Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 38

Review – Benromach, 2003 Cask Strength, 10 Years Old (Implied), 58.2%

Are there rules with regard to the types of tricks that can or cannot be played on April Fool’s Day? I mean, are they allowed to be shocking enough to make your children cry?

First, you should know it wasn’t my intention to make them cry. Well, only one of them cried, but still, I almost started crying when the child’s tears began to flow. I felt pretty bad. And second, it wasn’t like I included death in the mix. I didn’t gather and hold them close and say something like, “Hey guys, I just got off the phone with the police. Momma’s not coming home ever again.”

We had a pretty decent storm yesterday and then some rain last night, so this morning, I asked if any of them had been in the basement yet. I knew they hadn’t. When each affirmed they were unaware of the condition of the basement, I told them it had flooded the previous evening and all of their basement possessions were destroyed – the ping-pong table, the book shelves and their hundreds of books, and all of the other favorites they keep in the sub-level play area – everything was ruined.

Shock and silence painted their faces. At once, they ran toward the basement door and bolted down the steps. The tears started along the way.

When they arrived and could see that all was in order and everything was as it should be, I said, “April Fools.”

“Daddy!” two shouted in time. “That’s not funny!” The tears became more abundant for the third, who said nothing. Maybe they were just tears of relief.

I shed a few tears of relief when I tried the Benromach 2003 Cask Strength (10 Years Old, 58.2%). I say this because while I’ve reviewed about a gazillion different whiskies, at the time of this review, the only other Benromach edition that I’d ever tried was the Benromach 21-year-old, and if you’ve read the review, then you know that it is one of my prize whiskies. It holds a special place in my heart. And so the bar for the Benromach distillery was already set very high.

The 2003 Cask Strength edition met, and perhaps exceeded, the bar.

There’s a little bit of peat in the nose – not much – but enough to get your attention. Following the smoke’s minimal trace back to its source, you find yourself passing through a forest of pine, pausing at a dark-seeded berry patch beside a pair of green apple trees, and ending at a quaint campfire kindled from old farmhouse floor boards.

The palate is a similar visitation, but along the way comes what is noted on the bottles labeling – malt, vanilla, and black pepper. I’d add blackberries to the lineup.

The finish is magnificent. In medium stride, the whisky shakes a little more pepper onto the tongue but then sweeps it to the back and then into memory on a drop of malted vanilla.

I’ll close by saying that I thought about writing this review in a way that would make you think I despised the whisky, calling out “April Fools” at midpoint, and then giving you the hard news of my joy. I decided against such a course, namely because I’ve seen enough tears today already, but also because I’m certain that iterating such treacherously false things against this fine whisky would be a violation of whatever existential laws are in place for April Fool’s Day.

Review – The BenRiach, Curiositas Peated Malt, 10 Years Old, 46%

Even though the restaurant was nearly empty, our meals were incredibly slow in their arrival. Flicking at her straw, Evelyn frowned and said in a mumble, “I don’t want to play this game.”

Madeline went first.

“Let’s see… What I like about Evelyn is that she is funny and she likes to give hugs.”

“Thanks, Maddy,” Evelyn growled. She was unflinching in her disgust with her brother, Harrison, which at the present stemmed from a brief moment of competition ten minutes prior in the car. I think it had something do with the fact that he was able to solve a math problem that she couldn’t.

Trying to change the tone of the gathering, I went next.

“You know what I love about Madeline?” I asked the group. “She’s kind to everyone, she loves to cuddle with Momma, and she’s really smart.”

Maddy’s grin was even bigger than before.

“Your turn, Harrison,” I prodded. “What do you like about Evelyn?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said surprisingly willing to try but also knowing that whatever he said was going to be forced and rather uncomfortable.

“I like that Evelyn is short.”

I’m sure glad that Evelyn doesn’t have super powers, especially powers available to her eyes – like laser beams or telekinesis. Harry would be crispier than the chicken strips Evelyn ordered.

“Give us something better than that,” I nudged.

“Okay, so, I like Evelyn because she’s… well… because she makes me laugh and she is fun to play with.”

“Your turn, Evelyn,” Madeline said. She and I worked the scene as if we’d practiced. “What do you like about Harrison?”

