Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 30

Review – Colville, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, Small Batch, 5 Years Old, 43%

I’m sure I’ve shared with you before that we cannot have pets because our son, Harrison, is deathly allergic to pretty much everything. And I suppose this burdensome thorn in the little guy’s flesh is, in a way, a helpful thing for us because along with dust, pollen, animal dander, cashews, cantalopes, and so much more, he also seems to be allergic to basic chores. If we owned a pet, guess who wouldn’t lift a finger to care for it?

But you should know that Harry’s allergies do not stop our daughter, Madeline, from calling out various animal species at random moments in time to test and see if mom and dad might agree to consider the creature. She’s even gone so far as to ask if camels are hypoallergenic. She’s definitely searching, and if even the slightest ray of hope pierces through her pet-less darkness to indicate that a particular of God’s created beasts might be suitable for adoption into the Thoma family, she chases the possibility to its end.

For example…

I went for a bike ride with her into town, and while we were there, we stopped by the dam to feed the fish.

Seeing a flock of waddling water fowl, she asked, “Do you think Harry is allergic to ducks?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I know people have them as pets.”

“They do?!”

“Yeah,” I said. “But usually they keep them outdoors. I think most folks who own ducks would say they’re better outside than inside.”

“But people DO have ducks for pets,” she pressed.

“Yes, they do.”

“Can we get a duck?!”

“I dunno know, Maddy,” I said and started to climb back onto my bike. She was already beginning to pedal her bike away.

“What if Momma says it’s okay?” she called back to me and did a turn.

“I guess I’d be okay with it,” I said as I pulled up beside her to match her pace. “But we’d need to read up on ducks to see if it would even work for us. And don’t forget how much snow we get here in Michigan. What will we do with it in the winter?”

“We’ll keep it in the basement,” she said before I even finished my sentence. “And then we’ll let him out in spring and summer.”

“I suppose…”

“Can we?!”

“Do you know where to get a baby duck?” I asked.

“No. Maybe you can order them online.”

“Like at BabyDucks.com?”

“Yeah. It’ll get shipped right to the door!”

And with that little bit of jovial play, Madeline was gone. She took off and headed for home, pretty much leaving me in the dust.

“Maddy!” I shouted. “What’re you doing?! What’s the hurry?!”

“I’m going home to call Momma and tell her you said we could get a duck!”

Well, I didn’t exactly, I thought to myself. But hey… whatever.

I appreciate Madeline’s enthusiastic optimism in the face of what is not to be. I had the same hopefulness when I snapped into the Colville Kentucky Straight Bourbon. And while Madeline’s hopes were completely dashed after some research and a conversation with her mother, portions of mine survived, and I found myself partially surprised.

This particular small batch whiskey produced by a distillery that appears to pride itself on rum production, smells a bit like corn syrup and saltwater taffy. It’s rich. Too rich. Enough to make you think it’s artificial.

The palate rescues the experience as the Bourbon’s spirit comes to life and delivers a better harmony of caramel corn, honey, and an easy warmth.

The finish brings back the concern that there’s something artificial in there. Not sure what it is, but it does leave me wondering who or what messed with the barrels before this stuff was bottled. I almost wonder if some rum ended up in the mix. The chances are good.

Nevertheless, I’m sure that like so many ducklings, this whiskey longs to be joined to the Thoma household. Unfortunately, I’m thinking that this will be the first and last time I ever hatch a Colville Small Batch egg.

Review – Vat 69, 1960s Edition, 40%

Her cold was getting worse. The poor little girl was sniffling every few seconds, doing what we all do when we feel as though the taps on our sinuses just won’t close correctly.

“Do you need a tissue, honey?” I asked and adjusted my rearview mirror.

She gave no answer, but instead gripped the arm rests of her booster seat and began a rather impressive duel with… something.

She inhaled a quick but sturdy sniff. And then she did it again. She did it several times in a row until finally she gave one deeply final exhale followed by an incredibly forceful and grunting sniff. I heard a shoonk followed by a pronounced swallow as the solid piece of whatever was causing her trouble broke loose and was no more.

“There,” she said resolutely. “I feel better. No, I don’t need a tissue.”

Managing my own gag reflex, I managed to steer the vehicle without incident even as the other kids in the car heard the same and called out, “Evelyn, that’s gross!”

Yes, that was gross. But not as gross as the 1960s Vat 69 sample before me now. It was much harder to control my gag while sniffing and swallowing this sour chunk of barrel mucous.

