Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 33

Review – Pendleton, Blended Canadian Rye Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

Can you guess where these photos were taken?

An international airport, maybe?

A ritzy shopping mall, perhaps?

A gilded hotel lobby, you surmise?

No. No. And no.

These were snapped in a three-story McDonald’s at the corner of Sand Lake Road and International Drive in Orlando, Florida.

All we want are six hot fudge sundaes. Sounds pretty straight forward, eh? Again, no, no, and no. The place is a swirling madhouse, and apparently it’s trying to be cutting edge because it has decided that kiosks are the best way to take the visiting customers’ meal requests before setting them loose to wander around wondering where to acquire the food they just ordered.

Okay. So, I’m at the giant touch screen kiosk. It won’t let me order a sundae. I press the button for dessert items and up pops the sundaes, but I press the sundae icon and nothing happens.

I press it again. The young employee circling through the kiosks tells me I just need to press the button for the sundae I want. I tell him I already did. He says to try again. I try again. Nothing happens. I turn to inform him of his incredible wrongness and he’s gone.

Now what?

I press it again. And again. I exit out. I choose the desserts again. I choose the sundaes. I press it again. One more time. There’s the stupid hot fudge sundae right in front of me in all of its high definition glory.

I turn the angle of my gaze so that the fluorescent lights can shine on the particular section of the touch screen where I’m pressing to see if perhaps there’s greasy french fry film… or mucus… or a highly infectious disease obstructing my progress, but I don’t see anything, although bacteria and viruses are quite small.

A line is forming behind me. The young man returns to tell me that I just need to choose the item I want. Before I can speak, he’s gone. I’m starting to think that he’s a figment of my imagination, an apparition of bygone service that I am secretly hoping for.

I choose the sundae again. And again. One more time and it’s finally added to my shopping cart. But just one.

“You mean I have to do this five more times?!”

“No,” Josh says and points to the basket. “Just hit the plus sign to add five more.”

“Yeah, just touch the screen,” I say sarcastically. “It will do exactly what I want.” Ready to take out the van key and scratch “Kilroy was here” into the screen before me, “Let’s give it a shot,” I say and tap the plus symbol a few times to test it.

I now have ten sundaes.

I want six.

No. I want to leave.

Wait, no. I want a shot of whisky.

I can tell you what the manager of this McDonald’s is going to want very soon – an armed security guard.

“Just choose the number of sundaes you want by pressing the plus symbol on the screen,” the apparition appears and says and then flitters away to another kiosk.

“You saw him, right Josh?” I asked the boy and pointed. “I mean, he’s real, yes?”

“Yeah, he’s real.”

“Okay. Just making sure my rage isn’t causing me to hallucinate.”

I press the minus symbol as though I were attempting to pet a lady bug. I do it four times. I now have five sundaes. Why? I can count. Ten minus four is six. Apparently here at Sand Lake and International drive, it isn’t.

I need one more sundae. I press the plus symbol one more time – one very gentle time. I have six – six glorious ice cream sundaes! Hurray and hurrah and praise be!

Now what?

“Thank you for your order” is the machine’s only word.

“Seriously, now what?” I demand of the kiosk out loud. “Where do I go? What do I do?”

I wait for an answer, a fuller bearing to direct my path because I assure you that there’s no way in Hades I intend to try to figure out where to go next on my own. The whole place is full of people wandering around like psychiatric patients asking each other where they are and where they are supposed to be.

“Now make your way to the front of that line,” the apparition appears and motions. “Go straight to the counter.”

Oh, um, no. I don’t think so. There are like twenty people in that line. I’m not going to cut in front of all of those confused and angry people and go straight to the counter. I can smell they’re frustration from way over here. They’re just like me – confused, scared, and teetering on a basic instinct to employ self-preservation tactics. When they see me go straight to the counter, they’ll attack me like a pack of savage wolves, gut me, and string me up on the flagpole out by International Drive. Oh no. I’m getting in line – the very end of the line.

Standing there, I decide to take a private poll from fellow patrons. The results are as I imagined. 100% of those questioned have no idea what’s going on or what to expect. They are standing in the line because that’s the only thing that feels right.

Over the course of a few minutes, a few trays and bags are set on the counter before this gathering swarm of unsated purchasers. The whole group becomes restless.

Time passes. The food waits. Amidst a flurry of workers, one young girl comes trotting by and stops at the orders.

She inspects one of the bags.

“Esssysixmmpplle,” I hear the young girl barely mumble from behind the counter. No one can hear her over the noise, and the fact that she pretty clearly wants to be somewhere else doesn’t help boost her volume.

I look at my receipt. It says 886.

“Essysixmmppllee,” she says again with even less vigor while looking off into the horizon beyond the wild and tangled vacationers before her.

“Is she saying 886?” I ask Josh.

“I don’t think she knows what she’s saying,” he says.

“Did you say 886?” I call above the crowd.

“Hot fudge sundaes?” she calls back lifting one of the bags that had been sitting there for quite some time.

“How many sundaes?” I ask.

“Six.”

“Awesome.”

Six hot fudge sundaes. Six warm, soup-filled bowls of what was once soft-serve and chocolate.

