Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 35

Review – Eagle Rare, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 10 Years Old, 45%

Jen took the children and went to Iowa to visit friends. So, what does a husband and father of four do while all are away?

He dons the chainsaw, preps the 2-cycle bladed trimmer, and fuels the lawn mower. He then proceeds to start chopping things up and running things over until he has a clear trail to the river.

And why such savage manliness? So he can drag his canoe to the water and set sail for a few hours, taking along a fishing pole and some bait, leaving behind the lonesome solitude of a huge house fallen dreadfully silent.

Can you tell I miss them? And yet, I didn’t necessarily let anyone know I’d be alone for the four days of Memorial Day weekend. Not because I was avoiding pity driven invitations, but because for the first time in about 12 weeks, I actually didn’t have anything consuming the weekend, and if I couldn’t be alone with my family, I was going to be alone with myself – thinking, writing, blazing trails – doing whatever I felt like doing and nothing more. The demands are far too great for one man in the everyday churn of pastoral life. As far as this weekend goes, I exist to and for no one. Theologically speaking, I’ve gone up on the mountain to pray, which means I intend to rest.

Don’t forget I’m surrounded by a few hundred bottles of whisky. In that sense, I have plenty of friends, some of whom I’ve yet to actually meet, but to whom I fully intend to introduce myself.

Last night I ran into the Eagle Rare Kentucky Straight Bourbon and managed a rather pleasant conversation. We spoke of time well spent in the woods – moving timber, dragging mangled branches, cutting back a marshland floor of cat tails, sedge, and milkweed – until a thoroughfare for a dutiful reverend and the deer that live behind his home was clean and qualified. We sang of those we love, loneliness, and the sounds of a great domain creaking in the darkness. We sat together as I typed away, AC/DC blaring in the stereo speakers until 2 a.m., taking the chance that the neighbors might hear the disquietude.

It was a calming surrender, one that smelled of cocoa butter, sanding sugar, and freshly cut oak. It sipped with an anointment of oily sweat, cinnamon-spiced maple syrup, and berry relish.

Of course, as the evening came to a close, it was necessary to part ways. The finish was a medium handshake of wood char and distant sun-ripened wild cherries.

The Eagle Rare is a kindly gent with whom I am quite pleased to share my seclusion. I recommend his comity and I look forward to future symposia.

Scotch Snob. Bourbon Snob.

My friend over at The Whiskey Reviewer, R.E. Thomas, wrote a hilarious piece rather recently about how to go about annoying those he referred to as Scotch snobs. He defines the snob as “a self-appointed guardian of Scotch whisky purity, someone happy to insult you if you dare spell it ‘whiskey’ and who disdains bourbon, Irish whiskey and even Japanese whisky as a liquid akin to dirty bathwater.”

Harsh.

But he’s right on point. There are plenty of snobs out there. I’ve written in several of my reviews that I used to be one – not necessarily in that I would force my opinions or knowledge on others (in fact, I am more likely to be silent when in-the-flesh whisky discussions are taking place because I prefer to learn and not teach), but that I simply had a hard time finding the same enjoyment in other whiskies that I did in Scotch and was therefore holding it in much higher esteem.

But over the years, as I’ve continued to investigate the distilleries of the world, the horizons have opened and so has my mind. Scotch is good, and so are a lot of other whiskies. This belief has seen me pushed to the fringes in certain Scotch forums and its why I rarely frequent them.

Still, as a former Scotch snob now well into the Bourbon uplands, I’ve learned that there is such a thing as a “Bourbon snob,” too. And with that, here’s a quick list of ways to annoy one. Brother Thomas gave five points. I’ll see his five and raise him five more.

1) Remind the Bourbon snob that American whiskey is merely a regional continuation of something that began centuries before the United States even existed. It’s a relative infant compared to so many other mature, accomplished whiskies. Gently console the poor sod and explain that when it comes to quality, leniency is given for the Bourbon noise because from the adult perspective, that’s what’s expected from the children’s table.

2) Point out that most liquor-licensed Walmarts will have a twenty to one ratio of Bourbons to Scotch.

