose we subject ourselves to plenty of things that we don’t necessarily enjoy. Some of us will even pay to play with other such dreadfulnesses. This time around, the purchased pain is epitomized by the Old Weller Antique Original 107.

“This stuff is pretty popular,” the salesman said. This side of the experience, my thoughts: You’re kidding, right?

I twisted the cap and went in for a quick sniff. Vegetal. And tomato paste. And mild salsa. I thought I was about to drink a Mexican salad. And then I took a sip. Forget the veggies. Cherry flavored Robitussin. Absolutely. No doubt about it. I have four kids. I feed enough of that crap into them during cold and flu season to know. Cherry flavored Robitussin all the way.

Eyes rolling into the back of my head while ricocheting between despair and regret, I made my way through to the medium finish line lapping my tongue against the roof of my mouth like a dog fighting a glob of peanut butter, except there was nothing nutty about this ruby-red elixir. It had become a viscous goo of syrupy flavoring—about as artificial as I gets—and it was leaving me to wonder if the cough medicine I’d noticed on the palate had somehow gelled and attached itself to the lining of my mouth.

But there is a light at the end of this cross country chute, and while there is most likely a puddle of puke glistening in that light, there’s also the reality that 750mL of this potion is 10 times cheaper than 750mL of Robitussin, which equals eight of the 100mL bottles you can buy at Walmart or the local drug store. Figuring they’re pretty much made from the same chemistry formulations, why the mark-up on the whiskey you’re essentially feeding to sick kids, Pfizer?

I’m on to you. You know parents will pay to play.

Review – Cleveland, Black Reserve Bourbon Whiskey, Batch 013, (No Age Stated), 50%

Listening to my kids in the morning crunching on their breakfast cereal while attempting to have a conversation with one another, I’m guessing, must be a lot like a gathering of elderly folks around the meal table in the local assisted living home. Sure, the content of the conversations are probably different, but the choreography is almost certainly the same…

(Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.)

“What?!”

“I said I can’t wait for recess, today, because we’re going to play freeze tag!”

(Crunch, crunch.)

“Huh?!”

“I said I’m glad it’s Friday!”

(Crunch, crunch, crunch.)

“What?!”

“I said when I get home today I’m going to ride my bike!”

The crunching noises caused by the continual grinding of the Frosted Flakes is such a mainspring of rattling interference in their heads that they can’t understand a word the person who is sitting right next to them is uttering. It’s rather funny to behold. And yet, it leads toward an awfully familiar feeling.

Sometimes I wish I could walk around all day with Frosted Flakes in my mouth. The constant grating would be a welcomed rampart and disruption to certain stretches of the rambling nonsense. Actually, let me flip that statement around from the active to the passive so that I feel a little less guilty for saying it. I suppose that sometimes I feel like I’ve got a mouthful of Frosted Flakes when people are talking to me. They’re speaking clearly, but I just can’t seem to decipher their words or purpose.

Some whiskies are that way, too. They are attempting to speak clearly, but something else is getting in the way. The Cleveland Black Reserve Bourbon is an example.

While this is a relatively decent bottle of whiskey—better than a good number I’ve tried—it has something buzzing in the background that makes it a little more challenging to enjoy.

Straight from the bottle, the edition gives over a breath of roasted almonds. It isn’t long before the almonds are found glazed, cooling, and being scooped into cone sacks. There’s also a hint of corn flour and a tinge of malt. But before all of this makes its way to the olfactory bulb and into the limbic system, there’s a distracting buzz of alcohol that confuses the stream.

(Sniff, sniiiiif, sniiiiiiiiif.)

“What?!”

“I said I smell roasted almonds!”

(Sniiiiiiif.)

“Huh?!”

“I said I think those almonds are glazed!”

The palate is no different. The alcohol nip is distinct enough that the emerging malt and salted sweet corn are left to shout at you from across the field.

(Sip.)

“What was that?!”

“I said there’s salty sweet corn over there waving at us.”

“Huh?! Speak up!”

“And malt, too!”

“Dangit, boy! Quit yer mumblin’!”

“Never mind.”

The finish is medium-long, and if you’re really paying attention, much of the sweetness in the nosing is finally delivered on a slowly receding tide of the now constant alcohol burn.

As I said, this booze isn’t too bad, but it is one that you’ll want to splash a little water into in order to clean the airwaves of the extra interference. I didn’t do that during my test-run, but I can pretty much guarantee it would have been like handing out hearing aids to the residents at the aforementioned assisted living facility.

* A special thanks to my friend, the Right and Reverend Troy Neujahr, who gifted me with a tad less than a solid half of his bottle (and the bottle itself) when we visited together recently. Very generous. Also, it was a privilege and pleasure to meet Stephanie, his kind-hearted wife, who allowed me to sit with them in their hotel room and talk booze, religion, family, and the dreadful effects of cheap wine and umbrella drinks upon post-modern American society—or something like that. Cheers and slàinte mhath!

Review – Long Road Distillers, Wheat Whisky, 6 Months Old, 46.5%

“But I don’t have it in me, anymore,” I said with my head hanging low. “The recent days have been hard and I’ve not the strength.”

“You must gather the strength,” the voice said from the shadows with a deep, yet ethereal, sternness. “You must find what is required.”

“I… I can’t,” I said clasping my chest and pulling at my garb.

“You must. We can wait no longer.”

“There is still time,” I pleaded.

“No,” the voice said to pierce my petition. “There is no time. If we do not act now, it will be beyond the borders of our muscle.”

“What about the boy?” I pleaded. “His youth is to his benefit. He’s strong. His frame is more capable.”

“Indeed, he is capable,” the voice said. “But he is of no use to us now. His wits and will do not match the task. The proof is before us even as we debate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Behold, the challenge, and yet he has passed by day after day without offer or care. See for yourself that it still looms.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Now is to be the mowing of the yard,” the voice growled. “And you must be the one to mow it.”

“But…”

“It must be you.”

“Aye. It must be me.” And so I engaged the machine, pushed it to edge of the grassy plain, and reached for the pull-start.

“It must be me,” I whispered with a sigh and then pulled the cord.

I approach certain whiskies with the same foreboding, especially editions that tout having been aged for only six months. Truth be told, I’d rather go to war against a yard that’s been left unmowed for six months than drink such a concoction. Still, as I’ve offered before, I do this so you don’t have to. It must be me.

And yet, just as one can never be sure of what may be lurking in those towering weeds, sometimes there is a gem to be discovered which makes the effort well worth the sweat. The Wheat Whisky from Long Road Distillers is such an example.

The nose of this infant dram formulated from Michigan wheat and aged in new American oak barrels has a bit of a briny trail at first, but it only takes a moment for a fuller, more floral scent to begin resonating. There is the smell of distant lilacs and freshly brewed coffee.

The palate offers lightly buttered toast with a sprinkling of salt. A strange transition, but not bad.

The medium finish is a dry crest of butterscotch and wood spice. Again, a strange changeover, but not bad.

It is such compensation in the face of a tired and lacking will that makes the effort worthwhile. Interestingly enough, my decision to go forth into war with the yard realized the long-absent gas cap gasket laying near the base of our patio. In other words, the last few times I’ve mowed, gas has been sputtering up and out of the tank and onto the mower frame.

No longer. The war is won.