Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 37

Review – The BenRiach, 20 Years Old, 46%

Sometimes, just sometimes, the logic is so amazingly parched of any complexity that you need only to listen…

“Who’s that?” Madeline asked pointing to the woman’s image.

“She’s a member of our church,” I said while scanning a particular page of the congregation directory.

“I’ve never seen her in my life,” she continued. She leaned back to snap a bite from the snack she’d just unwrapped.

“That’s because she never comes to church,” I said, fully expecting her curiosity to be met.

A moment passed.

“Wait,” she began to analyze, “how can she still be a member if she never comes to church?”

I put my arm around her and pulled her close, “Very good question, honey.”

I praised her for the sense she’d made, but what I did not do is explain to her that such target-locked logic is nearly impossible to communicate to adults. It makes perfect sense to kids, but for adults it is quite often tantamount to convincing them that 2 plus 2 equals 5. In other words, human beings of the adult persuasion have a tendency to steadfastly argue the legitimacy of never stepping foot in the church with which they hold membership.

Technically, in light of Hebrews 10:23-29 (and so many others), there really are only three valid reasons that come to mind. Well, maybe four.

First, your church teaches false doctrine. If this is true, stay away. But this also assumes you actually care about doctrine and so you’ve taken up membership in another church where there is no questioning your attendance.

Second, you’re a shut-in or hospitalized and can’t get to church. In that case, your pastor most likely brings “church” to you on a regular basis. If he doesn’t, see reason number one.

Third, you’re dead. Not much to discuss with this one.

The fourth…maybe you’re not a Christian anymore. As I’ve heard stated in another forum, “Why would you say you love Jesus and then show disdain for what Jesus says He loves?”

Makes sense. Still, folks will clamor through a litany of excuses stretching as long as the Santa Fe railway.

“I was offended.” Good. Happens to me all the time. Talking about sin has a tendency of doing that. If you’d like, I’ll set some fresh diapers in your pew and I’ll leave a note for the ushers to be ready to pat you on the back if your tummy gets upset.

“I can’t get to church that early.” So says the man who gets up before sunrise to get to the deer blind. Or the family that loads up the gear at 4:30 a.m. and sets out for their favorite campground. Or the woman who gets up before dawn to prepare for her garage sale spree. Or how about the gentleman greeted by his pastor outside a Best Buy store at 3 a.m. hoping to be one of the first to receive some amazing Black Friday deals.

“You’re just asking me to come back because you need my money.” Um, no. You never gave that one time six years ago when you attended so why would I expect you to give now? Believe it or not, I just want you here with the rest of your Christian family.

“The church is full of hypocrites.” Whatever. But just one thing. Assuming you’ve been absent each and every Sunday for the last six years because you’re on a campaign to seek and to find a perfect church, if you do find it, don’t join it, because you’ll ruin it…hypocrite. And since we’re talking about it, let me save you some time in your search: There is no such thing as a perfect church. Oh, happy day that there is such a thing as a perfect dram, however, to help guys like me deal with this taxing factualism.

I’m here to tell you that when I return home after a day of reaching out to “inactives,” it’s an edition like the Benriach 20-year-old that has all that is needed for binding up the conversational gashes and scrapes inflicted by those who would be offended by their pastor urging them to be faithful in worship.

I’m not one to use the term “perfect” with any leniency. I reserve the term for few. This is one of the few.

Once the deeply ambered whisky is in the glass, there is an emerging scent of Concord grapes, malted milk kissed with cinnamon, pumpkin pie, and candied yams. Once in the mouth, the marshmallow sauce on the yams makes its debut alongside equally portioned measures of sherry, tannins, and malt that has become a little bit spicy.

The finish is brilliantly sufficient, gathering through and near to the edge of a medium length extremity, but going no further. And here in this median borderland are found caramel, pepper cookies, and little bit of lime.

You won’t find hypocrites therein, because as I said, it’s perfect, but you’re sure to find them (me) lapping at its shoreline.

Review – Nikka, Coffey Grain Whisky, (No Age Statement), 45%

There’s a particular practice in Japan that arises from the Shinto religion and involves adults going door to door dressed as monsters. The whole purpose of this ritual is to frighten little children. Sounds a little like Halloween, yes? Oh, no. It’s better. And personally, I think it could be of some use here in America.