Still flicking her straw, “I like that he’s sitting over there by Daddy and not next to you and me.”

“Evelyn,” Maddy coaxed with much more care than I was prepared to give, “Harry just said some really nice things about you and he’s mad, too. You can try.”

The next glare warned Maddy that she, too, was treading dangerously near to the “Crispy Chicken Strip” zone. But what came next, I do believe, stunned even the universe itself.

“I like that Harrison is really smart and that he loves me and that he’s fun,” and the litany rolled along, “and he’s kind and he lets me play with his toys and he’s my friend…” After a few more descriptors, she brought it to a conclusion with, “and because he’s my brother.” As Harrison started to smile, so did, Evelyn. The clouds were dispersing and the two youngest of my four appeared to be pals once again.

“That was really nice, Evelyn,” Madeline doted. I offered the same.

“I win, Harry,” Evelyn interrupted and took a proud sip of her orange juice.

“What do you mean you win?!” he said shifting from joy to confused surprise.

“You only said two nice things,” she pierced. “I just said like twenty.” And then taking a quick sip from her drink, she ended, “You lose, Harry.”

Again, I think that the universe stopped spinning for a moment just to marvel and to take note of the six-year-old mind. Thankfully the food arrived before Harry could dive under the table to bring her to justice.

I think that this particular account serves as a useful translator for The BenRiach 10-year-old Curiositas Peated Malt because while I wasn’t expecting very much from this still relatively young whisky, it was, instead, an aquifer of descriptors proving itself quite capable against the better-known peats.

In comparison to most others, the nose of this whisky is a small, more intimate campfire of smoked fruit and the finished woodiness I enjoy smelling on the inside of my 12-string Fender acoustic guitar.

The Curiosita’s litany continues in the palate, revealing paled fruits such as pears, peaches, and sweet green grapes. Each of these is cut and served on a singed piece of southern swamp ash garnished with a minimal scattering of lilac petals.

And much like my six-year-old’s closing statement, the finish is most remarkable. It is short, but in its brevity, it collects everything presented thus far and caps the whole discussion with a confident nod that it ought not to be underestimated as a formidable competitor when choosing between peaty whiskies.

And by the way, the lunch ended without blood. It’s amazing what a piece of French silk pie can do when all efforts at diplomacy have failed.

Review – Aberfeldy, 12 Years Old, 40%

So, what is it with drive-through attendants as of late?…

It’s early. I have only a few minutes, but I choose to stop.

I pull into the drive-through. An excited, bubbly, and obviously recorded female voice comes from the speaker, “Welcome to McDonald’s! Would you like to try one of our extra value breakfast meals?!”

Feeling well greeted, “No thanks,” I say.

A different voice assumes the controls. “Go ahead when you are ready,” he says as though he’s already tired of me.

“I just need a medium black coffee.”

“Could you repeat that?” he moans.

“I just need a medium black coffee.”

Upon the screen appears a small coffee.

“No, um, sorry, I need a medium coffee.”

Nearly bored to death, “Do you want cream with that?”

“Uh, no. Nothing in it, please. I want a medium black coffee.”

“Ok. Your total is (garble-garble-garble as he somehow manages to get something between his mouth and the headset microphone).” Sighing, he concludes, “Please pull forward to the first window.”

I pull ahead to the first window. No one is there. I wait. Eventually, I gather enough courage to pull forward to the second window.

We meet, and he’s everything I expected – indifferent stare, offended posture, disinterested tone.

“A dollar five,” he says. I hand him the exact amount already knowing that my bill should be a bit costlier. He hands me a small coffee and two creamers.

I say nothing, humbly accepting a morning dosage of mere adequacy.

My evening is only a slight revision.

Having already been taxed by the day’s events, almost more so than I could bear, I make a straight line from the front door to the whisky cabinet. There is the Aberfeldy 12-year-old, unopened and beside the more handsome and also unopened Benriach 20-year-old. I have only a few minutes before surrendering to sleep, and I choose the Aberfeldy.

Sluggish, I remove the plastic encasing the cork, give a little twist and then a lift. It comes clean from the bottle with a crisp report and a brisk passing of peated honey. In the glass, this remains, but there too arises a slighter “something” of a custard, but as hard candy.

