Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 31

Review – Bruichladdich, Octomore (6.1), 5 Years Old, 57%

It was only 9:00 am and yet I felt as though I’d already been running at full speed since 6:00. I was tired.

I arrived for the first of the day’s several visitations. The mechanized doors to the care facility swished apart as if I were entering the bridge of the starship Enterprise. And just beyond its frame, not far from the receptionist’s desk, an elderly man sat in a wheelchair with a younger man hovering behind him.

Both noticed my clerical collar.

“Father!” the seated gentleman called with a rasp and leaned forward to show he expected my immediate attention.

“Good morning,” I said and slowed my hurried pace, although still intending to pass them by.

“I’m Melvin.”

“Have a blessed day, Melvin.”

Directing his thumb to the man behind him, he continued loudly, “This jackass pushing my wheelchair is the biggest sinner I’ve ever met in my life and he needs your help.”

I stopped.

“You’re looking at the chief of sinners right now,” I turned and said pointing to myself.

“No, not you, Father,” he answered. “This guy, right here. He’s going to hell for sure.”

I could tell that the young man had been at the receiving end of this ratchety and enfeebled man’s accosting for quite some time. He was taking the remarks in stride. He simply closed his eyes, shook his head, and gave an energy-sapped smile.

“What makes you say this?” I asked.

“I know people like him.”

“You do?”

“What?!”

“I said, you do?!”

“Yeah, I’ve been around a long time. He’s a lost one, for sure.”

“There is a way to find out, you know.”

“What?!”

“I said, there’s a way to find out!”

“There is?”

I turned my attention to the young man. “Do you believe that you are a sinner?”

“You don’t have to do this, Father,” the young man quietly urged.

“Just work with me, here,” I whispered in return. “Do you believe you are a sinner?” I asked again so that the elderly man could hear.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Do you believe that Jesus Christ has borne your sin and won your salvation by His life, death, and resurrection?”

“Yes, I do,” he answered again with a tad more boldness.

“Your sins are forgiven. Welcome to the kingdom of heaven, my friend.”

I dropped to one knee and continued, “Looks like he’s not going to hell anymore, Melvin. Rejoice as even the angels rejoice when one sinner repents,” I said and gave him a smile while reaching out to pat his shoulder.

Standing up, I urged the young man that his labors were not in vain, and then continued with my previous stride.

Only a few paces away, I heard, “That priest is probably going to hell, with you.”

“Well,” I whispered to myself, “I’ll look you up when I get there.”

Crap.

That—right there—showed my fellowship in the nature of sinful man. Sure, I could make the excuse that I was tired. Still, I shouldn’t have said that—even to myself. Maybe Melvin was the victim of a stroke. Or perhaps he was suffering from some other condition that affects the amygdala in the limbic center of the brain. Or maybe he really was an evil old man with nothing better to do than criticize the people who were trying to take care of him. Who knows? The point is, I could peer into and read the spiritual fibers of the grizzled old man’s heart about as well as I can see into the opaque Octomore bottle being considered in this review.

And so we tread in humility. We pop the cork of human interaction, pour, and do the best we can to discern.

Thankfully it’s a lot easier with whisky. I don’t feel so bad when I engage and then find myself assuring my readers with absolute certainty which particular editions will be served in hell. But I can only make an educated guess as to who will be holding the rock glass.

Not to worry, Bruichladdich. Your youthful Octomore 6.1 appears to be positioned for the realms of eternal glory.

The nose of this tab-collared black bottle is quite sumptuous. Straight from the bottle wafts the thickened incense of apple juice in a swirling deluge of palling smoke. Very nice. Incredibly balanced. In the glass, the juice and the smoke each becomes its own stream.

The palate is an artisan’s wash of tarry smoke and saltwater. The apple, which in the nose is a Golden Delicious, becomes a Granny Smith. The sour is nice, although unexpected.

The finish leaves a bit of a salty residue as well as a tinge of ash. Gritty, but ambrosial. Perhaps a bit unorthodox, but it leaves me imagining as a first thing, sitting on my deck early in the morning—the sun just peeking above the tree line and beginning its effort to brush away the river’s mist—a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and a dram of the Octomore to stir what would be a gentle day’s spirit.