3) True or untrue, coax the snob from his keep by saying that Bourbon production is pretty much a free-for-all. Scotch cannot bear its title until it has been aged according to the standard of at least three years, but some Bourbons are aged for years while others are dumped into bottles after only three months. Just enough time for the dead cat used in the recipe to decompose, I guess.

4) On his birthday, let the snob know that you have $15 in your pocket and you were intent upon buying him his three favorite bottles of Bourbon. If he says that won’t be enough, respond, “Well, no. Not with prices of birthday cards these days.”

5) While sitting at the bar beside a Bourbon snob, ask him which of the Bourbons on the bar shelf is the best. When he makes his recommendation, order one, but also order up the house’s cheapest Scotch. When both drinks are set before you, dump the Scotch into the Bourbon and say, “Oh, this is just to help make it tolerable.”

6) Be sure to point out that the word “Bourbon” is French. You are a Bourbon if you were born from the royal family that supplied the French monarchs. No true liberty-loving drinker of American whiskey wants that association.

7) Carry the French poke a little further during the conversation that follows. Share that Michael Veach, the well-respected Kentucky historian, said that Bourbon doesn’t really get its name from Bourbon County, Kentucky. He noted that as a myth and continued that “the story that the name ‘bourbon’ comes from Bourbon County doesn’t even start appearing in print until the 1870s.” He added that the usage of the word “bourbon” in association with whiskey began much earlier in Louisville and along the Ohio River into New Orleans where two French business men from Cognac, France, had figured out that they could sell Kentucky whisky to other Louisiana Frenchmen because it was nearly identical to the Cognac of the day. So really, Bourbon is really just a rip off of Cognac.

8) When the snob offers you a Bourbon, ask him to serve it in a Cognac sifter.

9) At a Bourbon tasting, walk around saying how this one tastes like a Rémy Martin and this one reminds you of Hennessy and this one beckons memories of Courvoisier…

10) Get a few drams of the snob’s favorite Bourbon into him and then initiate a discussion on terrorism. Once he reaches the pinnacle of a pro-America rage, observe that it seems awfully “Manchurian Candidate” that Bourbon rhymes with turban.

You know, not much thought went into these. It took about ten minutes to write. Maybe I am still a snob. On second thought, nah. I’m a huge fan of Bulleit, and Michter’s is growing on me like mold. I think I’m okay. And besides, a Scotch snob would never write this article: Ice in Your Whisky is not a Sin.

Review – Springbank, 10 Years Old, 46%

Yes, I have a pretty substantial collection of whiskies, and yet in order to acquire such gems by way of a meager pastor’s salary that has risen only once in a decade, it becomes necessary to prioritize, and with this, it follows that choices must be made to cut certain corners.

Take for example the dilemma of a lever in my car snapping off and thereby making it impossible to fold down the second row seat in order to access the rear compartment. Rather than spending the $65 plus $15 shipping to replace the stupid little plastic handle, all of which is about equal to a mid-range whisky, with a little bit of elbow grease and a willingness to suffer ridicule, the whisky can be had and the rear compartment can once again be opened to one’s will. You need only to take this pine plank…

and transform it into this.

Yeah, I know, it looks pretty ridiculous. And the process wasn’t all that easy. It took a few prototypes, a little bit of wood glue, and a few extra screws to keep the thing from splitting apart from the torque necessary to turn the actual crank even only a little. But in the end, it works, and while others will surely be looking on with a bottle of Jim Beam in hand and laughing at my less-than-pretty repair, I’ll be sipping something along the lines of this Springbank 10-year-old and folding my rear seat to chuck whatever the heck I feel like chucking into my family truckster’s back end.

Consider this corner cut.

And now to share the denouement of my victory.

The nose of the Springbank 10-year-old – by no means imposing, but rather it’s as that first little bit of cool air that drops from the refrigerator when you open it, barely breezing a brush of peat and chocolate covered strawberries.

The palate reverses the experience, being a mouthful of warm bittersweets and smoked grapefruit. This carries into and through to what seems a little bit like mashed potatoes ornamented with a butter chip and a pinch of pepper.