Shinto, the maxim religion in Japan, is essentially the worship of various gods that govern certain aspects of life such as harvest, fortune, and the like. Additionally, Shinto has a strong doctrine of spiritual connection between the past and the present, taking prominent shape through acknowledging and more or less worshipping ever-existent and ever-present ancestors in spirit form. Some of these ancestors, because of the virtuous conduct of their mortal lives, in death are considered to have become positive spirits that guide and encourage. Those who lived without honor or virtue in this life, it is believed that they have taken the form of negative spirits – demons. Both dwell in a spirit world that parallels our own, and both have the ability to traverse from one world to the other to act in the lives of the living.

The demons are called “Namahage,” and they are to be considered as anything but friendly or pleasant. During the Japanese New Year festival, there are those who will dress up as Namahage in order to scare children who may have been judged as having a tendency toward unindustrious apathy or misbehavior. And so, the Namahage come through in some rather frightening masks and straw capes, beating drums, shouting, waving wooden knives, and threatening an eternal fate of dire consequence to all the selfishly lazy brats.

Sounds good to me. If only we could get a few Namahage to run through the halls of Congress.

On a more serious note, at first I thought the guys there in Japan at the Nikka distillery who formulated the Coffey Grain Whisky were skipped by the Namahage when they should have been paid a visit. More precisely, with the first inhalation came the visualization of an assembly line of folks simply opening bottles of Bulleit and lazily dumping the contents into the Nikka Coffey Grain bottles. It seemed very familiar.

Now, having said that, a little more time with the whisky brought about the conviction that this stuff is by no means a replica of any of the Bourbons I’ve known before, and as I went through with the tasting, I found myself relatively pleased with the dram.

In the glass, the Coffey Grain’s nose is a pleasurable abundance of sun-warmed and drying caramel and allspice berries. It proves itself to be quite polished.

On the tongue, this stuff has an upward trajectory in the sense that following the nose, I didn’t expect much more than what I might find flowing from Kentucky, and yet I was led into a kannagara (pathway) of honey, citrus, spice – more precisely, ginger – and wisp of the grain.

The finish is a leisurely carrying away of the citrus followed by a resurgence of the nose’s allspice and caramel.

Admittedly, while this is not my first sampling of Japanese whisky, it is my first go-round with Nikka, and overall I found the experience to be a pleasant little jaunt with a manifold and well refined Japanese contrivance. I’m looking forward to trying others. And I’m looking forward to the Namahage mask I ordered on eBay. There are a few rascals in my house who are due some “encouragement” with regard to homework and room-cleanliness.

Review – Kilchoman, Machir Bay (2015 Edition), (No Age Stated), 46%

Sipping her milkshake, my wife acknowledges that our two daughters are so very different.

With passionate seriousness, she notes that she wants nothing more than for our oldest daughter, Madeline – who is pretty much the most loving, considerate, benevolent, and genuinely kind-hearted human being to inhabit the earth since the incarnate Christ – to find the “one” who will love and care for her before she has to experience the treachery of post-modern suitors and the dreadfulness of heartbreak.

On the other hand, our youngest daughter, Evelyn, is a completely different story. While we wish the same for her, we also know that she’ll most likely be the heartbreaker. No, really. We fully expect for her to punch a hole into the chest of any guy who hurts her, pull out his heart, and break it in front of him while he gasps to say “I’m sorry” for whatever it was he did and then he dies in a foaming plash of his own blood.

Madeline is sensitive and shy. Evelyn is not. Another example…

I took Madeline to her dance lessons one evening. I walked her into the studio, gave her a hug, and then headed back out the car. Evelyn was in tow. Just as I started the car and was about to leave, Madeline came running toward us crying.

“I don’t see anyone else from my class,” she said as a tear peek out from behind her eyelid, “and I don’t know where to go. I don’t know if I have class tonight.”

Before I could offer a word of assurance, Evelyn – her five-year-old sister – was unbuckled and out the door, taking her by the hand and directing, “Let’s go, Maddy.”