The only positive thing I can say about the nose of this dreadful dram is that if you have a cold, one wafting swell from this garbage and all of the viral troublemakers in your nasal cavity will pack up and find another place in your body to set up camp. It will help you to breathe better. It will sting for a moment, but it will help.

The palate defines the shoonk. It was a clump of burnt coffee grounds mixed with a vegetal hint of sun-sweating sweet peppers just beginning to rot.

The finish is harder to describe. A cube of sugar soaking in that little bit of fermented ooze trailing away from the peppers, maybe?

I don’t know how this stuff compares to the modern rendition, but I have to believe it should be relatively close. This little bottle was stored properly and was unopened and sealed very well. There was absolutely no evaporation.

I’ll be sure to seek one out a newer edition. Although, I’m feeling pretty confident that no matter which edition of the Vat 69 you hold in your hands, you’d be better off sipping a dram of my daughter’s snot.

Review- George T. Stagg, Buffalo Trace Antique Collection (2016), Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 72%

Ah, school picture day. The excitement. The smiles. The magazine cover-worthy outfits. The joy of knowing that a portion of one’s childhood will be forever retained in the blink of an eye. The idea that all that you are as a respectable parent and all that your child is as an emergent and presentable citizen will be captured and put to acid-free paper until the end of days.

Really? How about this instead?

Ah, school picture day. A collection of words forming a singular curse word for most, and one which stirs that sudden vampire-like lift from the mattress in the 5:30 am darkness, “I forgot today was picture day!” The frantic call to the bloodsucking offspring lurking in the blackness of still bedrooms. “Get up!” you cry. “It’s picture day! Get downstairs and eat your breakfast and then come up and get dressed! I’ll have your clothes on the banister!” The braids that won’t cooperate. The cowlick that just won’t stop popping up like an antenna seeking a signal. The reconfiguring of an outfit because the child got dressed before breakfast and managed to stain her shirt at the neckline with milk made pink by the strawberry flavored Mini Wheats. The arranging and rearranging of hair and glasses and shirt collars followed by the brief prayer that such precision tweaks will continue to matter by the time the children arrive at school and actually find themselves before that unforgiving lens. The shouts as the little ones pile in the car, “What are you doing?! Take that hat off of your head!” The tears that flow with the realization that your words mean very little unless you say them over and over again while traversing the expanse between home and school. “Please,” you begin to sob. “Please… just… smile. Don’t… Don’t make a face again this year… Please!”

And it is but ten minutes into the travels before you realize you’ve forgotten their lunches.

Ah, school picture day. Or as George Eliot versed in Silas Marner: “Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand.”

Personally, I think there’s a good chance that hell will be a perpetual “morning of school picture day.” Except the school will be a lake of fire. And the walls will be covered in images of Kanye West and Kim Kardashion. And “Enya’s Greatest Hits” will be playing over the PA system. And everything about the company enlisted by school administrators for taking the pictures will be the same. You’ll still have the choice between paying $46 for “Package A” or $37 for “Package B,” both of which give you one 8×10 image (which you are almost always ashamed to frame and display because of the Mini Wheats fragment adorning the child who did as you asked and smiled brightly, but didn’t heed the directive to brush her teeth before leaving the house), and a handful of other image sizes that you’ll never keep in your wallet or send to anyone because it’s much easier to scan that horrendous 8×10 and keep the image on your cell phone or send it to family by email.

The hype and expense of this age-old ritual to body, soul, and mind would seem to be much more taxing than it should be. In fact, I think we should just let families take their own pictures and send them in to be added to the yearbook or whatever. Sure, some will be inclined to do some flaky things so we’ll need guidelines, and yet I wonder if a few thinly-stretched parental minds would be won toward a necessary calmness that is becoming increasingly absent in the demanding pace of this world’s life.

I wonder.

I also wonder if the George T. Stagg 2016 edition of the Buffalo Trace Antique Collection (BTAC) is worthy of the hype and expense surrounding its birthing and delivery. I know that past editions have been named by certain sources as the number one spirit in the world, and while this particular edition wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t anything I’d call “great.”

The nose of this most recent phenomena is very chemical, very medicinal. Of course, with such a high ABV (72.05% to be exact), this is to be expected. At this level, I think that most will find it nearly impossible to detect anything particular in the whiskey unless a little bit of water is added… which sort of bothers me because I don’t prefer water in my whisky—barrel strength or cut—it matters not. I like it clean. It also bothers me because I hold the opinion that the truly great whiskies need very little help being great when they are poured from the bottle. Without water, the Stagg is a penetrating solution that smells more like the stacks of copy machine paper collecting dust in the workroom at my office. It isn’t until you add the water (and then let it sit for a few minutes) that you begin to sense warmed caramel. And even then, you really have to dig deep to discover what seems like blackberries and maybe some dark chocolate cherry cordials. And still, after all of this, there’s a sourness to the overall aura.