Sure beats hearing as a first thing from a crass old man that you’re probably going to hell.

Review – Henry McKenna, Single Barrel Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 10 Years Old, 50%

Guess what.

If you leave a message on my voicemail that is as long as a song, it had better be one of two things.

It had better be an actual song, one you are singing to me, a time-crunched listener, to prove that you have an A-list voice and a platinum hit on your hands; or the message had better be really important—as in you just got word that brain-sucking aliens are attacking and you’ve found yourself in possession of incredibly detailed instructions known only to the military for protecting against and/or defeating the invaders.

If it isn’t either of these, then you have about fifteen seconds before I hang up, delete the message, and guess its contents two days later.

No voicemail message needs to be 3 minutes and 48 seconds. That’s almost four whole minutes. People can run a mile in 3 minutes and 48 seconds. For a guy like me, that’s essentially a micro-meeting where you do all the talking, and at the pace I’m usually moving, there’s a lot a guy like me could do in 3 minutes and 48 seconds. For crying out loud, I can recite the books of the Old Testament in 11 seconds. Just ask the kids in my confirmation class.

I could mow a good portion of my front yard in 3 minutes and 48 seconds.

I could respond to about twenty emails in 3 minutes and 48 seconds.

While Jen is away, I could cook dinner for my kids in 3 minutes and 48 seconds. (Each piece of pizza from the previous night gets 35 seconds on “high” in the microwave—give or take a few seconds here and there. Dinner for five is served in 2 minutes and 55 seconds flat.)

I could drive to the local McDonald’s and back for coffee in 3 minutes and 48 seconds.

I could write a reasonable chunk of a sermon in 3 minutes and 48 seconds.

I could empty the dishwasher. I could power wash the deck. I could call and schedule a day’s worth of shut-in visitations.

I could sip a whisky and write my review notes. Don’t believe me? Well, you should know that in 36 seconds, I noted that the nose of the Henry McKenna Single Barrel 10-year-old was undulating with cinnamon, chocolate covered cherries, and a tinge of wood char.

In 77 seconds, I sensed in the palate the same wood char from the nose, as well as a passing of peppered citrus and damp oak.

In 41 seconds, I recorded a slight nip of peppermint at the edges of the tongue and a lingering sour that wasn’t entirely annoying, although it did seem to overstay its welcome.

That’s 2 minutes and 34 seconds of time to learn that this Bourbon is worth your while. The remaining minute and 14 seconds was just enough time to write the first full paragraph of this review.

So, like I said, sing to me or give me what I need to save my family in a cosmic incursion. Anything and everything else… well… you’ll just have to hope I’m a good guesser.

Review – Virginia Distillery Company, “Port Finished” Virginia Highland Malt Whisky, (No Age Stated), 46%

There is an assisted living facility that I visit quite often that has lengthy corridors webbing out to the residents’ apartments. Each is abundantly decorated with ready-made portraits of all sorts. Because I appreciate art, while passing through, I’ll sometimes stop to examine the images.

Over the years of visiting the facility, I’ve noticed a theme.

Nearly all of the portraits are depictions of youth – a child praying beside his bed, a young couple dancing on a beach, a youthful woman receiving the proposal of a baby-faced suitor, a sturdy and animated farmhand swinging his scythe in a field of wheat, a shirtless boy in overalls riding a horse, a mother guarding the cradle of her newborn – so many images of what used to be but is no longer.

I suppose the case could be made that these are the best kinds of portraits to hang among a population of people being carried by the tide of humanness into their twilight years. I mean, what else are you going to put on the walls? Pictures of people in wheelchairs or folks struggling to put tennis balls on the feet of their walkers? Probably not.

The images adorning the walls of the residence are the images of family and friendships and vocation. They are the images of vibrancy. They are the images life.

I have a favorite of the bunch. I like it because it’s out of step with the theme. It’s a Victorian style painting depicting a Greco-Roman era scene. In it, there is a middle-aged woman standing near a table holding a clay water pitcher very loosely in one hand – so loosely it leaves the impression that she might drop it at any moment and see it shatter into pieces across the tile floor beneath her.