I followed them inside, all the while watching Evelyn push through the crowd, still leading Madeline along. She marched straight up to the instructor, pulled at her sweater, and rather insistently pestered, “Miss Danielle, where is my sister supposed to go? Does she have class tonight or not?”

Miss Danielle leaned down to tell her that Madeline’s class had been moved to a different night because of the rehearsals for the recital and that a note went home about it.

“Okay, then,” Evelyn said concluding the situation. “Let’s go, Maddy,” and back to the car they went.

Now, flip the coin.

Madeline is always the first of angels to descend to Evelyn’s aid when she needs to know how to do a cartwheel, or put peanut butter on her bread without ripping it to shreds, or bandage a wound after a savage street fight. Well, maybe not a street fight. More like a scrape from a trip and fall.

They are both very different, and yet they are sisters – born from the same womb, woven from the same DNA, and replete with the same bloodline.

I suppose a similar comparison could be made of the various editions of the Kilchoman Machir Bay.

Back in 2014 I had the unfortunate opportunity to purchase and try the 2012 release, and while so many Kilchoman disciples scoffed at my words as being unusually harsh toward a well-beloved potation, I wrote what I wrote because that’s what came out of the bottle. Some suggested I’d tried a spoiled bottle, and I suppose that could be true, although I’ve sipped the 2012 edition again since then and I was not impressed. I just think it sucks.

But the 2015 – sent into the world from the same mother as the 2012 – is a different story. It’s better.

Now don’t get excited. It isn’t knock-your-socks-off better. And while I am thankful for the encouragement to give it another go by way of the sample provided, still, it’s okay, and yet I remain unconvinced that I’ll ever be moved to cough up the cash to buy this stuff again.

The nose of the 2015 edition is something like the lettuce starting to decompose at the bottom of the prepackaged spring mix that sat beyond its expiration date at the grocery store. In other words, it has a vegetal scent, but it gives off a little more of a sourness than I’d expect or prefer from something finished in the embrace of Oloroso sherry.

The palate rescues the dram by throwing in a rather complex life-preserver of singed lemon and vanilla rum attached to and being towed by a thin line of sugar.

Unlike the 2012 edition’s medium finish, the 2015’s is a longer draw of honeyed oil and soot. Not terrible, but in my opinion, it still has a long way to go before deserving the badge of “super-awesome” that some fanatics seemed to have pinned upon it.

This reminds me of the effort my girls (and my boys, for that matter) put into cleaning their rooms.

“We’re done,” I hear the children call from the upstairs. I make my way up the staircase knowing full well that it won’t be the last climb for inspection.

After a brief scan, “Ah, my dearest little ones,” I say with a sincere heart of patience, “you remind me of the Kilchoman Machir Bay Scotch Whisky.” Disregarding the flummoxed stares, I continue, “Nice try, but… no. There is much to be accomplished before this can be called ‘good.’”

Review – Ledaig, 10 Years Old, 46.3%

1957

“Pastor, I’m so embarrassed that little Jimmy has been misbehaving as he has. In fact, his father and I are so embarrassed, we’ve decided to move to another city to start over again. We’ll let you know what city, and we’ll be sure to keep in touch.”

1968

“Pastor, we don’t know what to say except that we are so very sorry for Jimmy’s terrible behavior. You can be sure that he’s already gotten the spanking of his life, and when we get home, he’ll be getting another one just to make sure he understood the first.”

1979

“Pastor, Jimmy sure is a rascal, isn’t he? Takes after his father. Still, we are so sorry for what he’s done and when we get home, he’s going to be in big trouble, that’s for sure.”

1990

“Oh, Pastor, are you sure it was just Jimmy? You know, that Tackleton kid is a troublemaker, too. Have you talked to the Tackleton’s, yet? I’ll bet little Tackleton was involved. We’ll ask Jimmy. And we’ll ask Jimmy to write sentences tonight. How about 100? I mean, it was just a small fire… and it didn’t spread to the rest of the school, right?”