As I said, I saved a good bit of cash creating my own seat lever, and so now I’m praying that neither the gas pedal nor the steering wheel ever require my carpentry skills because the safety of my family might just end up being another corner that gets carved.

Review – Maker’s Mark, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 45%

Mistakes will be made.

I made one tonight. Nothing big, but I don’t want to do it ever again.

I took my son Joshua to see a movie, and after it was over, he made a quick stop to the restroom while I refilled my drink at the self-serve fountain. I don’t usually use a lid and straw, but this time I grabbed one of each to keep the drink from sloshing around during the car ride home.

A very important detail to the introduction of this comedy is that the straws at the movie theater are about four inches longer than regular fast food straws. They’re absolutely perfect for the barrel-sized drinks sold at the concessions, but when it comes to the smaller size, which is what I was drinking, they become very dangerous…especially if you aren’t paying attention.

So, anyway, Josh was using the restroom, my drink was full, and I was waiting and tapping on my phone. Forgetting the abnormally immense size of the straw in my cup, I went for a quick sip and the red, tubular javelin went straight up and into my left nostril.

Momentarily stunned, I shook my head in a wincing gag while at the same scanning my immediate surroundings to see if anyone noticed what had just happened. Needless to say, I got a new straw.

Now, as I promised, on to telling you about the mistake I made tonight… Wait, you thought it was the red straw? Oh no, that’s not it. I was referring to the Maker’s Mark Kentucky Straight Bourbon I tried when I got home.

I know this is a favorite for many, and I understand that to knock it is to tempt its disciples to put a hit out on me, but I must go ahead and say what needs saying: In comparison to so many other bourbons out there, this stuff isn’t very good. It’s a little like the results of a straw to the nose, except in this case, the straw has been sharpened enough to draw blood which begins to mix with the mucous now forming because of the irritant. I just don’t ever want to do it again.

Speaking of the nose, have you ever tried the cherry flavored Nyquil? No? Well, you should try that first. If you spend $12 and despise it, you’ll spend double that for the Maker’s Mark which you’ll enjoy a lot less.

In the mouth, the whiskey has a youthfully sour nature to it. For me, it nearly prompted an encore of the post-movie wince. There’s a lot of something sweet in there – maybe vanilla and a full cup of sugar (give or take a pinch) – but again, it seems more like artificial flavoring as opposed to being something that comes along naturally during the distillation and aging process. It’s unpleasant.

The finish isn’t so bad, but mainly because there’s a little bit of wood spice in there…and because the whole experience is so short. It leaves quickly. With a following sip of water, it’s swept away completely.

As I said at the beginning, mistakes will be made. Just know that if you ever make a mistake – like offending someone in the mafia – and you find yourself blindfolded and strapped to a chair in a dank basement with only the breath of your torturer to offer you a choice of methods for exacting his twisted justice – a sip of Maker’s Mark or a straw repeatedly jammed into your nose – choose the straw.

Sipping whisky and thinking, “Trump is going to defeat himself in the Presidential debates.”

According to the current schedule published by the Commission on Presidential Debates, there will be four debates in 2016, the first of the polemical contests occurring on Monday, September 26 and the last on Wednesday, October 19. Only one of those debates brings the Vice Presidential candidates into engagement, while the other three serve to showcase the two candidates seeking the nation’s highest office.

At this point, one side of the stage is still empty. While it is all but certain that Donald Trump will be the Republican contender, the Democrats remain undecided as to who will stand at their podium, although it is looking more and more as though Hillary Clinton will assume the role.

And yet, no matter who is found standing opposite the real estate mogul in the debates, Trump is destined for slaughter and here’s why.

Trump is not as tough as you think he is because he isn’t driven by content, but rather emotion, and the Republicans are fools if they think that the Democrats aren’t prepared to ready their candidate for monopolizing on this.