Attempting to carry the theme of “youth” to this image, I would suggest that while all the other portraits throughout the building are revealing various facets of life’s abundancy, we are also to keep in mind that it is fragile and fleeting. One moment it is here, all the while holding the possibility that in the next it may be gone – like a clay water pitcher falling to the floor.

In the end, the lesson is learned: Each moment is its own to be appreciated.

There are certain whiskies deserving of such philosophical contemplation, even if only in microscopic comparison to the nostalgic ramblings above. The Virginia Distillery Company’s “Port Finished” edition is one of them.

I’m guessing that since this is the only edition listed on the company’s website that it is merely a repackaging of the “Virginia Highland Malt Whisky” edition I tried earlier this year. The magnificent bottle garlanded with the more exquisite label would suggest that the distillery is gaining a footing, and for that I’m glad. They deserve it.

And yet, I wonder if the formula has changed, even if slightly, because I noted some differences.

In the nose, the vapors are so distinctly rich with fruity port that I wonder if it’s even necessary to put the words “Port Finished” on the label. Very simply, the whisky smells like a full-bodied and well-refined wine.

The palate reveals a note of honeyed citrus given a miniscule pinch of pepper and gently kissed with smoke. Not a full on smooch, just a peck.

The finish is delightfully long, leaving a trail of summery Mourisco Tinto black grapes – one of the best grape varieties for Port.

I intend to move through this bottle very slowly, very patiently, allowing plenty of time to cherish all that the whisky is and will continue to be until the bottle is empty and I must let go.

Review – The Macallan, Double Cask, 12 Years Old, 43%

Playfully assuming that it will be, to a degree, a place where anything is possible, I asked my son Harrison what he was hoping to do in heaven. He said he wanted super hero powers so that he could fly and lift heavy objects. I told him that was lame and he needed to go bigger. But hey, he’s nine.

He asked me what I was hoping for, but before I could answer, he said, “Probably a really nice Scotch, right?”

No, silly boy. That’s not my first request. The first words from my lips would be ones of thanksgiving to the Lord for His merciful and redeeming kindness. And then, at the Creator’s kindly nod, I would make a request for that which would be the beginning of my very first endless day.

Can you guess my request?

No, I don’t care who shot Kennedy.

Nuh-uh. I have no concern with whether or not there’s life on other planets.

Sure, I’d like to know if Nessie is real, but that’s more like number five on my list.

Nope. I don’t have any famous people in mind that I feel I need to meet right away. I’ll have eternity to get around to that.

When I get to heaven, my first request will be much grander—much more exhilarating—much more phenomenally wonderful than anything you can possibly imagine.

Ready?

I want to pilot the Millennium Falcon… for realsies.

Yep, I want to swoop through asteroid fields and swish in and around with tight maneuvers. Tie Fighters in close pursuit, I want to have to shout “Route all power to the rear deflector shields!” while I plunge that parsec chomping baby into the guts of menacing space stations and blast out the other side having destroyed my foe’s reactor core. I want to spin and dive and break into turns that see me head-to-head with Star Destroyers and nearly consumed by giant space worms.

That’s what I want.

My second request would be as my son first guessed. I’d desire a fine Scotch—that never spills from its glass—while I’m flying the Millennium Falcon—and dog fighting with Tie Fighters—and playing “chicken” with Star Destroyers—and blowing up space stations.

You just realized that you want to live in my heaven, didn’t you? Yeah, I know. Who wouldn’t?

Well, there is a piece of it here on earth that we can share. I suppose that The Macallan 12-year-old Double Cask edition could just be the fine Scotch that I imagine occupying that unspillable glass.

The Double Cask’s nose is a light-stepping breeze of signature sherry followed closely by dried orange rinds and melted sugar that has nearly become caramel. The palate is virtually the same, except there is the sense that the sugar was exchanged for honey chews. And a drop or two of water enlivens a hidden chocolate note.

The finish, medium in length, is an exceptional continuation of the sherry’s careful treading. But then a pinch of wood spice and a fraction of salt arrive and bring the whisky to a somewhat startling, but still well-balanced, conclusion.

I’m pretty sure that this will be an available selection in heaven. In fact, since we’re considering my own heavenly construct, I’m certain I’ll be able to pick up a few bottles at Chalmun’s Cantina in Mos Eisley on Tatooine.