Feeling as though the dawn-to-dark has chosen to end much more easily than it began, the first sample of the promising amber prompts me to recall that the day’s first attendant was uninvolved and adequate, barely desiring to serve, but this one holds employment there, as well, although it is bearing a rigid smile, a zealous apron of flare pins, and distant eyes. It is far too cloying – more candy, more custard, and something new – a syrup of ground walnuts and cinnamon. It seems unnaturally sweetened.

Tired by its medium voice, which continues to recite the menu previously described, I finish the dram, pour into the same glass a short depth of water, retire to my quarters and bed.

In the darkness, my wife is puzzled to hear me say, “Tomorrow, I intend to make my own coffee.”

 

Review – The Glenlivet, Founder’s Reserve, (No Age Stated), 40%

“This is stupid,” the infamous rabbit moaned and popped his head out of the magical burrow which enables him to travel around the globe. “I am,” he drew a breath, “so sick of this.” He hopped out and tossed a few brightly colored eggs into the bushes, some of which fell into the mulch and rolled out into plain sight.

“Looks like the Tackleton’s egg hunt is gonna last a whole thirty-five seconds this year.”

“Whatever,” he sighed and pulled his satchel strap a bit tighter. Lacking any enthusiasm for his duties, he bounded through a gap in the neighboring fence, nearly colliding with an awakening sprinkler head in the flower bed on the other side.

Squinting, he traced a zig-zag through the yard to the porch, dodging the heaviest of the tat-tat-tats accosting him with what smelled like stagnant pond water and soaking his bright pink pants, making them transparent enough to see the drenched fur beneath.

“This is stupid,” he said again and sat down on the welcome mat near the house’s front door. “It’ll take six months to shed all this pink fur.” He tugged at his pants, “And where the heck did Land’s End get the dye for these pants, anyway? Sherwyn Williams?” He could already feel them starting to shrink.

Checking his list, he noticed that the Adelberg family, the home’s residents, were Jewish.

“Figures.”

Ears perched and turning, he listened for dogs, cats, foxes, opossums, hawks, coyotes, small children, and of course, any and all of the many natural predators for the Easter Bunny – and as he scanned the yard for the best course through the sprinklers to the next house, he complained once more, “How did I get roped into this stupid job, again?”

Seeing a clear path, he sped another zig-zag through the grass and griped, “I’ll bet it was some guitar-slinging fundie in a mega-church trying to be hip.” He moved fast. “He probably thought that an Easter Chicken just didn’t have the marketing flare for spreading his already watered-down message of a risen Savior…” A little out of breath, he stooped behind a tree to avoid a passing car, “He and his ‘worship committee’ probably suggested an egg-chucking rabbit to the senior pastor, instead. Makes complete sense.”

Once the taillights were out of sight, he leaned forward to dash for the next house, but even as his bemoaning thoughts began another crescendo, it was then that a sudden calm took hold and put him into a strange stillness.

“Ya know,” he said standing up on his hind legs and tapping his paw against the tree. He turned around and looked at the front porch, “Who cares if they’re Jewish?” He could see his dry spot on the porch through the mist. “I mean, it hardly makes any sense for the Christians to be doing this stuff…and since it’s really not that big a deal…why not share the fun with others?”

He darted back through the monsoon-like downpour and up the porch steps. Doing a full body shake to get as dry as he could, he tossed his satchel onto the “Welcome” mat. He could feel his pants getting tighter.

It wasn’t long before every last one of the colorful eggs in his satchel was in place to decorate the entirety of the wrap-around porch.

And so, woefully tired of his job as the Easter Bunny, and yet feeling rather prideful and free that he’d finally decided to give it up, he dashed back through the fence and across the Tackleton yard, stopping at the trash can near the garage to rid himself of his pants and satchel. He made a dash back toward his magical burrow, dove straight in, and was toted in a blurry flash to an underground workshop full of spring chicks painting chocolate eggs.

“Y’all better get outta here,” he shouted into the cavernous den, drawing the swift attention of all. “It’s been a very long night,” He started, “and I want all of you to know that I just quit as the Easter Bunny, I’m not wearing any pants, and I’m feeling like I could use some fried chicken right about now. Any volunteers?”

The silence before the fluttering scatter was brief.