2004

(Via email): “You know, Pastor, I don’t think we’ll be able to meet tonight. Jimmy has soccer, and besides, he said he didn’t do it. He’s a pretty good kid and so as far as we’re concerned, that’s that. And by the way, sorry he’s had to miss midweek Catechesis so many times the past few months. That probably makes it so that he can’t be confirmed, right? We’ll try harder next year. But not to worry, we’ll finish up this year’s class. His traveling team schedule is coming to an end pretty soon and he’ll be back, for sure – as long as they don’t make it into the State finals. Then it’ll be a few more weeks. Go Team!”

2016

(Via text): “Who the hell do you think you are saying that my little Jimmy is misbehaving in school?! Can’t his teacher keep control of the class?! And by the way, he came home today and told me that you said he probably wouldn’t be getting confirmed this year! What the hell is that?! There are thirty-two sessions in all and he’s only missed fourteen! And we didn’t think he really needed to be there on Sundays since we thought he was getting enough ‘church’ from the class. Why can’t you take a couple of weekends to get him caught up?! But not this weekend because we’ll be outta town.”

———

I turn off my phone and set it on the mantle for the night. Too much has happened already, and the sample of the Ledaig 10-year-old is there, only inches away. The recessed lighting bends to a glisten through its golden broth.

I want it. No, I think I need it.

It is but a moment and the peat is strong in my nose – as a lit cigar and a flicker of tiny embers, the ash falls into the tray.

The whisky’s embrace gives an overly salted caramel and the smoldering soot from a grass fire.

It does let me go, but at first is hesitant to loosen its lengthy grasp, instead choosing to whisper into my ear (and therefore my mind) fleeting memories of a seasoned steak and the popping fog from its grease fire. Perfectly singed and ready to consume.

I want another sip before I type my response. No. I’d better not respond by text. I’ll call instead. Yeah, a call would be better.

The Ledaig 10-year-old, while it is a dram which reminds me of the inferno into which our society is most certainly descending, it is a much kindlier companion along the downward way than so many of those who are holding the hands of the little ones.

Review – George Dickel, Tennessee Sour Mash Whisky Classic No. 8, (No Age Stated), 40%

When I was a kid, there was a particular part of the worship service in my church that had me incredibly confused.

Anytime the Lord’s Supper was to be received, the service began with a corporate confession of sins. Within that confession, the following words were subscribed to and spoken by all as a descriptor of the concern for our offenses of thought, word, and deed: “But I am heartily sorry for them and sincerely repent of them…”

These words confused me.

My pastor had thoroughly explained sin. Even as a little one, I knew what it was and what it meant for me as an individual. I’d also heard from my pastor on more than one occasion that the Gospel message of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection for my sins was a powerful word of promise which actually worked within me a repentant heart that desired to confess sin, seek forgiveness according to that promise, and work to amend the sinful life.

Sounds good.

But as a late blooming literate who, by the age of six, felt as though I didn’t really need to be able to read anyway because I’d already pretty much mastered the entirety of the language of the liturgy in the same way I’d learned to speak English – by listening and repeating – there remained that portion of the order that had me terribly confused and concerned – a part I usually said with eyes closed in a contrite posture: “But I am hardly sorry for them and sincerely repent of them…”

How can you be hardly sorry for something and have the desire to repent?

And then I learned to read…

Ah, now I get it. “Heartily” and “hardly” are really rather different, aren’t they?

Alas, my fellow whisky congregants, let there be no mistake among us here with regard to my confession of the George Dickel Tennessee Sour Mash Number 8 edition. I hardly enjoyed it and sincerely repent of it.

In the hooch illiteracy of my younger days, it was debris like this that kept me from realizing the bright promontory that whisky could be. Thank the gracious Creator that He so kindly allowed for me the curiosity to walk into that little shop in London where I would be whisked away to a better future.

This stuff is kindly enough on the nose at first, giving over a warmth that carries along with it a nip of flaxen corn syrup, but if you bring it in too forcefully, you’re likely to cauterize the lesser vessels in your nasal cavity.

On the palate, this stuff is essentially a light wash of the charcoal used in the distillation process with some stale candy corns and pepper sprinkled in. This translates into a medium finish that lasts long enough to prove it is less than impressive.

In the end, I will say that I am glad that I gave it a try. It did provide for a moment of enlightenment. And in that same moment of clarity, I was given to rejoice that indeed I’ve discovered and have settled amongst the things that meet the “heartily” rather than the “hardly.”