Moving through the line full of salivating tourists, I reach for the bag and ask in frankness, “Do you have any idea what’s going on in this place?”

“Huh?” she says sounding somewhat startled that a real live human being has asked her a question.

“I have no idea what’s going on in this place,” I say. “Do you?”

“Sure,” she says and gives a grin. “Well, sometimes. This place is crazy.”

“Yeah, it is,” I affirm. “Take care, dear child. Take care.”

I manage to find my family just past the elevator and around the corner near the stairs leading to a second level which houses the play arena – or in Josh’s words, the gateway to the Velociraptor den. He’s right. It sounds like a bunch of children running and screaming while being chased by a bloodthirsty pack of something. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that it is, indeed, a predation event – nature being nature – starving parents who waited in the line for far too long and have elected to catch and eat the more vulnerable members of their families. They’ve got them all cornered in the plastic towers, netted bridges, and swirly slides.

Who cares. We drink our sundaes and we leave.

It takes us one hour to drive twelve miles in the Orlando rush hour traffic. That’s okay. I can understand this line. I know where it leads. I know why I’m here. There are great big green signs to help me if I become downtrodden or flummoxed. I know what I’m supposed to do and when to do it. It isn’t the McDonald’s at the corner of Sand Lake Road and International Drive. It isn’t a surrealistic nightmare.

When we arrive home, it’s time for dinner. After I manage to slice my thumb trying to open a can of mandarin oranges with an opener that doesn’t work, I wrap my mangled digit in paper towels glazed with Neosporin, pour myself a glass of the Deveron 12-year-old (because it’s what I have on hand here with me in Orlando), call up my my tasting notes for the Pendleton Blended Canadian Whisky, and start to read.

Scanning my notes, I realize that I needn’t say much. Besides, this particular yarn has unraveled much too far and for long enough.

So, how about this…

If you want a whisky that smells like caramel and touchscreen kiosk cleaning solution, has a rather unbalanced palate of vanilla cream imbued with spicy ketchup, and finishes with barely a nip of the promised rye, then this is your whisky. Throw down the $25 and drink up.

Personally, I much prefer the sweet victory won against a less-than-cooperative kiosk in order to gain an ice cream sundae I need a straw to consume, followed by slow-moving rush hour traffic and a gored thumb. But hey, that’s just me. I’m finicky with my booze and I’m on vacation.

Review – The Lost Distillery Company, Classic Selections, Benachie, (No Age Stated), 43%

I’m calling June 30, 2016 “The Day of Ten Surprises.”

The simplified goal was to travel two hours to Venice Beach and then return by bedtime. In short, we met our goal, but we won’t be trying it again anytime soon.

The first surprise of the trip was a good one. We left a little after 2:00 pm because we wanted to miss the strongest part of the day’s sun, and having already spent most of the morning in the pool and then the lunchtime hours playing several rather noisy rounds of various board games, all four of the kids napped for most of the drive. This is good, because two of the four are stereotypical “Are we there yet?” and “I have to go potty!” kind of kids and I was running out of patience with at least one of them.

The second surprise was the road construction. Tons of it. Did I say two-hour trip? Oh, I’m sorry. I meant three hours.

When we were actually able to drive faster than three miles-per-hour, the third surprise was the heavy wind and rain storm that passed above us as we drew closer to Tampa. It revealed to us that at some point in our rental vehicle’s history, its windshield had been replaced, except incorrectly. Thankfully we didn’t notice any water leaks, but we did have to listen to what sounded like cats strapped to the interior and exterior of the van screeching and clawing one another as if it were a feline battle scene from an Erin Hunter book.

The Fourth surprise: We knew our eleven-year-old daughter was sensitive to the sunscreen we’d been using, and even though we’d bought about ten different lotions, we couldn’t find one that didn’t burn. But our six-year-old daughter hadn’t shown any signs of being bothered by any of the sunscreens. Well, apparently her time was now. When we finally arrived and I started to put it on her face, she transformed from a little girl bopping along in anticipation of some beach-time fun to a warning siren screeching a massive herald to all that sharknados actually are possible and one was coming so they’d better take shelter.

Jen took her into one of the public bathrooms to wash her face, but it was too late. The lotion had soaked in and she was miserable. A disconsolate six-year-old changes the tenor of any gathering not to mention it is pretty amazing how someone so small can clear out a pleasant little pavilion of people resting, reading, and visiting in the shade.

And yet, we were going to press forward.

The fifth surprise is that while we were fully prepared with snacks and waters and towels and pretty much everything else we might need (we even brought a jug of water to wash feet as well as two colanders to sift for shells and shark’s teeth in the sand), a few of us were without flip-flops which meant we would need to take off our shoes and socks in order to march across 200 yards of sand to a place near the ocean’s edge. And so we did.

Another scream. The sand was so incredibly hot from the day’s heat that I’m surprised it hadn’t turned to glass.

The shoes went back on our feet. Still, we pressed forward.