“Well, Reverend, there are plenty of barrel strength whiskies out there that have high ABVs that need the same help.”

Yes, this is true. But are there are some that don’t. Take for example, the various batch releases of Aberlour’s A’bunadh, which is a cask strength Scotch. That stuff is strong, but even with a much higher ABV than most, it doesn’t need any help being great. It’s great out of the barrel and right into the bottle. There’s plenty to receive and discern within seconds of a straight pour and quick swirl no matter which batch you are sipping. With the others that need the help to be good, why not just go ahead and add the water at the distillery and save us the hassle. Make it good before you hand it over to us.

Without water, the palate of the Stagg is damp, rotting wood and cheap vodka. With a little bit of water, the innately sour nature of the whiskey opens up to give what seems to be a fast fleeting sweet cream and spicy chocolate, but it’s almost immediately chased away by an angry wave of alcohol.

The finish is long. Without water, there’s scorched cinnamon and burnt oak. With water, the cinnamon loses its char and the chocolate cherry cordials return from the nosing.

In the end, perhaps it is that I’m still not as refined as others may be with the various Bourbons, although I am who I am and I can only tell you what I know. In all, this is something I’d drink only because I’m impressed by the kick. I wouldn’t drink it to savor it. I’d drink it to swish and get rid of morning breath if I accidentally dropped my toothbrush in the toilet, or when I need something vibrant to help me wake up. In fact, now that I’ve read what I’ve written… forget the coffee. I do believe that this might just be worth adding to the annual school picture day ritual as the morning energy drink of choice.

Yes, you read that sentence correctly. This could replace your coffee.

* A special thank you to the Scotch Test Dummies for gifting me with the sample being reviewed. And thanks for taking time with me over live-stream on your show. I sure hope that after the above review, we can still be friends.

Review – Slaughter House, American Whiskey, 9 Years Old, 44%

“I say we name it ‘Death Syrup’,” one said while raising his hand as if hoping to be called upon.

A majority of the gathered think tank shook their heads in disagreement.

“How about ‘Blood Bath’?” another proposed.

“I got it,” one let loose from across the board room table. “We’ll call it ‘Grave Juice!’”

“Grave Juice?” a handful intoned simultaneous moan and turned to stare at the offender.

“That’s stupid,” one intern leaned and whispered softly to another intern.

“We could call it ‘Vlad’s Venom’,” the director suggested. “You know, like that evil guy from Czechoslovakia who use to prop people on poles.”

“Vlad the Impaler?” his assistant asked.

“Yeah, that guy,” the director answered and pointed to her.

“He was from Romania, sir” she said.

“Whatever. The millennials will buy it.”

“No they won’t.”

“They buy cinnamon schnapps, don’t they?”

“Yes…”

“And they buy raspberry flavored vodka, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Then they’ll buy this crap.”

“What about something like ‘Whiskey Catastrophe’?” the recording secretary said while scribbling the meeting details.

“That’s what it is,” the director said and rolled his eyes. “We don’t want to be so literal.”

“Well,” his assistant interrupted, “if you were going to be literal you’d call it ‘Butterscotch Waffle Slaughter House’ because that’s what it smells and tastes and like—death by waffles covered in butterscotch.”

“Wait,” the director said abruptly. “Say that again!”

“I said,” she started, “it smells and tastes like waffles and butterscotch. It’s like scooping a soggy mash of doughy waffles drenched in melted butterscotch into your mouth. I went to see my doctor after trying it just to make sure I didn’t give myself diabetes.”

“No,” he interrupted. “The title. What did you say we should call it?”

“Butterscotch Waffle Slaughter House… because drinking it is like being led to slaughter… with waffles… and…”

“Yeah, I know. Butterscotch,” he said succinctly. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“Slaughter House!” he shouted. “We’ll call it ‘Slaughter House’!”

“Should we add something like ‘Slow Death’ to the title?” his assistant prodded. “The ungodly long and syrupy finish isn’t exactly a swift slit of the throat or a quick sledge hammer to the head.”

“Nope,” the director responded. “Slaughter House. That’s perfect. And we’ll put a machete on the label. No, wait. A hatchet. We’ll put a hatchet on there. It’s edgy. The millennials will buy the hell out of this stuff.”

And now you know.

Review – Bushmills, 21 Years Old, 40%

I have discovered the truest and most natural test for discerning whether or not someone is a controlling person. Invite him to join you for lunch at Subway, and then stand back and watch the depth of his involvement in the creation of his sandwich.