Review – Benromach, Organic Speyside Single Malt, (No Age Stated), 43%

“I can’t believe these stupid things are so expensive,” the man said while half-heartedly fingering through the multihued seaway of greeting cards. “They expect us to pay five bucks for a folded piece of paper and like five sentences.”

I took a chance.

“I know what you mean. It’s about a buck a line,” I said and then I leaned into another way of thinking. “Seems like a lot, although, some of these cards say some pretty poetic things. Some are pretty deep.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said seemingly unsatisfied by my comment.

“I wonder how many folks depend on these things,” I continued, “because they couldn’t write anything close to what’s in these cards even if their lives depended on it.” I reached for and scanned one of the cards pretending to read it. “In fact, I’ll bet some have found their lives hinging on one of these things. Maybe even some marriages here and there.”

He didn’t respond this time. That’s when I noticed he was eyeing the anniversary cards.

I took another chance.

“Happy anniversary,” I said and reached for another card.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said.

“How many years?”

“It’ll be four on the fourteenth.”

“That’s great. My wife and I will be celebrating our nineteenth this summer.”

I took one last chance.

“I don’t admit this in public too often,” I spoke, “but I write poetry for my wife.” He shifted a little and reached for another card. “Maybe instead of buying the card, you could try doing something like that.”

“You mean, like, ‘Roses are red and violets are blue’?” he said without even looking in my direction.

“Well, something a little more substantial. Something more from you. Something better than what’s in these cards.”

I could see he was considering it, although he continued to peruse and lift cards from their slots.

“Maybe you don’t really even need these cards,” I continued. “Maybe you can do what they do.”

The conversation, more or less, ended there following a little more small talk which led to the young man leaving the card section empty handed. He was intent upon trying to write something of equal caliber.

In my opinion, when he stepped away from those cards, he maneuvered toward his doom. I say this because of the more precise mark at the heart of the chances I was taking with the conversation, which was to point out that so many will be swift to criticize the tariff for a greeting card, and yet they are completely unable to fashion and communicate the utterances therein. It takes skill to write these things. And in my opinion, to disregard this is similar to taking your loved one out for dinner and then criticizing the meal’s price tag even though the chef has prepared and presented something far beyond anything you could have ever created. In other words, if you can write it yourself, then skip the card. If you can prepare the meal yourself, then skip the restaurant. But if you can’t, then pay the price, and know that either way, your loved one will receive it as a genuine act of kindness given in love from you not its creator.

You should know that as I was leaving the store, I noticed the young man was back at the card rack and searching diligently. I believe that he’d considered the challenge and determined that five dollars was a pretty reasonable price to set upon an eloquent expression of his love.

In a sense, the same goes for whisky. More than once have I been standing at the foot of a whisky array and heard someone disparaging the cost of the editions displayed, saying that they’re not worth such a payout. And yet, based upon all that goes into any or all of the bottles before us, how can such a statement be valid?

Take for example the Benromach Organic edition.

Not only does the label of this $80 bottle communicate it as having been “handcrafted at Speyside’s smallest distillery by just two men using the finest Scottish organic barley and the purest spring water from the nearby Romach Hills…” but the contents affirm this relatively simple statement regarding the artisan effort invested in something that is now being enjoyed 3,500 miles from its birthplace.

The nose is that of a very mild chocolate peppered with cloves and entombing sweetened nectarines. On the palate, there is freshly baked bread thinly draped by vanilla and crusted with molasses taffy. The medium finish is a bit enigmatic, although it suggests most notably a remnant of the bread, now slightly toasted and anticipating a swipe of Nutella.

Can you make this in your basement? Well, with all of the advances in home brewing and distilling, perhaps you could. But would you be successful in matching and exceeding this? To most contestants, I would say, “I seriously doubt it.”

And so we pay $80 for something that we cannot generate of our own selves and we know is so much more than a beverage. And we share it with others perceiving that they will appreciate the generosity as well as the collegial experience around something you’ve given in love that is well above the level of “any ol’ dram.”