By the way, Harrison has since changed his mind. He wants to be my co-pilot. I told him that the only way it would happen is if he changes his first request from super powers to being changed into a Wookie. He was agreeable as long as it was temporary.

Hah! Temporary. Does that even mean anything in a place where whisky does not spill and I am the captain of the Millennium Falcon?

The Rev’s dashboard décor: Jesus and the Falcon.

Review – Old Smuggler Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 1951-1971 Edition, 43%

I know that it’s been out for a few years, but I finally got around to watching the movie “Noah.” I only watched it because of Russel Crowe. He’s been a favorite actor of mine since “Gladiator.”

Anyway, I read plenty of reviews beforehand. Some were good. Some were bad. All ventured to employ various levels of philosophical – theological – ideological interpretation.

Still, no matter what I read, I did my best to keep an open mind with the film. I really did. It’s just that I struggle with film adaptations of Biblical stories in general. Being an exegetical theologian – that is, someone who studies the texts in the original languages – in my opinion, the folks who produce these films just never seem to bridle the potency of the language and get the stories right. The inclination toward creative liberty is almost always too strong, and with that, they miss so much color and contour, and even more so, the essential substance. You don’t even need to retain the entirety of the theology for the story of a worldwide flood to be a rather gripping cinematographic gem.

Unfortunately, “Noah” was no different than the low-budget wannabe adaptations. The movie was simply terrible.

The acting was horrible. The cinematography was incredibly shallow. The characters were boring. The digital animation was some of the lamest I’ve seen in a while. Well, I did watch a “Barbie” movie with the girls the other night and that was much worse. But not by much. And I wasn’t rooting for Barbie’s demise.

You really have to get the machete of perseverance out in order to cut a trail through this jip and make it to a place where you care even in the least for pointing out that this movie is brimming (as expected) with bad theology, socio-political agendas (Green Peace, PETA, and the like), and plenty of other distracting garbage. And again, all of this hovers dangerously close to the edge of visual obscurity because the movie is just… plain… bad.

In fact, let me offer it this way.

If this were an accurate depiction and I were God, I would have gone ahead and rid the earth of Noah and his family, too. I know, I know. That means going back on the promise to redeem the world through an eventual Messiah, but hey, that’s precisely why I’m not God.

I’ve made better home movies. Truly, I have. Take a look. Here’s one I made some years ago in our old house when my oldest was five years old… Sugar Frosted Chocolate Powder Bombs.

I suppose that the whole experience was made much worse because I was sipping from a bottle of Old Smuggler Blended Scotch Whisky that (according to the one who gave it to me) had been in a cupboard in Maryland since the late 1970s.

He was wrong about the age, though. The tax stamp on the side has the Maryland Comptroller Louis Goldstein’s name on it. This particular tax stamp was used from 1951 to 1971, which means it was around long before the late 70s. And as you can see from the photo that I took before I poured it, the fill line was good and the whisky was clear, suggesting an edition unscathed by the elements. My guess it that the contents were probably pretty close to being as they were when first put there. Thusly, I’m assuming the whisky was just as awful between 1951 and 1971.

The nose is a familiar but ghastly apparition. With the first sniff, I knew I’d smelled something similar in the past. I searched my garage until I discovered it – acetone. Except this stuff adds to the bitterness with a little bit of something sweet. Not sugar. Pixie Stick powder, perhaps. Yeah, that’s it. Pixie Sticks and acetone. That’s exactly what you get with this stuff.

I think it was in the first sip that I actually called call out for God to just go ahead and take Noah down with his vessel. The movie was boring, and so was the whisky. Although smelling like it might be used to remove adhesive residue from pretty much any surface, there’s relatively little flavor to it. It’s plain. Maybe just a little bit of sour alcohol and a slight strewing of buttery oak. But that’s it. I expected more “chemical,” but surprisingly, it wasn’t there.

Is it a medium finish? A long finish? I can’t say for sure.

The first sip seemed long. The next seemed to dissipate much more swiftly. Either way, both burned lengthily enough for the dram to be considered distinctly unpleasant – like the movie “Noah.”