The sixth surprise was the strange – and brown – milky film that appeared to extend about thirty feet out and stretched along the entirety of the shoreline. There was nowhere to enter the water without moving through the murk. And of course, my initial thoughts: “A bout of flesh-eating bacteria sure would be icing on today’s cake,” and “Bull sharks live for murky water and this is the ‘shark teeth’ capital of the world, yes?”

We walked the shoreline for about twenty minutes or so picking up shells and dawdling in ankle-deep water before the fair-skinned bunch from Michigan, half of whom couldn’t wear sun-screen on their faces without causing chemical burns… and the lack of sunscreen was starting to show, decided enough was enough. The sun was still too strong, the water looked more like sewage, and all were in agreement that the excursion wasn’t turning out as we’d hoped.

The seventh surprise: I was charged with carrying the jug of water for washing the feet of those without sandals… but I forgot it. The sun still scorching the barren landscape between us and the van, Jen carried the youngest, a shoeless nine-year-old hopped onto the back of his sixteen-year-old brother, the sandaled eleven-year-old walked on her own, and I, one of the barefooted ones, hauled the supplies.

I’m the only one who knows about the eighth surprise. Well, I guess you’re about to know it.

When we got back to the pavilion near the car and started to wash feet with the water jug, the sand was so tenacious that I knew we’d run out before we got it all off, so I took the boys around the corner to see if there was an outdoor shower. Sure enough, there was.

Josh went first and then stood off to the side while I helped Harry. There was a wooden railing around the facility and so when Harry was clean, I lifted him up and set him on the railing so that he could dry his feet and put on his shoes.

I started to wash my feet when I noticed that the railing was covered in ants. I didn’t say anything to Harry. I just took him off of the railing, brushed off the ten or twelve ants that had already climbed aboard, checked him over, and then had him finish over by Joshua. I finished and we went back to the car.

Phew. That was a close one.

The girls were already inside, the air-conditioning was on full, and we left.

Like the first surprise, the ninth and tenth surprises were good ones.

The ninth surprise: We drove an hour and then stopped for dinner at a Red Lobster. I was taking a huge chance with this one because my kids, like most I’m sure, need to be convinced to try new foods. Sea food is a rarity for us. I love it. Jen hates it. The kids have never been willing to try it, so now, with their guards down – exhausted, weak, and hungry – I was going to give it a shot.

Yeah. Taking a big chance with an irritable bunch. Looking back, I’m thinking I must have been in “Clark Griswold” mode because even though I knew full well that a MacDonald’s would have been more than sufficient, I was going to see to the Thoma family enjoying a seafood meal even if it killed everyone in the restaurant.

When the hostess, Shaina, noted that the wait was about 30 to 40 minutes, I momentarily snapped out of “Griswold” mode and told her that it had been a rough day, the kids were starving, and that we were just going to go ahead and find another place. Sympathetic to our sorrows, she was kind enough to bump my bedraggled family of six to the front of the line, pretending before all the others in the waiting room that we’d called ahead and were arriving in time for our reservation. We got right in.

If you are reading this, Shaina, you are awesome. Although your actions rekindled the flame of my inner “Griswold” and jeopardized every last patron in the joint.

The tenth surprise was that the whole family (except Jen – she had soup and the complimentary biscuits) loved the fish. Even Evelyn, the kid who pretty much forces us to eat meals five seconds at a time (“Evelyn, that food on your fork has exactly five seconds to get into a hole on your face, so either you can choose the hole or I can choose it”) she ate shrimp and a few fried clams. Amazing. And the time together will be remembered as a highlight of the trip.

Now, why this lengthy sequence of events in order to share my experience with The Lost Distillery Company’s Benachie edition? Because it’s the day after “The Day of Ten Surprises,” I’m here by the pool looking at my tasting notes for this blended whisky, and the first words on the page are “A bottle of surprises.” It works.

This is a whisky that I didn’t necessarily expect to be much of anything, but found, for the most part, a surprising sequence of particulars that made it worth the purchase.

The nose was sweet and very much reminiscent of a dessert wine. Although with a deeper inhalation, it seemed to become somewhat bitter, as though the wine was a distillation of both concord and wild grapes.

The palate was unpredictably similar to what I’ve experienced with editions such as the Glendronach 15 Revival edition. I sensed wild cherries and a stout beer. Again, a much fuller, fruitier experience than I expected.

The finish was short (like our time on the beach) and clean (unlike our time on the beach), doling out some malted cherries and a tad bit of nuttiness (like our time on the beach).

It was far better than I expected, although sweeter than I would normally prefer. I would recommend sipping it as an after-meal dram.

Or after a salty seafood dinner following six hours of agonizing Florida fun.

Review – The Deveron, 12 Years Old, 40%

I could see that Jen was holding back the tears. She’d planned and directed this vacation with concierge style, and yet what was before us wasn’t as it had been marketed.

The house was much smaller than communicated. The swimming pool was only a smidgeon larger than a hot tub and nothing that would accommodate a family of six. The advertised game room was actually a tiny garage with a sliding door that didn’t meet fully with the ground. Just beyond the garage door was a driveway infested with ants threatening to make their way inside.

And there was something else, but we didn’t know it just yet.

We’d already carried ten days’ worth of groceries into the house and put them all away, and although disappointed by the pool size, the kids were pestering us to let them swim. And so we did.