Beneath Trump’s thin veneer of stoutness resides an unbridled bevy of passions that ultimately prove to govern his behavior – some behaviors being refreshing expressions of bold honesty, others incredibly embarrassing and often difficult to behold. When Trump’s emotions are stirred, typically by accusation, his first effort almost always involves child-like mocking expressions and tones followed by unintelligibly cyclical gibberish laced with insults. What can actually be deciphered from these most prominent rants, most often lacks any substance relative to the discussion at hand. In summary, when you are critical of Trump, don’t expect a content-driven argument intended to convince and convert the listener, but rather be ready to behold an emotionally charged tantrum.

The Republican primary season is over. The conventions will soon be upon us. The context of the approaching engagements between parties in the debates will be an altogether different landscape of onlookers. And no matter Trump’s presidential foe, I dare say that many conscientious American voters will watch the debates and a good number of them will be unwittingly subjected to the familiar experience of beholding a deliberately calm, almost boringly monotonous, but firm parent – the Democratic candidate – dealing with an angry, disrespectful, and stomping preteen with nothing of reasonable value to necessitate such a frenzied response. This alone will have an inestimable effect upon the voting spectrum, quite possibly resulting in the elevation of Trump’s opponent as the better, more capable candidate.

If Trump doesn’t get this under control right now, he will defeat himself. The Democratic voters will vote for the Democrat, of course. The undecided will do what they did in the last election – vote for the Democrat – and the #NeverTrump crowd will have one more reason to be ashamed of their party’s candidate and abstain altogether on principle.

Review – Bowmore, The Devil’s Casks, Limited Release III, (No Age Stated), 56.7%

“I know you’re there,” I spoke softly toward the closet, “so you might as well come out.”

There was no answer.

“I’m not scared,” I followed.

Again, no answer. But then…

“You should be,” a low voice sounded back in a hiss from the darkness.

“Well, I’m not.”

I really wasn’t scared. And the voice didn’t concern me. I’ve never been scared of dark closets. I’ve never been fearful of dank and dimly lit basements. I’ve never been made uneasy by porcelain dolls with sinister grins sitting on shelves and appearing to change expression as the headlights from the cars outside washed shadows across them. I don’t know why. It’s just the way it is.

I’ve never been all that worried about the devil, either. And therefore, I figured it best if I go ahead and affirm it for him.

There was another passing moment of silence.

“You still, there?” I inquired, making sure he knew my disinterest.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” he answered back, this time sounding a bit defeated.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”

“How about you just come out so that we can talk,” I suggested.

“But I’m pretty frightening to behold,” the Devil warned.

“It doesn’t matter what you look like,” I said. “I doubt it will scare me.”

He didn’t respond.

Trying to coax him out, “How about this? How about you choose the scariest form you’ve ever taken and try it on me?”

Again, silence.

“Hello?”

“And if I frighten you?” he whispered, sounding as though he’d regained some confidence.

I thought for a second.

“If you frighten me, then… I’ll vote a straight Democratic ticket in the next election,” I said. “But if I win…”

“Yes?”

“Then you owe me a bottle of Scotch.”

“Agreed,” he panted deviantly.

“But not Scoresby,” I clarified. “Something good.”

“Fine,” he snickered. “The contest is set, then.”

A few moments passed. I became a little uneasy thinking that perhaps he’d reconsidered and ducked out without giving me a shot at winning.

“Hey!” I called. “You still there?!”

“Just wait a second,” he said sounding annoyed. “I’m trying to decide which of my forms has proven the most terrifying.”

I heard him mumbling, as though he were counting out a list of his most dreadful forms on his clawed fingers.

“Hey, man,” I said, “Could you hurry it up? I have a really long day tomorrow and I need to get to bed soon.”

“Alright, alright,” he growled. “I think I have it.”

In the next moment I heard the sounds of tearing flesh and cracking bones repositioning as the Devil shapeshifted.

He gave a grunt. “Okay, I’m ready,” he said in what was now a very different and yet somewhat familiar voice.

“I am, too. Let’ do this.”

The closet door opened in a slow and creaking crawl as the Devil stepped forward, still a shadow in the darkness. I reached over to twist the switch on the lamp beside my bed, and turned back. I was surprised when I saw him.

It was Al Gore.

“Really?” I asked. “This is your scariest form?”