Review – Maker’s Mark, “46”, (No Age Stated), 47%

I was almost afraid to write this review. Almost.

I received a plentiful haul of encouragement from Maker’s Mark disciples that I should reconsider my previous remarks concerning the standard release of their lord and savior.

Did I say “encouragement”? I meant harassment. Some came by email. Others were offered as comments on the blog, most of which I deleted because they didn’t meet the guidelines for posting. Oh yeah, and because they were crass and insulting.

So, as I said, I was a bit nervous as I wrote this review, and yet, here it is. I must be brave, right? Or stupid. I’m sure some of you will be more than happy to decide which is most accurate.

Whichever you decide, it shan’t affect the result of the tasting. And so if you’ll at least allow, I’ll explain my findings in the following way.

Maker’s Mark folks see their brand of whisky as this…

Some are even mystically starry-eyed to see it as this…

And yet, I’m pretty sure that it’s really more along the lines of this…

Still, even as I type these words and sip the “46,” I can say that I’m willing to give the distillery a little bit of leeway for designing something worth consuming. This stuff isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s pretty good.

The nose is really rather pleasant, giving over an incredibly full aura of vanilla frosting and what seemed like the warmed sugar glaze used on freshly baked doughnuts. There’s a hint of oak, but barely.

The palate is a vanilla-laden bite of fresh bread and aged oak, and as if that wasn’t enough, there’s the hint of a cinnamon-honey dip.

The finish is good, but not exceptional. There’s a little bit of nip from a receding spice, and yet even as it departs, the vanilla sweetness remains through to a medium departure.

Now, before you accuse me of throwing the disciples a bone for fear of finding myself in the reticule of the crazies’ negative commentary, look to the photos above and understand. The standard release – the most popular of Maker’s Mark whiskies – is viscerally undrinkable. I would not spend another dollar on it even if Bill Samuels, Jr. showed up at my door with a baseball bat and a case of the “46.” Unfortunately, there’s no way to explain away its lesser quality in comparison to so many other Bourbons and maintain the veracity of my efforts.

So, with that, feel free to accost me. Or don’t. Either way, we can still toast with a dram of Maker’s Mark. Of course, I’ll choose the “46” and you’ll drink your stuff. Yes, you’ll drink your stuff and I’ll drink mine. And your stuff will be crappier than mine.

Review – Compass Box, The Lost Blend, (No Age Stated), 46%

She was little and grayed and pushing a shallow cart of groceries. I was beside the bin of sweet corn removing cobs from their waxy sheaths. There was barely a span of four feet between us, and within that span, a roll of tear-away sacks and a scale for measuring the weight of whichever produce selections the customers were fancying that day.

She lifted a bunch of grapes from her basket, and as they crossed the expanse between us, she tore away a few of the bunch’s individuals and then set the rest on the scale.

I thought nothing of it. Certainly so many have casually snatched a few here and there to munch while wandering the seemingly endless arteries of the store.

But then she removed the grapes from the scale, tore off another handful, shoved them in her mouth, and then set the bunch back on the scale’s pedestal.

And then she did it again.

And again.

Finally, after a few more mouthfuls, the cluster eventually measuring at the weight she preferred, she tore free a plastic sack and pulled it up and around what was remaining of the grape bunch.

Now, what was I to make of this? It certainly was the boldest bit of in-store snacking I’d ever seen. In fact, I’ll bet that whoever was monitoring the security cameras above us was even at the very moment wrestling with what to do.

She ate at least a third of the bunch, and yet who is so bold as to arrest a hunched-over and grandmotherly 85-year-old woman for shoplifting – that is, for eating far more than a legitimate taste-test of fresh grapes? And she so brazenly performed her dastardly deed right in front of me as though she was completely without care, which led me to believe that I should not be surprised if I return next week to find her near the lettuce with a fork and a bowl in hand, having already used a pocket knife to chop up some tomatoes and cucumbers, and a freshly opened bottle of Italian dressing in her shopping cart.

The only thing I can figure is that she was a walking amalgam of “old school” and “fixed income” and she was not going to pay the asking price for the grapes. She didn’t care who was watching. She didn’t care if anyone would speak up. She was going to choose the bunch she wanted and then whittle it down until it met the price she could afford to pay.