I was enlightened to this method last Saturday when I took my four children to the fast food sandwich shop for lunch. Before us in line was a gentleman and his wife. Her order was swift. His went something like this…

“I’ll have a six inch ham and cheese on flat bread.”

“What kind of cheese?” the young girl attending to his sandwich asked with a smile to match the patron’s.

“Would you mind alternating between American and provolone—one slice of American then provolone, then American, then provolone?”

“Uh, yeah. No problem.”

She arranged the cheese accordingly and then continued, “Would you like it toasted?”

“Yes, please,” he said. “But take it out at 35 seconds, okay? That will give it just the right touch of warmth without melting the cheese.”

“Um. Sure,” she said with a slight pause and then turned to put the sandwich into the toaster oven.

Thirty-five seconds passed and she returned to the preparation table.

“What would you like on it?”

“I’d like a careful drop of Italian dressing under each of the provolone slices and a drop of mustard under the American.”

“Um. Yeah. Sure,” she offered and went to work popping the condiment bottles and carefully lifting the cheese slices.

“And now, if you don’t mind,” he said after the final drop of mustard was skillfully dripped into place, “I’ll have lettuce on the half that ends with the American cheese and cucumbers on the other.”

I was entranced. My kids were, too. Even my six-year-old—the most particular of the bunch—with her mouth gaping, could not break her stare.

“Now,” he instructed, “I’ll have some mild peppers across the entire sandwich, but don’t put on more than eight. And if you stagger them slightly and evenly, you’ll be able to lay three tomato slices on top and they won’t shift when I take a bite.”

“Just three tomatoes?”

“Just three. Yep, right on top of the staggered mild peppers. And would you mind moving that lettuce up into the bread so it isn’t hanging over the edge? Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Make a racetrack of mayonnaise on the top.”

“A ‘racetrack’?”

“Yeah, like this,” he said and drew the shape of an elongated “O” in the air.

She traced a singular lap on the top layer of the sandwich.

“Now do the same with the honey mustard.”

She did the same with the honey mustard.

“And one last thing,” he began while pointing to the knife lying beside her on the countertop. I was leaning forward ever so slightly now, ready to act if she decided to grasp the blade, lunge over the sneeze guard, and stab him in the throat. I’d hate to see this young girl ruin her life.

“Cut it into four sections, please,” he finished. “And then wrap them individually. It helps me to feel fuller if I’ve opened four sandwiches instead of one.”

Interesting idea. Never thought of that. Annoyingly stupid, but interesting.

She did as instructed and completed his order. And she didn’t stab him. Well done, young lady. And be sure to thank your lucky stars, my good man. Had my impatient six-year-old been the one making the sandwich, you’d be lying in a pool of your own blood and gurgling a barely intelligible, “Four bandages. Someone… please… wrap my wound with four bandages…”

This man was a control freak. Either that or suffering from an obsessive compulsive disorder. And while I wouldn’t want him in front of me at Subway, I’d be fine with him at the helm of a distillery. It’s the control freaks practicing such precision who put out the best drams.

Take for instance the Bushmills 21-year-old. This is obviously the result of a meticulousness nearly extinct in our modern society.

The nose of this Irish nonpareil could be carved into four distinct scents—honey crisp apples, medium roast coffee, freshly baked bread, and sherry.

The palate offers over a friendly helping of apple butter on freshly warmed (35 seconds, perhaps) bread that gets only partially sour when the alcohol finally sets in.

The finish is a longer expression of the coffee and sherry, with the former traveling further than the latter.

This is a well-refined whiskey, tuned with the best that Bushmills has to offer and carefully prescribed by a Master Distiller, namely Colum Egan, who obviously ordered not just the steps of the workers, but also the very natural elements in his grasp.

I’m curious how Egan would handle a ham and cheese sandwich.

Review – Speyside Cooperage, 10 Years Old, 40%

Sometimes, just sometimes, before I offer a whisky review, I need to take an extra minute to hammer out a few details. There’s one particular “something” that rears its ugly head here at Angelsportion more so than I would prefer. I’m always ready to deal with it, even though I’m also so very bored beyond belief by it.

I suppose I could come at it from the following angle…

When things are going along pretty well, remember, there will always be those predatory few waiting in the wings to thin the herd of enthusiasm.