Review – The BenRiach, 16 Years old, 46%

I’ve thought about doing it, but I also know that if I did, it would be cruel.

There’s a fitness facility in a local strip mall near my home, and as you can see from the photo below, it has two rather interesting neighboring businesses. As you are facing the Snap Fitness 24-7, to its right is a Little Caesar’s Pizza, and to its left is a AAA Insurance office. Could it be that the mall proprietor is infinitely wiser than the rest of us and planned for this arrangement?

Here’s what I mean…

The treadmills in the fitness place are lined up along the front windows in a way that allows for folks to observe the outside happenings while walking or running, which means that if I were in an inciting mood, I very well could stop to pick up a five dollar pizza, and then departing and taking an immediate right, I could walk a whole five or ten steps to stand in front of the giant windows and gobble it up, all the while being keenly aware that I would be testing the mettle of the ravenous resolution-keepers foaming over my shoulders.

Cruel? Maybe. Enough to cause a situation? Perhaps. Which is why before visiting the pizza joint, I would stop in at the AAA office and pick up a life insurance policy. And I could make the policy as precise as I want so that the insurance company couldn’t find a way to wiggle out of it as they so often seem to have the ability to do.

Me: “I’d like to get a life insurance policy?”

Agent: “Sure. We have multiple plans to choose from.”

Me: “Can I make my own plan?”

Agent: “Yeah, you can fashion it with certain details, but I recommend…”

Me: “Great! I want a plan that has the largest payout for injuries or death from being mauled by an angry mob while standing in front of a fitness place eating a pizza.”

Agent: “Okay…”

Me: “And breadsticks. Put breadsticks in there, just in case. And a Pepsi.”

Too bad drinking whisky in public is against the law in my little borough. I think I could do something similar at the local beverage retailer/party store, which in my opinion, has a frustratingly limited selection. If you are in a pinch and the usual suspects will do – Johnnie Walker, The Glenlivet 12, Jack Daniels, Jim Beam – then it’s the place for you, but if you are actually discerning with regard to the aqua vitae that you intend to put into your body, you’ll need to travel another fifteen to twenty miles southwest to find proper accommodation.

I’m thinking that I could take this bottle of The BenRiach 16 (which was canonized in 2015 as the “Best Speyside Single Malt” at the World Whisky Awards) and stand in front of the windows at that party store. The novelty alone might cause some of the entering and exiting visitors to investigate. And my guess is that the patrons most likely to aggressively insist that I share, well, I could probably avoid serious injury and death by their hands because they’re probably drunks, which means their fine motor skills are probably of lesser quality. It’s a different story over at the fitness place. They’d catch me and my pizza before I could reach for my car keys.

I’d need to make sure I was standing in the right spot – a pace or two up wind from the doorway – so that the scent of this splendid dram could meet them with what is, at first, its Moscato-like alms of white peaches housed in minimally charred oak barrels.

For the discerning passerby, I might be willing to allow a sip, one that will almost certainly reveal a delightful harmony of peach juice, malt, and over-smoked honey leading to a dainty finish, one that suggests by its spice that it intends to be medium in length, but in the end, lasts only a moment or two past the gulp.

On second thought, I think I’ll keep this one to myself. But a pizza, now, that’s something to share with others.

Review – J & B, Rare Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 43%

I was taught that if you didn’t have anything nice to say, then you should not say anything at all.

Therefore, I will simply say…

Do not buy a bottle of J & B Rare Blended Scotch Whisky.

That is all.

What? You want more?

No, you don’t.

No, really, you don’t.

Trust me, I’ve said enough already.

No, I don’t want to talk about the nose, palate, and finish.

Because I don’t have anything nice to say, and if I describe the whisky – that is, truly describe it as I experienced it – I think it will scar your psyche. And if you are one of the folks out there who have consumed this stuff and found yourself to be quite fond of it, I fear that the offense will be great.

How great? Very great, and I value our friendship, which is why we should just bring this conversation to a close.

No, you can’t.

No. You can’t. You think you can handle it, but you can’t. It will hurt.

Yes, it will.

I’m telling you, it will.

You think so?

Are you sure?

Well, okay. Here’s what I thought.