“We looked forward to this all year,” Jen said. “We need this time for us, and I wanted it to be perfect.”

She’d already sent a few emails from her phone to complain as well as get word to the owner of the home we stayed in last year to see if it was available.

“It will be fine,” I said. “If we’re bothered by it, then the kids will be bothered by it, too. Let’s make the best of it and enjoy the ten days.”

“If we can get into somewhere else, do you want to go?” she asked. “It will double our budget because we won’t get the money back for this place.”

“We’ll be fine,” I answered. I really wanted her to be okay and to know that I was happy just being away with her and the kids. She was right. We needed this time to be restful because it’s all we have all year long.

“I’m going to unload the suitcase,” I said and hugged her. “Don’t worry. Go sit with the kids. This will be fun.”

She did.

I was gone only a few minutes before I returned to the bunch and called through the doorway to the pool area, “Get your things. We’re leaving. Now.”

“What is it?!” Jen asked and hopped up.

“Josh, watch your brother and sisters while Momma and I pack up,” I said.

As I was traveling toward the first of the bedrooms with the family suitcase in tow, I noticed what looked like frays at the edges and corners of the carpeting. I didn’t have my glasses on, so I couldn’t quite tell what I was seeing. Once my glasses were on my face and I got a better look, I started to sweat. I walked through each bedroom and made the same discoveries.

There were dead cockroaches everywhere. We were not staying.

It was then that Jen’s phone had pinged with the message of all messages – the home we had rented last year was indeed available and we could move in as soon as we made the payment. And so, with my debit card in hand, I called the number and gave over next year’s vacation budget to the wonderfully accomodating person on the other end of the line. We were in the home within the hour.

I hate bugs. Jen hates bugs. Let me tell you how much.

I hose down my house with Ortho Home Defense pretty much every six months just to keep out things like spiders, pill bugs, ants, and other more or less harmless creepy crawlers. They belong outside. If I see them outside, I leave them alone. If they come indoors, well, I welcome them much in the same way that I would welcome someone breaking in to steal my TV.

But I can guarantee you that it matters not where I discover a cockroach. Inside or outside my home, I kill them.

And. I. Kill. Them. With. Great. Joy.

God forbid I ever discover one in our home. Gasoline and match in hand, Jen and I are in full agreement that the only course forward would be to burn the place to the ground and start over.

I’ve learned that the people in Florida like to refer to them as “palmetto bugs,” which I’m guessing is their delusional way of making them sound a little less threatening. But we Michigan folks know them as cockroaches – filthy, pestilent, disease-carrying cockroaches – perhaps second in nightmarish dread only to bed bugs, which by the way, would also trigger the nuclear option in our home if they were ever discovered.

There is a light at the end of this vacation tunnel. In fact, there are several.

The first is that, as I already mentioned, we planned to stay in Florida for ten days this year instead of seven as we did last year. All of this happened the very first day and so it is behind us. The second is that we’re together and we’re resting. The third is that on our way to the other home, I stopped at a liquor store to pick up parental nerve suppressors – whisky for me and wine coolers for Jen – and I discovered an edition I’ve not been able to acquire in Michigan: The Deveron 12-Year-Old.

I’ll say that when the news came through that we’d be able to get into the other house, I experienced an inner elation. We had been tested, but everything had turned for the good. Not knowing what to expect with this mid-range Scotch, and yet, sitting beside a familiar swimming pool at the end of a challenging day, doing what I loved doing – writing, listening to the family laughing, lifting the whisky’s cork and breathing in what was a welcoming embrace of apples and sweet malt, I was indeed vacationing and unconcerned with the day’s events and the choices made. All was well.

A sip from this fine dram confirmed the same peace. It ushered me into the malt from the nosing and then added a thicker, warmer apple pie filling sprinkled with more than enough cinnamon and wood spice to tickle the tongue. Positively delightful.

The finish – a warm and slightly biting swallow of brown sugar and baked apples that gradually transformed into pears. Very nice.

I would encourage the reader that if you discover this dram, buy it. It certainly has the potential to further the heartening of the disheartened and to be the happy ending for any day’s story.

Review – Hibiki, Japanese Harmony, (No Age Stated), 43%

Like many car stereos these days, mine is designed with the ability to play music from a flash drive, and since I’m pretty much the bus driver for the family, I keep a couple of flash drives loaded with various artists.

On the way to school in the mornings, I usually give the children the opportunity to take turns choosing different songs. With this, each makes a selection, and we listen.

Early one morning during our dutiful travels, a particularly dreadful conversation unfolded…

“So, guys, what do you want to listen to?”

Calls for all sorts of bands came blaring back.

“Maddy, today’s your day to go first,” I decided. “What do you want to listen to?”

“Umm… I dunno,” she said. “Play something from when you were a kid. Play something from the 40s.”

Although momentarily stunned by the possibility that my daughter thought I was thirty years older than I actually am, I gave a quick enough joust to her innocent remark.

“Maddy, I wasn’t born in the 40s. I was born in 70s. I’m currently in my 40s.”