First, and understandably, I’ve been in celebration mode for a few weeks now. Two more of my books were recently released into print—Ten Ways to Kill a Pastor, and perhaps of more interest to my readers here, The Angels’ Portion Volume II. With both pieces, it’s exciting when you pour into something for so long and then turn it over to others in order that it might finally return to you in print. Again, I’ve been riding a little higher knowing that I can move on to another project and, God willing, do it all again. It’s something that brings me joy.

Second, things are relatively peaceful in the congregation right now. There’s always a struggle brewing somewhere, but right now, things are reasonably calm, and for that, I am thankful.

Third, very soon I’ll have the distinct privilege of giving a paper at a conference on religious liberty alongside a few highly respected speakers, one of which is someone I greatly admire—Dinesh D’Souza. That makes me smile.

Fourth and finally, Jen and I found time for a date night. Mind you, we ordered a pizza and then kicked the kids out of the living room so we could watch “Captain America: Civil War” by ourselves, but hey, that’s pretty good for us.

So, in short, things have been moving along pretty positively around here.

And then I read two of the harshest and most attacking comments I’ve ever received here at Angelsportion. One came by way of Facebook messenger and the other as a comment through the blog.

Well, I shouldn’t say that I read them. The one that came through the blog was so brutish that I only made it through the first few sentences before simply deleting it. I’ve learned my lesson with messages like that. There’s no use in taking it all in, and I knew that if I continued reading I might end up calling up my Chicago family members and putting a hit out on the person. The one sent by way of Facebook Messenger tricked me, though. I can handle criticism. Truly, I can. And this one started off objectively and somewhat measured. But then it opened up full throttle with some pretty colorful phraseology highlighted by a few very intense adjectives.

Both arrived on different days in the same week. And while you’ll never know the content of these venomous harangues (because I promise you that these people will never—never—get by with my approval), both deserve my public commentary.

So, here’s what I’m pondering.

The singular spirit of both comments has one of its feet in the unfortunate grave of Pietism and the other in the sepulcher of popular spirituality. Now, I don’t need to go into a full definition of either because if you’ve been around here long enough, you already know what I’m talking about, and you know that I already expect a few useless flesh-sacks with gelatinous innards to come along and aim such ignorant criticism my way. I get my fair share of it. But still, even as visitors find that they disagree with me on certain topics, their comments are most often constructive and a conversation can be had and a genuine friendship is born.

Yes, I will continue to field the questions from folks who genuinely want to know how it is that a pastor can write about such things with careful appreciation, but for those experts in internet-assembled theology who are trying to pick a fight, I will simply say the following and then bring this to an end…

Well, forget what I was going to say. Go ahead and strap yourself in. We need some base honesty right about now.

If the Biblically illiterate fools who want to accuse a pastor of being a “hypocrite” or say things like “I don’t see Jesus in you, but the devil” just because he writes about whisky—if these folks would just read their Bibles—not talk about what they think is in the Bible—but actually read it… and on approach of the Holy Writ, if they would have in mind to read it exegetically (which means to take from the text what’s actually there—basic hermeneutics) instead of eisegetically (carrying your pre-formed opinions to the text and imposing them so that it renders what you desire), doing this, they would discover a great many things they didn’t know before. For starters, and for example, they would find places where guys like Saint Paul—yeah, the inspired Apostle—distinguishes between stronger and weaker brethren. They would eventually come across various texts in which he instructs the stronger brothers never to impose upon the weaker ones something that sears their consciences—which is the accusation sometimes leveled against me.

But the last I knew, this blog was never imposed upon anyone. You are not required to visit my site. You have a choice to visit it.

But either way, don’t let that be the last word from Paul. Keep going and you’ll behold him spending no insignificant time making sure the stronger brothers never let the weaker ones have the final say when it comes to judging what is actually Godly and what isn’t. In fact, Paul thoroughly explains in Romans 14 that the one who eats everything shouldn’t look down on the one who doesn’t, and the one who doesn’t, shouldn’t condemn the one who does because that man is just as acceptable to God.

So, Paul is pointing out that God sets the standard by His Word. Pietism doesn’t do that. Pietism sets the standards of godliness from current contexts of cultural miseries. When Pietism was formally born (17th century), it laid rather flatly (and with a staying permanence) that because drunkenness is a possibility, drinking alcohol is ungodly. It never took into account that the Word of God actually commends the consumption of alcohol, sometimes even requiring or at least prescribing it. In fact, this happens in both the Old and New Testaments—the same two Testaments that also talk about not abusing it because drunkenness is a sin. Pietism, by default, just doesn’t set its platform nor assess its teachings by way of the Word. It skips right over important facts… like that time Jesus actually changed water into wine in John 2 so that a particular wedding couple would avoid embarrassment.