Did you ever see that movie “The Rock”? No? Well, there’s a scene in that movie where the main character, Stanley Goodspeed, played by Nicholas Cage, is describing the effects of the VX nerve gas (known as “Sarin”) to John Mason, played by Sean Connery. Essentially, Goodspeed describes the event of inhalation as one resulting in faces melting off and innards erupting to become outards.

Technically, VX gas doesn’t really kill this way. The director, Michael Bay, decided to up the fear factor on the weapon to make the villainous threat a little more frightening. Now, don’t get me wrong. Sarin gas is deadly, and it kills quickly and brutally by way of horrid nervous system overloads, convulsions, and vomiting. It just doesn’t kill as it is described in the movie.

But J & B does.

The taste needs less imagery. I’d say it’s a lot like ethylene glycol, which is the chief chemical in antifreeze. It smells and tastes like melted sugar transfused with isopropyl alcohol.

The finish is only about three or four seconds of alcohol bite, which is good, because if it were, heaven forbid, nine or ten seconds long, chances are you’d still be alive as your guts spilled out onto the floor. I think most folks would prefer to have passed on by the time this happens.

And one more thing…

Hey, where you going?

Review – The BenRiach, 12 Years Old, 46%

The Justice League was coming undone, but not by any such menacing forces as have plagued it in the past. This time, the trouble was from within.

Aquaman was captured by the U.S. government, tried, and convicted to life in prison. Turns out that during a friendly game of Canasta, he got a little drunk and used his telepathy to convince his partner, a megalodon, that attacking a cruise ship might be fun.

Wonder Woman decided she wanted to be a super hero cowboy and started calling herself “Trailblazer.” She traded in her sexy duds and invisible jet for some denim and an invisible horse. She kept her lasso, because, well, cowboys need lassos. At first the group was cool with the change, but they later banished her because she didn’t clean up after her horse. You don’t know you’ve stepped in invisible horse crap until it’s too late.

Robin, Batman’s sidekick, decided he no longer wanted to be a man and opened up a transgender themed fruit smoothie restaurant in Portland. The announcement came as little surprise to the group. When Green Lantern followed him out the door saying he intended to be Robin’s bartender, the group was even less astonished.

Cyborg was taken offline after a firmware update to his weapons protocols somehow got mixed up with an MP3 download of Katy Perry’s “Firework.” The scene was rather extraordinary, although Superman had to punch a hole in his head to shut him down. In the end, it was a sad day.

Flash was kicked out when it was discovered that he was really just a super suit stuffed with squirrels.

The only two who remained were Batman and Superman, and things weren’t going well between them. No one really knows how it began, but by this point, Batman was constantly trying to sneak Kryptonite powder into Superman’s Cap’n Crunch because he believed that Superman was continually sabotaging his grappling gun wires, and Superman was regularly fraying Batman’s grappling gun wires because he was certain that Batman was peppering his favorite cereal with Kryptonite powder.

“What’s on the evening docket, Wayne?” Superman asked and sniffed his cereal.

“Why don’t you ever get a pizza or something, Clark?” Batman questioned with irritation. “All you ever do is eat that garbage. It can’t be good for you.” It was a false concern. Batman knew that the varying sapidities of a warm pizza would better conceal the Kryptonite powder’s salt-like peculiarities from super senses.

“Don’t worry about it,” Superman said with a mouthful of cereal. He used his cape to wipe his mouth.

“There’s nothing happening right now,” Batman snarled and kicked open a cabinet next to the pantry. “I’m gonna have a drink.”

“Hey,” Superman contested, “that’s Aquaman’s stuff!”

“He’s doing life, you idiot,” the Dark Knight rasped. “Do you really think he’s gonna care?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Completely disregarding the Kryptonian’s words, “You’re such a boy scout,” Batman whispered grittily. “This looks good,” he added and reached for the BenRiach 12-year-old and a rock glass. Setting both items on the kitchen counter, he popped the whisky’s cork and drew a sizeable breath.

“Nice.”

He poured two fingers worth into the glass, wandered to the living room, plopped into his jet black leathered recliner, and called out, “Johnny Cash!” In an instant, the Justice League computer was playing “One Piece at a Time.”