“You’re not scared?” he volleyed.

“No,” I said. “Although, I can see why you’d choose Al Gore. He is a little unnerving.”

The Devil turned back toward the closet, downcast and once again mumbling to himself, “Most folks freak out when they encounter me this way.”

“Hey!” I shouted and hopped from my bed. “Where’re you going?”

“Chill out, Thoma,” he said shooing me back to my bed. “I’m getting your Scotch.”

He pulled an oversized satchel from the closet. It looked to have been sewn together from human flesh and was covered in various stickers, some very old and others fairly new, all touting his world travels.

Digging through the bag’s contents, the Devil tossed aside his collection of hellish things – a Nazi helmet, an empty Starbucks cup, a few bones, a half-consumed bottle of Scoresby, an iPad, a copy the day’s New York Times, a bottle of Tums, the keys to his Prius, and an autographed photo of George Clooney.

“Ah,” he said lifting the prize into view. “Here it is.” He turned and presented the Bowmore Devil’s Casks III edition.

“Thank you very much,” I said taking the bottle from his hand with a smile.

The next few moments were a bit uncomfortable as we stared at one another. I expected him to leave, and yet he seemed to be waiting for me to invite him to stay.

“So,” he said cupping and clapping his hands, rocking toe to heel and eyeing the Bowmore, “any chance I might get a sip?”

“Not a chance,” I said unmoved. “I have this rule that I don’t share whiskies with fallen angels who read the New York Times. I’ve made that mistake before – although I didn’t know it, of course. One of your demons took the form of a member in my church, and well, it was a waste of some good Scotch and the exorcism was an ugly event.”

“But…” he began to say.

“You can show yourself out,” I said pointing to the closet.

“You know…” he started again but I was quick to interrupt.

“How about this…” I said and started to sing, “Y’all just c’mon back if you ever wanna try again, cuz I done told you once you son of a… Well, you know how the song ends.”

“Nice. You had to bring Charlie Daniels into this.”

“It certainly seemed fitting, although I much prefer my winnings to a golden fiddle.”

“I will be back, you know,” he said with a toothy grin.

“I know you will, Mr. Gore,” I replied as he lifted from the floor and hovered into the closet’s darkest corner, fading into nothing. “You’re like a bad penny that just keeps turning up.”

No sooner than he was gone did I pop the cork and pour myself a dram from my spoils.

The nose of this Bowmore, if anything, is a nip of what dwells at the heart of mortal temptation. There’s an irresistibly thick fruitiness – red raspberries – sheathed in wisps of smoke that caress the senses.

The palate affirms the Devil as the father of lies and the bottle’s label as his child. This whiskey does not originate in hell, but comes straight from the malt rooms kept by Saint Peter. There’s creamy cheesecake and warm cherry muffins partnering with salty chocolates and little bit of ash from the Saint’s favorite cigar.

The finish is a medium consolidation of both the nose and palate, except the salty chocolates have all been consumed.

I know the Devil will be back. He always comes back. Folks may think I’m kidding, but as a pastor, I bump into him fairly regularly as I go about my day, although for the most part, he tries to keep his distance – just watching. Tonight was a little different. I decided to call him out. And while Bowmore isn’t necessarily my favorite distillery, nor is it a good idea to play games with the “old evil foe” as we Lutherans like to call him, the Devil’s Casks III edition is a pretty good bottle of whisky. I’m hoping that if and when he shows up again, whatever the test, he’ll at least have a bottle of The Balvenie in his pack. But if not, the Devil’s Casks III will certainly suffice.

Review – Southern Comfort, Whiskey Liqueur, (No Age Stated), 35%

“Well, Bob,” the doctor said walking into the examination room and closing the door behind him, “I got your test results.”

“And?” the patient asked seemingly unconcerned while putting his shirt back on.

“Well,” the doctor began to answer but then fell silent.

Stopping mid tuck, Bob glanced, “What’s wrong?”

“Well,” the doctor started, “everything came back clean.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yeah, that’s great. Your PSA levels are fine. Your cholesterol is right where it should be. Your heart is strong. You would seem to be in good health.”