He gave them wine. One more time… The Son of God, the Creator of the Cosmos in human flesh, gave them wine.

And don’t forget what Jesus said in Mark 7 (vv. 18-23). That’s that one rather inconvenient place where Jesus harps on the Pharisees for accusing His disciples of unclean eating practices. And by the way, take notice of His introduction: “Are you so dull?” and then the final analysis which reads, “In saying this, Jesus declared all foods clean.”

For crying out loud! Look at Saint Paul’s instruction to Timothy in 1 Timothy 5:23. “Drink some wine,” Paul urges the young pastor. But… wait… Oh, my! I don’t see Jesus in Saint Paul here. The Apostle must be writing the inspired texts of Scripture by the hand of the devil.

Sheesh.

Hopefully you’re still with me, here. No? Oh, I know. Now you’re digging into your Biblicism bag. You’re about to tell me that the Bible only speaks of wine and says nothing of whisky so therefore only wine is acceptable. Um, okay. It doesn’t talk about cars, either, so I guess you decadent Pietists driving around in your four-wheeled-petrol-powered-sin-boxes had better stop taunting God and cut that out. And while you’re at it, you’d better stop using your hair dryers, telephones, computers, Keurig coffee makers, button shirts and ties, post-it notes, lug nuts, basketballs, campers, post offices, snow mobiles, toilet paper, and so on. None of these are noted in the Bible and all of them have potential for sinful usage as a bottle of The Balvenie. Trust me. I’ve known the sinful mind to be rather creative.

And while you’re pondering all of this, let me make one more suggestion. And this one will probably sting the most.

It’s amazing what can be learned by going to church. Maybe try going more than once every twenty-eight weeks. But not to one of those churches that has the whole “church/culture” thing all mixed up already. No wonder you can’t figure out what’s Godly and what isn’t. Get out of that church that does all it can to be hip and indistinguishable from the world around it. Seek out a church that when you walk into it, you know without a doubt that you’ve left the popular culture behind and are in a completely different world… kinda like the Bible says in about a thousand different places  the “church” should be. If you walk in and feel as though a Nickelback concert venue has nothing on your house of worship, then you’re missing the whole point of worship completely and you’re very near the wrong end of what is most likely a spiritual meatgrinder. It’s taking in souls by stamping the label “Christian” on anything and everything that sounds spiritual enough to keep you in the theater seating in order to pay the massive mortgage on the twenty million dollar franchised—yes, franchised—building complete with a worship model and everything—designed by a hipster marketer who thinks your church should be called anything but “church” because that word is offensive and doesn’t sell.

“Hey, guys, we need a cool name for our new church.”

“Don’t say that word, Bob.”

“Oh yeah, sorry.”

“I forgive you, brother.”

“Great. Thanks. So, I was thinkin’, how about we call ourselves ‘The Vibe,’ or some other name that is completely out of stride with the universal church of all ages—something that is just as snazzy, hip, and fuzzily useless as the 10-step message we plan to disseminate inside?”

When these are the folks lining up to offer criticism at Angelsportion, as long as you are willing to have a collegial conversation, we’re cool. If not, then seriously, don’t bother. Instead, take your thoughts, jot them on the napkin you swiped from the coffee bar in your church’s narthex, put the napkin into your pants pocket, and then run your pants through the laundry. For the most part, the washing machine will do what it is designed to do—clean soiled things.

In the meantime, if you do decide to deposit them at Angelsportion, I’ll do what I did in this most recent assault. I‘ll delete them. And then I’ll go to my cabinet and take out a whisky—but not just any whisky—one that was gifted by a Christian friend. Like the Speyside Cooperage 10-year-old.

This particular whisky was acquired in Scotland by a good friend who picked it out just for me, and it is one that I will hold near and dear until it is emptied of its ambered happiness.

The nose of this delightful edition tagged by a less-than-spectacular label is distinctly wine-like—merlot, I’d say—with hints of cherry and chocolate.

A slight swig presents the cherries as sour, but not unpleasant, and each is a crisp morsel dipped in vanilla and lightly powdered with what seems like minced walnuts. There’s an extremely distant hint of smoke. And when I say “distant,” I mean it. It’s the tiniest reference to a peat fire burning five miles away from where you are standing.

The finish, like the nose, is wine-like. Except it is no longer a merlot. It keeps a sweetness about it while giving over spoonful of oaky tannins. And although I am by no means a connoisseur of wine, I’d say it was awfully reminiscent of a particular bottle I’ve kept on hand around here—the Anciano Gran Reserva 2000 Valdepeñas—which is made from black Tempranillo grapes and aged for ten years.