Tapping his boot, he swirled the amber dram and then sniffed again.

“Cocoa butter, brown sugar, and a little salt,” he wisped and then took a sip.

His spirit calmed a little as the whisky carried him back to the contents of the candy tin on his father’s desk – Hammond’s Old Fashioned Root Beer Drops. Another taste turned his mental gaze toward his mother’s morning dark roast coffee.

There was a zest in the medium finish. “Paprika, maybe,” he said softly and took another sip. “Yeah, paprika. And coffee. Weird. But I like it.”

Suddenly, the Justice League computer called robotically above the music, “Alert! Alert! Alert!” Both super heroes leapt to attention and turned up an ear to listen. “There is… a disturbance… in Portland, Oregon… at The Robin’s Tail… Fruit Smoothie Bar… and Grill.”

Each gave the other a glance and then both sat back down and waited for the other to speak. Superman broke the silence.

“Interested?”

Batman tapped his glass and examined the light through its etched design. “Nope. Hal and Robin can handle it.”

“Yeah,” Superman agreed. “I guess.”

A few minutes of silence passed. Superman hovered into the living room and dropped onto the couch beside Batman.

“We should go and help,” he sighed.

“Probably,” the Dark Knight said matching his tone but staring away toward the ceiling.

“So,” Superman started again, “Aquaman isn’t coming back, you said.”

“Don’t care,” Batman said succinctly and looked to a different portion of the ceiling.

“Mind if I try a little from that bottle before we go, then?” Superman respired.

“I already poured one for you, Clark,” the Gotham vigilante said and turned back with a second half-filled dram in hand, a crooked grin, and a thought of the empty vile in his pocket. Superman took the glass, gave a nod, and dumped it on the floor.

“I’ll pour it myself, Wayne.”

Review – Bulleit, Frontier Whisky, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 45%

Now, you may have trouble believing what I’m about to share, but it is with firsthand knowledge that I tell you. I know what happened that night because I was there. The creature that I used to regard as something of mist and myth is real.

It was late. The air was cool. The moon was just above the wetland horizon. The sandhill cranes, the evening watchmen who call across the river and through the thicket behind our home, were unusually silent.

The night seemed to be holding its breath. Something was about to happen.

I pulled into the driveway. I was tired, but I was looking forward to releasing the day’s concerns by flexing my writing muscles. Unfortunately, I had a new Bourbon awaiting review – the Bulleit Kentucky Straight Bourbon Frontier Whiskey edition – and with that, I found myself unenthused. I’m not a fan of Bourbon.

I’ve never hidden the fact here at Angelsportion that I have yet to meet a Bourbon that I would ever consider calling my own. A few have come close, enough so to make me feel as though sipping them was much like catching a blurry snapshot of Bigfoot. These have only pried loose the grip of one hand on unbelief, allowing me to partially free-float in a sphere of consideration, allowing for me to cogitate that perhaps the creature was indeed out there and that only time was keeping us from the happenstance encounter that would change everything. But still, there was that one hand – the reasonable, experiential, reluctant hand – and as the days passed from each out-of-focus encounter, its pull continued to draw me back to an earth where no such potion truly existed and the cold day in hell that would occur before I’d ever fully embrace a Bourbon.

Well, it happened that cool evening in my living room. I came face to face with what was once a cryptozoological mystery but was now for this Scotch drinker the discovery of the age.

First, I must report that this elusive little beast of legend strangely emanates something like a mild but also very creamy honey mustard excluding any paprika required by the recipe.

Second, on the tongue, cinnamon is as prominent as it can be, and this not only gives the whiskey a nice little chomp, but it fine-tunes the experience and reveals the hidden gems stored away in the creature’s lair. In one corner, a cache of plums and currants; in another, caramel corn and Italian rye bread for dipping.

Lastly, the finish is splendid. Medium in pace, the honey fades back into folklore, followed along by a buttery rye.

And so, as I began, I must urge you to believe me. I’ve discovered a Bourbon that I can love. It is the Bulleit Frontier Whiskey edition, and I have every intention of keeping and maintaining this specimen as my own.

Also, I heard in the news that hell placed a rather large online order for sweaters with Land’s End.