Come to think of it, the sweet corn looked pretty pathetic. The price-per-cob certainly didn’t match the quality. For every cob you buy, you should get two more. With that, I wonder if anyone would have confronted a clergyman boiling some water right there next to the bin, dropping in a few cobs, and while they cooked, hustling back through the store to grab some spray butter, salt, and a few paper plates.

Too bad I couldn’t get away with something like this in a liquor store. As I get older, and with the price of Scotch ever on the incline, there may come a time when the essentials – such as the Compass Box’s “The Lost Blend” – will be needed and this penniless clergyman will be forced to test the fortitude of the college student monitoring the security camera. I mean, who would be so bold to arrest a hunched-over and grandfatherly 85-year-old clergyman for taking a sip from a whisky bottle?

Well, come to think of it, I guess I would. With only 12,018 bottles of this stuff in circulation, we shouldn’t be letting any ol’ ratchet start popping corks while wandering through the store. Corral those folks into the Scoresby and Clan Macgregor section. This fine whisky needs protecting.

The nose of this delightful dram is a plentifully sweet mixture of fruit and amiable peat smoke. The charred mist so distantly nips at the edges of a full-bodied cruet of white grape juice soaking ripened nectarines.

On the palate, the smoke steps forward to take to itself the credit it deserves in the formula, and yet it by no means steals away the spotlight from what seems to be the more prominent highland character of the edition. The fruits mentioned earlier remain, except their abundant sweetness is now being tempered by a warming char – again, not prominent, just noticeable.

The finish is a delightful balance and summary of everything noted, and not only that, but a gentle tap of sugary malt makes its way in and through the medium fade.

Now, speaking of 85-year-olds wandering through the liquor store popping corks – who am I kidding? I’ll most likely be dead before I’m 65. But if I do reach 85, I’ll probably be the one working part time at the store monitoring the security cameras so that I can afford the essentials. But who’s to say that a bottle of “The Lost Blend” (if it still exists) wouldn’t go missing?

Review – Tap 357, Canadian Maple Rye Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40.5%

I don’t know if other clergy wives do this, but some years ago, my wife put various sticky notes with kindly messages into a few conspicuous places in the hymnal that I use while presiding over the liturgy.

Every time I come across one, it makes me smile. I smile because even though I already know they’re there, I’m usually so incredibly focused on what I’m doing that when I turn the page and discover one, it’s always a surprise.

She’s good at stuff like that. Being cognizant of the age-old and ungodly statistic that at any given moment in a pastor’s ministry at least 20% of the congregation wishes he wasn’t their pastor, she puts tangible things before me in the right places and at the right moments to remind me that in addition to the Lord Himself, there’s at least one in the crowd who loves the pastor more than anything in the world.

I’m glad she’s mine.

Speaking of that 20% statistic and a loving spouse, you know what she could do to my hymnal that would be really cool? She could cut out a section just big enough to hold a miniature flask.

I’m just kidding, of course.

But if I wasn’t, you know what I’d put in the flask?

Not the Tap 357 Canadian Maple Rye Whisky, that’s for sure.

It’s far too syrupy in the nose, making it something that would be nearly impossible to handle in a clandestine manner. Folks would most certainly smell the sugary tree sap and buttery rye all the way in the back of the church nave.

The palate isn’t too bad, although again, it’s a creamy sorghum of mostly maple with very little else finding its way through. I know there’s rye in there somewhere. And I’m pretty sure there’s a little bit of spice swimming alongside, too. But I can’t give anything definitive with regard to their properties. There’s just too many “natural flavors” (as the label indicates) added.

The finish is medium in length, which is too long. The artificial flavoring needs to go away much more quickly. That is, unless you like walking around with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth by whatever it is that they actually put in this stuff to give it the maple flavoring.

If you actually like whisky, this isn’t for you. If you like to pretend, then maybe. In other words, I suppose this stuff is suited for the sort of folks who want things that are kind of like the originals, but in the end, aren’t really.

In that sense, Lutherans probably shouldn’t drink this stuff. It’s better suited for non-denominationalists and mega-church goers.

Review – James Oliver Rye Whisky, 2 Years Old, 50%

“Are there hurricanes where the earth shakes?” the six-year-old shouted over the radio newscast from the back seat.