There was a moment of silence between them.

“But you’re dying, Bob,” the doctor spoke sadly while looking into Bob’s eyes.

“I’m… I’m…” Bob stuttered.

“You’re dying,” came the repeat of the dreadful announcement.

“How?” Bob stuttered again. “How do you know? What… What’s wrong with me?”

“I didn’t catch it in time, Bob,” the doctor continued, “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?” Bob asked grabbing the doctor’s arm.

Setting a hand on Bob’s shoulder, “I just noticed something that I missed on your registration forms from way back when you first became one of my patients.”

“What is it?”

“You answered the question about consuming alcohol by saying that you drink Southern Comfort fairly regularly.”

A little surprised, Bob drew back, “Yeah, so?”

“As your doctor,” the doctor said putting his head in his hands. “No, as a Scotch drinker…”

“What?!” Bob shouted.

“If only I’d known, I could have stopped you.”

“But it’s just Southern Comfort, Doc,” Bob said. “What difference does that make?”

“You don’t get it, do you, Bob?” he looked up, sternly fixing his eyes on Bob. “Southern Comfort is the same stuff they put into moisturizing dust cleaners, and it’s one ingredient shy of being the same stuff used by morticians to preserve dead bodies!”

“It is?!”

“Yes, Bob,” the doctor said. “It’s poison!”

“But…”

“Didn’t you ever notice the similarities between your drink and the citrusy dust sprays you use in your home?”

“No,” Bob said looking away and pondering nervously, “I never really do the dusting.” He started tapping, “My wife does all that. I just thought the place smelled nice.”

“What you smelled there, Bob, was the forescent of your demise.”

“But… But the stuff tastes really great…”

“No, Bob, it doesn’t,” the doctor said abruptly. “That’s the poison acting on the temporal lobes of your brain, making you think it tastes alright, but really, it’s a syrupy mess of cheap booze, artificial sweeteners, and Pentaerythrityl Tetra-di-t-butyl Hydroxyhydrocinnamate, all coming together for a short, candied finish that tastes a lot like you’ve been sucking on a scented candle.”

“What… What did you say it was?”

“Pentaerythrityl Tetra-di-t-butyl Hydroxyhydrocinnamate, Bob, and it’s killing you!”

“It is?”

“Yes, Bob. It is.”

“So, what do I do?!” the patient pleaded.

“There may still be time to turn back the effects,” the doctor said earnestly, “but I can promise you, it won’t be easy or cheap.”

“Anything, doc,” Bob teared. “Anything!”

Taking out his prescription pad, the doctor scribbled, “I’m going to write you a prescription for a bottle of The Balvenie 30-year-old.” He kept scribbling. “You need to make sure you sip a dram of this every night for a week.” Still scribbling, “And then reduce it to every other day the following week, keeping that regiment until the bottle is empty.”

“Absolutely, Doc!” Bob said feeling as though hope had been restored.

“And then come and see me when you’re done,” the doctor concluded, handing over the prescription. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said, “we’ll get through this together.”

Bob smiled. “Thanks,” he said and shook the doctor’s hand, “and I’ll be sure to dump that Southern Comfort when I get…”

“No, don’t do that,” the doctor interrupted. “Go ahead and keep it to polish the furniture.”

Review – Glen Garioch, 1797 Founder’s Reserve, (No Age Stated), 48%

The kids and I have been on somewhat of an Elton John trip lately as we travel back and forth between home and school, and so I wasn’t surprised when I called out from the front to the rear for song requests and received a barraging response from Madeline and Harrison for tunes such as “Crocodile Rock,” “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” and “Benny and the Jets.”

“Can we listen to ‘The Ping-Pong Wizard’?” Evelyn shouted above the voices of her older siblings.

“It’s not ping-pong,” Harry said correcting her. “It’s pinball.”

He’s always the first to fix her miscalculations, even though it most often only wins for him an unmatchable look of disdain from the no-nonsense six-year-old.

“Whatever, Harrison,” Evelyn defended. “Daddy knows what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he kept pushing, “but they’re not the same thing.”