“Well,” she said barely bothered by her mistake, “play something you listened to when you were a kid.”

“Okay,” I said and began scrolling through the bands on the flash drive, eventually landing at Pearl Jam.

“Here’s one for you,” I called back to the crew. “See if you like this.”

I clicked through to the song “Animal,” and turned it up. It wasn’t long before all of the car’s passengers were in a jive and singing what few lyrics could be discerned from Eddie Vedder’s trademark incoherence.

“So, do you guys like this stuff?” I shouted back in mid-chorus, still singing, “I’d rather be… I’d rather be with… I’d rather be with an animal.” All smiled and gave their approval.

When the song finally came to an end, Maddy called out again, “Now play something from when you were a kid.”

Huh?

“Maddy, I just did! That was Pearl Jam! I used to listen to them in High School and College!”

“What?! But… but that was cool.”

Sigh. I’m already fearing fifty.

I suppose I should just go ahead and figure out what I’m worth to these twits dead, and after an insult like that, there’s one thing I know for sure. They can have whatever else is coming to them by way of inheritance, but there’s no way I’ll be leaving my prized whisky collection to any of these ingrates. When I finish this review, I’ll be calling my attorney and adding a paragraph to my last will and testament instructing, first, that I’d like to be embalmed with the contents of my Balvenie editions; and second, that all the rest of my whiskies are to be tucked around my mortal remains in the casket and planted with me into the earth – the Hibiki Harmony edition being no exception.

Apart from the slightly curing nose which suggests freshly cut and lacquered oak, this is a fine Japanese whiskey worthy of such devotion. With the first sip I was an instant admirer, relishing freshly picked kakis and a cast of sherry. A second sip brought along a distant bit of singed pine. No, not oak. Pine.

The finish is a medium, well-balanced sweep of pears and pastry dough – just the kind of whiskey one would want before slipping off into the great goodnight.

I suppose that when my daughter accounted to me a generation that I neither own nor deserve, I should have accepted the honor, praised her, and played some Glen Miller or Bing Crosby to celebrate. I do have that sort of stuff on one of the flash drives.

On second thought, she insinuated that the honored generation was uncool.

“Madeline… honey… you’re grounded.”

Review – Auchetoshan, Classic, (No Age Stated), 40%

He thought for a moment and then asked, “Pastor, do you believe in UFOs?”

“Why, yes, I do actually,” I answered without hesitation.

A bit surprised, the Lutheran begged more, “But doesn’t that goes against the Bible?”

“You asked if I believed in UFOs – unidentified flying objects – and I said that I do.”

“But…”

I interrupted the inquisitor before he could blow a gasket.

“As a kid who grew up with an older brother,” I continued definitively, “UFOs were rather common.”

“They were?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But they were only unidentifiable for the first few milliseconds that they were in flight. Once they ricocheted from the side of my head and landed on the ground, I was usually able to identify them.”

I kept going.

“Most often I discovered that they were things like tennis balls or rocks. Once I was even hit by a dead frog. And trust me, the propulsion system for these mysterious phenomena isn’t all that advanced.”

“Pastor,” he clarified, “I meant aliens. Do you believe in aliens?”

“I’d have to say yes to that, too,” I poked. “In fact, wasn’t Donald Trump talking about building a wall to keep them out?”

Getting my point, he went for complete clarity.

“Do you believe that there may be beings from outer space, aliens that come from other worlds and have traveled to earth in spaceships of some sort?”

“Ah,” I said. “Now I get what you mean.”

Of course, I knew what he was asking the first time he asked it, but this was a chance to show the importance of language precision before leading into a discussion on the theology of “justification,” and this eventually led to the recommendation of Robert Preus’ book Justification and Rome. In part, Preus does a fine job in the volume of showing how even though certain denominations may be using the same words, they often carry very different meanings along with those words. In an attempt to use language for clarity, ambiguity and confusion emerges. With this, it becomes necessary to ask the right questions and to carefully define the words in the questions in order that the avenues of thought behind each aren’t hidden.

We behold politicians employing the loopholes in imprecise questioning on a fairly regular basis. It’s only when persistent exactitude is employed that the foolishness of their evasion begins to truly shine through. Take for example former president Bill Clinton. I’m pretty sure he holds the pole position in the race with his infamous line before a grand jury in 1998 regarding his affair with Monica Lewinski: “It depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”

What a dope.

So what does any of this have to do with the Auchentoshan Classic? Well, the word “classic” has me puzzled. What do they mean by this, exactly?

Webster takes a stab at defining the word by offering: “Generally considered to be of the highest quality or lasting value, especially in the arts; authoritative and perfect as a standard of its kind.” A few of the other definitions offered carry the same flavor. But then there’s this one: “Something that is comically or ironically apropos.”

I’m genuinely sad here because, while I’ve never been disappointed by Auchentoshan whiskies, I feel as though I need to choose that final definition. Compared to all the other Auchentoshan editions I’ve tried, the Classic is not necessarily of “lasting value” or “authoritative as a standard of its kind,” unless that value and authoritative standard means what it means for other basic, no big deal, middle shelf whiskies.