“What?” I asked and adjusted both the volume and the rearview mirror to give her my attention.

“The man on the radio,” she attempted to explain, “he said there’s a hurricane in Florida right now.”

“He sure did.”

“Are there hurricanes where the earth shakes?” she asked again.

Attempting to remain focused in the midst of some pretty heavy traffic, I was genuinely confused by her question.

“What do you mean, Honey?”

“Are there hurricanes where the earth shakes?”

“Evelyn,” I said, “I really don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

“You don’t?”

“No, honey, I don’t.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let me ask you in a different way.”

She took a deep breath and appeared to expand the presence of her posture and the animation of her gaze. Gritting her teeth and widening her eyes, she shook her hands in the air in front of her and spoke loudly and in as deep a voice as she could muster, “Are there hurricanes where the earth shakes?!”

That didn’t help me, but I pretended it did.

“Oh, I get it now,” I nodded and tried not to laugh. “I don’t think there are. Nope, no hurricanes where the earth shakes.”

“I didn’t think so,” she said crossing her arms back to her chest and looking out the window.

I sure hope I didn’t set her back educationally in some way. I can see her coming to me a little later in life to report that she failed her meteorology exam and holds me responsible.

“Sorry, kid. I was trying to pay attention to the road and you weren’t making any sense that day. My best guess in the moment was that you were trying to ask if the places that experience earthquakes also suffer the battering of hurricanes. I didn’t know, and for a moment I thought you were going to fly out of your car seat trying to dramatize the same words again and again until I gave you an answer. So, I gave you one.”

Sometimes figuring out the contours of a whiskey for the sake of a review is a “best guess” for me, as I’m sure it is for other whiskey reviewers. Take for example the James Oliver Rye Whiskey from Indio Spirits. When I first popped the cork, I smelled what I thought was apple wine. But believe it or not, at the time, I didn’t actually know if there was such a thing. I assumed there probably was because people make wine out of just about everything these days. In fact, I read an article not all that long ago about pumpkin wine as well as a wine made from lizards. I figured that if these aberrations existed, certainly apple wine did, too. And if it did, then this is what it probably smelled like. I’ve since smelled apple wine, and guess what… I was right.

The palate of the James Oliver Rye holds a little bit of intrigue, too. There are some honey notes as well as a prominence of the rye grain, but then there’s something else, and my best guess is a honey crisp apple soaked in buttermilk that has a pinch of horseradish mixed in.

Weird. Not a bad “weird,” but more of a captivating “weird.”

The finish is medium to long, depending upon how long you let this stuff simmer in your mouth. Still, you needn’t be afraid to keep it in there a while even though it may seem a little feistier at 50% ABV. It’s still a smooth-ending whiskey, with only a tad bit of the horseradish poking you in the neck. I don’t generally appreciate anyone or anything putting jabs to my neckline, but I found this whiskey’s spicy intrusion to be less offensive and rather enjoyable.

I do have two suggestion for the folks at Indio. First, maybe once you get this stuff onsite there in Oregon, you could let the whisky age for another year or two? At two years old, I wonder if this stuff is reaching its potential. And second, get someone to rewrite the blurb on the side of the bottle. I know that when it comes to summarizing the life of the whiskey’s namesake in a one-inch by one-inch space, there’s only so much anyone can do to get the right words in the right order, so maybe farm it out to someone other than the person who etched the current rendition. It isn’t very well written, and with that, it’s a lot less interesting. It’s a sort of “hurricanes where the earth shakes” type of communique and it left me wondering just what to do with it. I’ll bet if you tightened it up, it would further the mystique of the edition.

Again, that’s a best guess.

Desert Island Drams Series – Amateur Drammer

When you get a chance, stop by AmateurDrammer.com. Great site. Good stuff.

Andy

And, by the way, the proprietor, Andy, so kindly added me to his “Desert Island Drams” series, asking me which dram I would prefer if stranded.

Too bad all of the participants in this particular series couldn’t be stranded together. With the selections noted by the others in the group, I guarantee the island would no longer be uncharted and we would probably need to issue visas and require passports to visit us.

Take a look… Angelsportion Desert Island Dram.