Accepting the challenge, Evelyn pushed back, and at first I thought she was just trying to cause Harrison to spin a rod.

“Yes, they are.”

“No, they’re not,” Harry insisted.

“Yes, they are!” Evelyn turned and formed the dreaded stare.

Harry didn’t back down. “Pinball and ping-pong are not the same thing,” he said. “Tell me how they’re the same.”

“Because,” she said emitting a strange confidence and looking back through her window, “I’m not very good at either of them, so to me, they’re the same.”

Wow.

“Makes perfect sense, Evelyn,” I interrupted with a call to the back “‘The Ping-Pong Wizard’ it is, then.”

I set the tune in motion. Harry sighed. Evelyn bopped along. Madeline rolled her eyes at both of them. I enjoyed a moment that, before too long, saw everyone, including Harry, singing “ping-pong” in place of “pinball.”

If there’s anything I’ve learned as a parent thus far, it’s that there’s almost always an undiscovered boulevard of thought in most conversations. Another is that kids have rather keen insight, and if left to ponder an idea, they’ll often find that pathway. In other words, they find something new in what was once thought to be spent.

In a sense, I feel similarly about several of the whiskies in my possession. No, not that the kids should be allowed to ponder and “discover” them, but as I revisit with various editions, I continue to detect new peculiarities, and for me, this is rather fascinating.

Take for example the Glen Garioch 1797 Founder’s Reserve edition, which I decided to go ahead and purchase in order to write what I was expecting to be a negative review.

I had a sip from this whisky some time ago, and I don’t remember liking it. I remember sipping the dram and thinking it was a little too waxy and narrow, that it didn’t really have much to offer me. This time around, however, the experience was very different. With each sip, I was found learning rather suddenly how ping-pong and pinball – a bad whisky experience and a good whisky experience – could be bridged by a few overlooked details.

This time around, the nose was anything but narrow. I sensed lime Sour Patch candies, a little bit of caramel, and oak spice.

In the mouth, this whisky is by no means waxy, but rather it bestows sugary pomegranate tannins, spicy nougat, and light roasted coffee.

The finish is a medium breadth of what seems as though it could turn to become a searing alcohol note, but this ends up not being the case with the lime returning to the scene to serve as a chaperone.

For the price – around $45 – this is a pretty good Scotch whisky, and I dare say that I may end up adding it to my “Top Fifteen for under $75” list. At a minimum, I’ll be thinking on how I handed over a crown of appreciation to the Glen Garioch 1797 Founder’s Reserve each time I sing:

But I ain’t seen nothing like him

In any amusement hall.

That deaf, dumb and blind kid

Sure plays a mean pinball…

Or ping-pong. Behold, it matters little to the Thoma clan.

Review – Springbank, Green, 12 Years Old, 46%

“You win some and you lose some, huh?” I asked my new doctor as she came into the room.

“What’s that?” she responded politely but puzzled by the question.

“I’m just wondering about what’s in your back yard,” I said.

While awaiting her arrival, rather than fiddling with my phone, I decided to get up and look around the room at the various pamphlets and models, eventually adjusting the blinds to look out the window. That’s when I beheld the sprawling cemetery. I took a picture.

“Oh, yeah,” she said and gave a pretty sizeable laugh. “The graveyard! I try to keep those blinds closed.”

“So,” I added, “what’s your success rate looking like these days? Did I choose wisely?”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Reverend,” she said with a grin and sat down in the swivel chair near the examination table.

“Sure,” I said sounding much less confident. “Let’s just wait until we see the results from my physical.”

The conversation continued along jovially enough, even though I was being teed up for some things that would most likely skew the results of the blood pressure check.

The first was that I was about to be stabbed a few hundred times, gored by a nurse with a pack full of syringes and vials intent upon emptying my veins for the sake of “lab work.” Yeah, whatever. I already peed in a cup, and I’m sure there’s more than enough data to be mined right there.

The second, and while I know it may seem somewhat silly since almost everybody my age experiences the situation, has to do with the fact that I’m a very protected guy when it comes to my personal space, and my new doctor – a woman wearing rubber gloves – a woman who is not my wife – was about to breach the blessedness of my most sanctified nether-regions under the guise of “examination.”