The nose proves right away that this stuff is going be a lightweight compared to others. There’s very little to intrigue the wishful imbiber. Really concentrating, I’d say there’s a faint sprig of lilac and some canned pineapple, the metal can which houses the pineapple being the prominent scent.

A reasonable sip carefully savored sees a pinch of salt and the pineapple becoming a lemon. There’s also a little bit of something like coconut milk. It’s not necessarily bad, just incredibly faint.

The finish is fairly swift, leaving behind a little bit of a salt. The coconut milk has become thinned, unripened honey.

Did I like this stuff? Good question. I think so. It’s way better than something like J&B, and it certainly deserves a place above Label 5, but I wouldn’t feel right setting it beside its own – like the Three Wood, or even the 12-year-old. There’s much more to be found in those than there is in the Classic edition.

But that didn’t answer your question, did it? How about this for precision… It’s good enough that if it shows up in my cabinet, I’d probably drink it. It’s ambiguously unexciting enough that my favorite go-to editions would need to be awfully close to empty before I’d reach for it.

And so, before I forget… Do I believe there are such things as beings from outer space, aliens that come from other worlds, having visited earth in spaceships?

No. I don’t. I could tell you why, but that’s the narrative for a different whisky.

Review – Compass Box, Great King Street, Artist’s Blend, (No Age Stated), 43%

The door of the walk-in cooler latched behind me, and with that, I began to do what I almost always do when I go in there.

I emptied a milk crate of a few stray cartons and then turned it over so that I could sit. The difference this time around – the cooler’s light had burned out and it was pitch black. No problem. The light from my phone provided enough lucence for me to get situated in my usual spot where I would scroll through emails and articles and take a quiet moment to cool down. I do this more so in the summer mainly because I always wear black, and as I go about a day of visitations, I get very warm in the sun.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute or so after I was in and stationed when I heard the kitchen door open and saw beneath the door the shadow of someone else milling around outside the cooler.

I waited and listened, expecting them to either take what they needed and depart or open the cooler door and discover me in the dark. Neither occurred.

Now, something for the reader to keep in mind…

If I’d have exited the cooler a moment or two after the person had entered, all would be well. The visitor would most likely have figured I went in there just before and was looking for something. But if they stayed in the kitchen and attended to lengthy business, the longer I was in there, the weirder it would be when I came out.

Somewhat fearful that I’d already conceded to the “point of no return,” I decided to wait.

Fifteen minutes passed. The visitor remained just beyond the cooler door. I was more than ventilated, was starting to get uncomfortably chilly, and was up against a scheduled appointment. It was time to exit.

“This is definitely going to be weird,” I thought.

Nevertheless, I plopped my phone into my back pocket and pushed the lever to open the door.

The person beyond the gate was the mother of one of the newer students in our school, and I’m pretty sure by her expression that when the latch of the door clicked and I emerged unexpectedly from the blackness of the cooler, her heart was carried a little closer to death than she would have preferred.

With that, there was only one solution to the uncomfortable situation that I could see.

“So,” I said looking around the room. “This is where the wardrobe goes? I certainly expected Narnia to be a little more interesting. Oh! Hi, Kathy! How’s it going?”

And then I split through the gymnasium door to my immediate left and went back to my office.

As far as I know, this dear woman has already re-enrolled her children for next year, but I figure I’d better give it a week or so and then check to see if the status of her registration has changed.

In the meantime, while I wait, I’ll celebrate having a small hand in shaking the monotony from the corridors of this place, and the perfect dram for my private merriment this time around is the Compass Box Great King Street Artist’s Blend.

I really like this stuff, although I didn’t expect to. And why is that? Because for Compass Box, it was relatively cheap. Compass Box editions don’t normally hover around the $35 mark, and so in my mind, the forecast was gray. And yet, as it compares to others of its class, it’s a surprisingly good whisky. In fact, having already referenced Narnia in the account, the entirety of the edition is very much an uninvolving wardrobe that opens up into a Narnia-like experience so much grander than that of the kitchen in my school.

The nose is a prairie expanse of sweet grains stretching well into the distance, and as the flatland winds pick up, not only are you gifted with the malty sugars, but you find yourself bathed in citrus notes from what you suspect may be an orange farm just beyond the property.

The palate is a stranger, but still highly enticing concoction of rice pudding with a sweet vanilla and butter glazing. You may even sense a little bit of the citric sour typically left in the back of the throat by a quaff of freshly squeezed orange juice.

While the medium finish retains that citrus, the malt from the nosing emerges warmly with a little more muscle and nudges it from the center of your attention.

As I said, I didn’t expect what emerged from this edition. By the way, I know someone else experiencing a similar sentiment regarding the walk-in cooler at her kid’s school.

Review – Jefferson’s Kentucky Straight Bourbon, Extremely Small Batch (#497), 41.15%

The billboard is about a half mile from my church. The image currently adorning its frontage is meant to promote Father’s Day and to encourage the passerby to consider taking dad to a particular steakhouse where he might enjoy one of the restaurant’s signature Angus filets served on a cooking stone heated to about 900 degrees.

I’ve been there. It’s a nice place. And the food is great.