I wish I could say that you can run right out and pick up a bottle, but as I understand, it is only available for sale at the cooperage. Too bad, because it would seem that more and more these days do we all need an “anti-haters” antidote—one given in loving kindness from someone who wants to remind you that the dark days are easily brightened with a good dram and a therapeutically catechetical diatribe of one’s own.

Review – The Lost Distillery Company, Classic Selection, Towiemore, (Blended), 43%

Most often when a pastor retires from the ministry, he transfers his membership to another congregation, or at a minimum, evaporates into the sunset in his RV and is rarely seen or heard from again.

Other times he sticks around. Although it works in certain circumstances, this is rarely helpful to his successor.

There’s no need to worry about it in my case. When I retire from the ministry as a pastor, you will never see me again.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my congregation and the people who comprise her, and while I’ll miss so many. But having said this, don’t count on me being around for anything. I will not be reachable in cases of marital trouble. I will not be available to perform your wedding. I won’t be nearby to baptize your kids. I won’t be available to guest preach or make hospital visitations.

As long as I can afford it, I will be in an undisclosed location far away and my life and ministry efforts will be considered as a singular memory in the life of an ongoing congregation. I will be like the whisky of the Towiemore Distillery—God willing, a pleasant memory, something that served a precise purpose during a particular era, but no more. As it should be. Because none of it is about me. I am not the ministry. I am one of countless who have streamed along in it. Soli Deo Gloria.

Sitting here and sipping what The Lost Distillery Company has so carefully summoned with this Towiemore release, as with other editions they’ve resurrected, I am willing to surrender the necessity of looking back upon the peculiarities of individuals and their service. But let’s keep it straight, yes? With each sip, it’s kind of like saying, “Remember when someone would answer a question in Bible study and Pastor Thoma would say something funny like, ‘It hurts me deeply to hear you say such things’?” Sure, it’s fun to recall, but it is on the opposing shore of a great expanse from whispering something like, “I wish the new pastor was more like ol’ Pastor Thoma. Maybe we could ask him to come back and teach a Bible study.”

If you can find him, you can ask. But since I’m him, I’ll say no. And perhaps in the meantime, if you catch yourself thinking or saying such things, it’s time for you to transfer your membership in order to eliminate the troubling factor of comparison and let the new guy do his job. As long as he isn’t steering the ship into the rocks that destroy the fundamental liturgical, theological, and confessional identity and nature of the parish…leave him alone to work. Love him. Support him. Pay him a living wage if you can. After a while, you’ll begin to wonder how anyone else could ever fill the new guy’s shoes.

Now before I stray much further, let me present to you the memories of a former minister… (eh hem)… I mean, a former distillery.

If indeed The Lost Distillery Company has matched the whisky that was produced by the Towiemore, then the world of blended Scotch whisky lost a masterful servant when the distillery closed in 1931.

The nose of the Towiemore is a mild transport of most everything noted on the label. I sensed the vanilla and almonds, but I think I’d suggest plums instead of peaches. I say this now that I am much more familiar with certain Japanese whiskies.

The palate is a rich miscellany of ripened and sugary nectarines imbrued with hint of salted butter and a slight hint of alcohol burn—which is not a negative, but rather a helpful balancer.

The finish is a short, crisp, and precise account of the soaked fruit. Personally, I would not recommend adding water to this whisky, that is, unless you want to amplify what is a concealed syrupy character.

In all, kudos to The Lost Distillery Company. This is a fine replica. At least I think it is. I guess no one really knows for sure. Although, if it is, then the folks who lived and died under its ministry were well served, and we can rest assured that the modern chargés d’affaires of Scotch whisky are privileged to dwell among history’s respectable attendants that they, too, would carry forth as suitable attendants themselves.

The Angels’ Portion — Volume II is now in print!

Click here to get your copy!

Review – Wild Turkey, 101, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 50.5%

Listen up, PETA.

I think we could both agree that we have our fair share of wild turkeys here in Michigan, yes?

I have a friend who says that these pestilent creatures will gather in innumerable flocks on his property, even being so bold as to approach the door on his deck and peck the glass.

I’ve seen a mother turkey and her young cruising through my yard a few times, but that’s nothing compared to what I behold pretty much every time I make my way into the office. The wild turkeys congregate beside the roadways, all the while bobbing their heads and watching the rest of us useful creatures travel back and forth from productivity to rest. Every now and then I’ll see one flattened in the road, but for the most part, they seem to be wise enough to stay out of traffic.