I could not help but explain to her the uncomfortable nature of the whole thing. She laughed, of course, and said she’s been doing this for thirteen years and I wouldn’t be her first.

“You have other patients that are clergy, folks you might discover one day before you in a pulpit preaching of sin and grace? You have clergy you’ve asked to drop trow?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, I am your first.”

And then at that point, I relented and began to glaze over into a stare through the window toward the not-too-distant horizon pocked with headstones and flowers.

Ah, the grave. Just through the pane and beyond the fence, a gentle and serene sight. Sunlit and verdant. And beneath the emerald gilding, no cares, no commotion, no turning and coughing.

But, wait. What cares are there for this moment? There are other concerns as I contemplate the beyond. What about Scotch? Will there be whiskies there in the eternal glories to receive me? Will they be waiting just after the woman with the rubber gloves pronounces my impending doom and I am soon found in the keep of the earth’s bosom? The Scriptures do not speak to this.

Survive, Chris. Fight on through this moment. Take hold of today and live on, for your home is well stocked with respectful editions that would never seek to pierce you nor violate your holy spaces, but would instead bring comfort.

Speaking of “verdant,” the Springbank 12-year-old Green edition was the first companion from my cabinet to be enlisted at the close of the traumatic day, and oh, what a comforting involvement it was.

On the nose, this Campbeltown prize brought serenity in a wafting litany of cranberry cookies and kippered caramel. This carried over into the first sip, which added a mere pinch of oatmeal and orange peel zest.

The finish left in a medium stroke, being sure to paint the whole mouth with an oily excess of citric salt.

Glass in hand, on second thought, there will most certainly be Scotch within the everlasting boundaries of heaven. But syringe-slinging brutes and rubber gloves, now, those will be as a fast-fleeting memory.

Review – Laphroaig, Cairdeas (2015), 51.5%

It took me thirty-five minutes to clean my Ford Explorer, but I spent two hours cleaning out our Chrysler minivan.

Two hours.

Well, I do have a family of six, and with that comes a lot of debris. Although, when I climb in, it sort of feels like I just entered a portal to a Narnia-like world of never-ending junk – Barbie dolls, Barbie clothes, paper sacks, coloring books, snack wrappers, school papers, notebooks, melted crayons, something that looked an awful lot like dried snot near the lift gate, several lone socks with no partner, church bulletins from weeks past, a AAA battery that looks like it was gnawed, A/V wires, DVDs with no case, a pair of headphones, about twelve used straws, Legos, and more Legos, pencils, markers, a few action figures, a flashlight, three bags of used clothes intended for the Goodwill store, a magazine, and a package to be mailed.

I suppose it could be worse. I didn’t discover a bloody axe wrapped in plastic tucked down in the stow-and-go compartment, suggesting that my wife, the one who usually pilots the van during the week, might be a serial killer. And I didn’t find a family of rabid raccoons or a hive of bees. That’s good.

Needless to say, I managed to find my way back to this world, and with that, I’m toasting my back-breaking success with a dram of the Laphroaig Cairdeas 2015 edition.

While this particular dram smells a little like some of the cleaners I was using to scrub tar from under the wheel well of the van, and perhaps add to that the melted crayons under the front passenger seat, there are some redeeming qualities to this whisky that I was fully expecting to enjoy at almost every turn.

As I said, the nose was a little harsh – chemically floral – a disenchanting combination. But the palate was all Laphroaig, giving me everything I was hoping for – peat, a seaside breeze of salt and seaweed, and fire pit ash mixed into rose water. Very earthy.

The finish is reasonably long, culminating in a plume of clove cigarettes, cedar cinders, and warm sea water.

I liked this stuff. Manly. Just what a sweaty, car-cleaning father of four needs after a couple of hours in the sun cleaning the coach. And I suppose that if this whisky is waiting for me at the end of each vehicle sweep, you can pretty much guarantee that I’ll be doing it more often and we’ll have the cleanest wheels on the block.

Beautiful, eh?