But now imagine that you are traveling 60 mph along the bustling thoroughfare ornamented by this massive display and you give a quick glance. The tagline “DAD DESERVES THE BEST” is certainly clear enough, however the accompanying image could be so startling that it sends you into a ditch. At a swift pace, the advertisement appears to suggest that you can show genuine devotion for dad by accompanying him to a particular venue where the proprietors are rather skilled at lopping off heads.

Take a look.

At highway speeds, that’s not a steak cleverly decked with a shirt collar and tie and resting on a powdered cooking stone. It’s the shoulders and fleshy neck of a man whose head was sawed off with a steak knife. It’s more of a “We love you, dad, but you’ve outlived your usefulness to the family so we’re taking you somewhere to put you down” kind of Father’s Day billboard.

It’s an epic fail, and had I been managing that particular marketing agency, it never would have passed the approval process. Well, not with that tagline, at least. I’m thinking something more along the lines of this:

Or maybe this:

Now, if the restaurant in question wanted to take this Father’s Day failure and make it a lot worse, they could make Scoresby Scotch and Bud Light the drink specials of the day. If they wanted to improve the circumstance, they could hop over to the local liquor store, snatch a case or two of the Jefferson’s Kentucky Straight Bourbon “Extremely Small Batch” edition and offer complimentary drams to all of the weary patriarchs who may be under the impression that their families have shepherded them to the premises for their final meal.

The end result of blending eight individual casks into a single batch, this reasonably priced whiskey reveals in the nosing that a majority of its mashbill is most definitely sweet corn. With a fuller inhalation, it sets out side dishes of nutmeg and ground ginger.

Thanking the kindly restaurateur for the generous gift, a sip is rather inviting and quite easy. The dram is warmly energetic to the palate, with a pinch of burnt (not quite caramelized) sugar and oatmeal crust followed by an obscure suggestion of melted butterscotch.

The finish sees the spices from the nosing return, but only after the initial burn begins to fade.

It’s a fine Bourbon, and it certainly goes well with a slab of beef.

Unless, of course, that slab is your head.

Review – Old Crow, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 3 Years Old, 40%

The word “benediction” comes from the Latin “benedicere,” which means “to speak well.” So in other words, when someone gives you his benediction, he is sending you on your way with a blessing and wishing you well.

Now, let me ask you…

Would you ever part company with a friend or loved one without a proper farewell? Probably not if you could help it. And why not? Because to do so would not only be bad etiquette, but it would be an offensive expression of disregard for the other person.

We have a free-standing altar in my parish. This means that while I’m serving at the altar, I do so from behind it, and with that, I can see an awful lot of what’s happening in the pews. I’m usually pretty focused on what I am doing at the time, but there is one thing that I see a few of the same people doing rather regularly, and it serves to remind me why it’s a good thing I’m not God, because if I was, every now and then the congregation would be treated to a divine display of my wrath in the form of a lightning bolt streaking across the room to smoke the Christian trying to sneak out before the Benediction.

You wouldn’t sneak away without a goodbye from someone you consider a friend, right? So why would you do it to the One you believe to be so much more, the One you claim as your Savior?

I could answer the question, but I don’t think folks would like my answer. “Too judgmental,” they’d say. “You don’t know the reason,” they’d scold. So let’s just go back to where we started, then. If the friendship is unimportant, or perhaps you don’t even really consider it to be a real friendship, you’ll be of the mind to slip away undetected. Again, why? Because you have better things to do than to spend your time this way. And besides, at least you made an appearance at the loser’s party.

“But sometimes people get pulled away unexpectedly, Reverend.”

This is true. It happened to me once back in 2011. I had to leave right after the service concluded and didn’t get a chance to shake hands with the people. Of course, I was having a mild stress-related heart attack at the time and sort of needed to get to the hospital, but hey, I get it. Sometimes there are unexpected emergencies that pull people away abruptly and there isn’t necessarily enough time for a proper goodbye. There’s room for this kind of stuff between friends, even when one of the friends happens to be the Creator of the cosmos. Still, it draws me to wonder if the same few people I see scurrying away during the Post Communion Canticle are experiencing terrifying tragedies at the exact same moment every single Sunday. Weird how that happens.

Personally, I can see only one reason for calling an abrupt end to a friendship and ducking out without a care, and that’s if the so-called compatriot sets something like the Old Crow Kentucky Straight Bourbon before you. In my mind, this is an indicator that an unknown offense has already occurred and your chum is all but showing you the door.

The nose of this dross is the rotting sweet corn at the bottom of the bin at Walmart, a mushy compilation of all the cobs that no one wanted. And by the way, there’s an earthy sense to it, suggesting that once the manager of the produce department realized that no one was going to buy this twaddle, he took it out back and dropped it into the grass behind the dumpster.

It’s nearly the same in the mouth. There you learn the truest meaning of the descriptor “old crow,” which carries the negative connotation of feminine ugliness. This bird is ugly. And angry. With the first sip, it pulls out a pocket knife and starts to stab your tongue. That’s about it. A gored tongue. Well, maybe there’s a little bit of salted butter. Or maybe it’s blood. Or sadness. I’m not quite sure.