Have the folks down at PETA ever really spent time examining a turkey? There’s a reason we eat them. Because they aren’t much to look at. They look a little like a cross between an alien that keeps its brain on the outside of its head and a drunk velociraptor who’s down on his luck. The only thing missing from the scene is a holstered laser gun and a half-smoked cigarette hanging from its beak.

Seriously.

Beautiful creatures, you say? Hardly. Turkeys are by no means birds of regalia. They taste great, though. Smoked turkey is one of my favorite sandwich meats. And who doesn’t love a juicy turkey at Thanksgiving? Well, maybe the folks at PETA. Although, I should clarify that wild turkeys are of another frame altogether. Wild turkeys are scrawny, flea infested gobblers that apparently try to break into people’s homes. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but I can tell you that if one ever decides to climb my deck stairs and start tapping on my door wall, I’ll hold fast to the castle doctrine and blow that dangly-fleshed, oversized virus with legs away.

However, if one was holding a bottle of its honorary whiskey, particularly the 101 edition, well, I guess I’d be inclined toward a softer heart and perhaps I’d welcome it in to be warm and well fed.

I’d offer it a place at the table. I’d set out a moderate selection of finger foods. I’d place a Glencairn before us both, and I’d pour a round.

Together we would sniff the caramel and wood spice barely dusted with ash. We’d sip and savor what is a lively vanilla wash wrestling with crisp rye and cinnamon. We’d toast to a longer finish of peppercorns, rye, and an ever-fading alcohol sour.

We’d sip again. We’d share a story or two about ourselves. I’d thank the bird for stopping by, and most especially for bringing the quality booze. I’d show it to the door.

And then I’d shoot it. We have far too many wild turkeys in Michigan.

Review – Angels Envy, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, Port Wine Finish (Batch 25H), (No Age Stated), 43.3%

Don’t be jealous. I have only a fraction of what some of my friends have. Although, I will admit that I am quite proud of my army. It takes time and money to build up a regiment of soldiers like this. And I have little of either—time and money, that is. Seriously. When it comes to time, my week is, on average, about 90 hours long. And when it comes to money… well, according to the recommended pay scale published by my district, I’m getting paid something like $20,000 less than I’m supposed to.

Life in the church.

I’m not necessarily complaining. “Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing?” (Matthew 6). Look at the picture. With a congregation full of wonderful people, a beautiful wife, four quasi-affectionate kids, and a whisky stash like this, who could be sad? In fact, a pay raise might be a bad thing. It would mean I’d need to find space for a few extra cabinets.

And not to worry, by the way. My wife and children are well cared for. It’s me who goes without.

I haven’t ordered new clerical shirts, collars, or pants in about three years. My mother-in-law buys all of my socks as a kindly gesture every time the Nativity celebration rolls around. I miss a lot of meals and save my lunch money. I used to buy books rather often, but now I mostly borrow them… or just write my own. I pinch every penny and I have a monotonous response to pretty much every gift-possible question asked of me.

“What do you want for your birthday, honey?”

“Whisky.”

“What’s on your Christmas list this year, Chris?”

“Whisky.”

“What do you want for Father’s Day, Daddy?”

“Whisky.”

“I’m making a quick run to the store for milk and eggs. Anything you want me to pick up?”

“Whisky.”

“What souvenirs did you bring back from Washington DC?”

“Whisky.”

“Did anything catch your eye while you were in London?”

“Whisky.”

“Did they pay you an honorarium for guest speaking?”

“Yep. Whisky.”

“I made you something at school today, Daddy.”

“I sure hope it was whisky.”

A few years of such steady mindfulness and the cabinets begin to fill and the selections become vast—something even the angels in heaven begin to envy.

Speaking of…

I’ve been encouraged for some time now by various online pals to add the Angels Envy Kentucky Straight Bourbon to my collection, but unfortunately there’d been no confirmed sightings of this elusive creature throughout this barren landscape that is my corner of Michigan. I’ve been ever watchful and vigilant, to be sure, but it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that my good friend Michael over at Jonna’s Market received a shipment and sent me word.

This is a good dram.

The nose of this amber-flaxoned entity bespeaks a heavenly incense of Touriga Francesas, white chocolate, roasted almonds, and lightly glazed blueberry muffins.

To sip this whiskey is to step into a splendorous glow, letting the creature enfold its downy wings of cream, honey, and warmed red berries around you.

The finish is an unfortunately hasty release of port-soused oak and a nip of spice. Good, yes, but it spreads its massive wings and takes to flight much too soon.

Oh well. At least this divine messenger deigned to visit with me, even if only for a moment. And I know she’ll be back. There’s always a gift-giving holiday lurking around the corner.