The finish, while medium in length, it is a little harder to describe. I suppose you could imagine you followed the manager out to the dumpster, and once he had delivered the rotting corn to its final resting place, you decided to pick up a few of the cobs and lick them clean with your gored tongue. It stings. And again, very earthy.

Nope, no benediction to be had here. The gifting of this dram is most certainly to be interpreted as a motioning toward the door coupled with a collected but firm, “Get out. Like, right now.”

Review – Springbank, 12 Years Old, Cask Strength (2016), 54.1%

I was venturing through my local Walmart, intent on a left turn at the electronics department and making my way toward the grocer side of the store to grab a package of toilet paper and a couple of gallons of milk. As I approached my intersection, I noticed a peculiar site. There was a small child in holy vigil before a grand and glowing display. And lo, as I drew near to pass by, I heard him whisper…

O, most holy television, patron keeper of children and revealer of all things both light and dark, good and evil, deigning to spread thy digital wings across the span of this obtuse terrene, showering us from thy bounteous reserve of dross; hear the prayers of thy humble servant this day as I kneel before thee in the glory of thy most splendid Walmart sanctuary – right here between the clearance items and the digital cameras.

I lift up my eyes and I behold upon thy face a message of cruelty and sorrow, pain and the threat of death at the hands of storm troopers. I fear my petition to you is of a kindred spirit.

My mother cast me here, O lord, commanding that I wait while she hastened to complete her shopping apart from my tiny strides. And my father, he departed by the same mandate, heralding a great journey to seek out a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon at one corner of thy kingdom and wiper blades at the other.

I bless and adore thee that thy 24-hour temple of consumer devotion is plentiful, and while it has only been two hours since I was dismissed, I know not when they shall return and I fear that I’d have perished in this late hour had it not been for “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” and the 98₵ candy bin beside me.

Hear my plea, good lord, and be mindful that even as I praise thee for thy merciful care in these hours – and I confess that while so many would forsake me, you are with me – please, send to me my parents that I might dwell with them, smiling as the little one with the video camera upon the banner above me, flourishing as the potted plants being displayed by the sentinels on the wall behind thee, and as bright as the “Clearance” balloon hovering in the fluorescent glow of thy face and this holy troposphere.

I deserve not what I have petitioned, and yet I sit before thee as thy servant asking according to thy will. Hear me and grant that they return soon to take to themselves their son, lest the lack of a careful eye be the cause for someone to snatch me and I be lost, for I am very young.

Amen.

This poor lad. I nearly shed a tear for him as I watched him stare at the TV. But I didn’t. I called protective services, instead.

Well, no, actually I didn’t. But when I see this kind of stuff – a 3-year-old child at Walmart at 10:30 pm with no one around except a blue-vested electronics department worker with a clashing lime green headband and another red-capped gentleman beyond the TV who, technically, showed up after me – I get somewhat downhearted.

C’mon people. We can do better. This kid deserves better. He should have been dressed in his Spider-man jammies, read a story, given a hug and a kiss, and then tucked into bed two hours ago. Why is he here on the floor at Walmart watching Star Wars? And where’s Mom? Where’s Dad?

Okay, so maybe I’m assuming far too much and there’s more to the story than I know. But still, there’s no one keeping an eye on this child, and in an age of daily abductions, at such a late hour, I can’t see how this can be a good thing.

One drastic detail observed often provides reliable insight into the remaining trivialities. In other words, this is probably not a “first” for this kid.

And so I bought my toilet paper and milk and went home for a drink – the Springbank 12-year-old Cask Strength edition. It seemed the only untapped, but sturdy, dram in my cabinet. A perfect stress-reliever for a father concerned for the well-being of another’s child.

Sure enough, the Springbank is a reliable and calming hand, beginning a description of its ability to bring a troubled spirit into submission with a vigorous scent of malt, damp peat just beginning to smolder at the edges, and fruit cocktail.

And so it isn’t enough to be told of its might. A sip is required in order that the hearty 54.1 ABV can begin the bout and prove its worth. And it does. Downheartedness is pinned, not with an ugly and uncoordinated struggle, but with the well balanced finesse of peat-smoked concord grapes drizzled with a slightness of caramel and chocolate. Truly marvelous.

And the finish, well, it is a medium conglomerate of sugar malt and smoke, a remnant of the previous cares having become a more focused concern, not for what I am powerless to change with regard to the parenting skills of others, but for what I can actually do to become a better parent to and for my own.

Review – Evan Williams Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 4 Years Old, 43%

Rather than revealing my thoughts regarding this whiskey by way of my typical review-writing shenanigans, I decided to take the words that were forming and design a high definition poster for your viewing pleasure.

I am a man of the classics, thusly the handbill for this Bourbon mimics the spirit of whiskey advertisements from bygone days. Feel free to click the image, download, print, and hang it on your wall. Or in the local liquor store. Or in the post office. Or on your church bulletin board. Or at your kid’s school. Or in a public bathroom. Or on someone’s back.

Or don’t. Whatever.

Either way, I hope you enjoy the visual “review” of the Evan Williams Kentucky Straight Bourbon. It pretty much says everything that needs saying.