With the fading of the feathery scuffle and clicking sound of chicks scurrying down a rocky tunnel, the rabbit formerly known as the Easter Bunny snatched his favorite rock glass and an unopened bottle of The Glenlivet Founder’s Edition which Santa had gifted to him only a few months prior.

“Tonight’s the night to see if this kills me,” he said with a slightly crooked smile.

He said it this way because Santa was renowned for re-gifting, and when it comes to Scotch, the jolly ol’ northern elf usually only gave it away if it was an edition he didn’t prefer.

The cork’s pop resonated through the rabbit’s sanctum, and it wasn’t long before the aroma of fresh fruit was equally resonant.

“Smells like sugar-glazed fruitcake,” he said sniffing the bottle. He poured a little and twitched his nose in another sniff above the dram’s rim, “And I think this cake has some surprises.”

He took a sip. One ear went up, but the other dropped out and over the glass as if he was listening for the whisky to make an announcement.

“There are a few cherries in the cake,” he noted, “if it is really a cake at all.” Now both ears were hovering above the glass. “This is starting to taste a little more like warmed cherry fritters with apple cream frosting.”

He took another sip, swallowed, and concentrated on the finish.

“I guess I’d say it’s a medium swig,” he said turning the crystal glass and catching a glimpse of his own reflection. “And there’s a little bit of cinnamon sprinkled in, too.”

He took another sip. It was quiet.

“So, now what?” he mumbled with a little bit of the whisky still in his mouth. Looking down and noticing his luminously pink lower half, he yelled down the tunnel in the direction of the frightened chicks, “Somebody please bring me my trimmers! And some pants!”

There was no answer. He took another sip and reached for the phone.

“I wonder what’s shakin’ in Punxsutawney, tonight.”

He dialed and waited.

“Phil!… Yeah, it’s Bunny…. No… No, I’m not in jail… I’m at home… Yeah, I know… Well, it’s a long story… I said, it’s a long story… Whatcha doin’ right now?… Okay, well cut it out and get over here… Because… Well, let’s just say that I have a lot of useless chickens around here right now and I’m wondering if you’re feeling up to some barbecue wings…”

Review – Aberfeldy, 12 Years Old, 40%

So, what is it with drive-through attendants as of late?…

It’s early. I have only a few minutes, but I choose to stop.

I pull into the drive-through. An excited, bubbly, and obviously recorded female voice comes from the speaker, “Welcome to McDonald’s! Would you like to try one of our extra value breakfast meals?!”

Feeling well greeted, “No thanks,” I say.

A different voice assumes the controls. “Go ahead when you are ready,” he says as though he’s already tired of me.

“I just need a medium black coffee.”

“Could you repeat that?” he moans.

“I just need a medium black coffee.”

Upon the screen appears a small coffee.

“No, um, sorry, I need a medium coffee.”

Nearly bored to death, “Do you want cream with that?”

“Uh, no. Nothing in it, please. I want a medium black coffee.”

“Ok. Your total is (garble-garble-garble as he somehow manages to get something between his mouth and the headset microphone).” Sighing, he concludes, “Please pull forward to the first window.”

I pull ahead to the first window. No one is there. I wait. Eventually, I gather enough courage to pull forward to the second window.

We meet, and he’s everything I expected – indifferent stare, offended posture, disinterested tone.

“A dollar five,” he says. I hand him the exact amount already knowing that my bill should be a bit costlier. He hands me a small coffee and two creamers.

I say nothing, humbly accepting a morning dosage of mere adequacy.

My evening is only a slight revision.

Having already been taxed by the day’s events, almost more so than I could bear, I make a straight line from the front door to the whisky cabinet. There is the Aberfeldy 12-year-old, unopened and beside the more handsome and also unopened Benriach 20-year-old. I have only a few minutes before surrendering to sleep, and I choose the Aberfeldy.

Sluggish, I remove the plastic encasing the cork, give a little twist and then a lift. It comes clean from the bottle with a crisp report and a brisk passing of peated honey. In the glass, this remains, but there too arises a slighter “something” of a custard, but as hard candy.

Feeling as though the dawn-to-dark has chosen to end much more easily than it began, the first sample of the promising amber prompts me to recall that the day’s first attendant was uninvolved and adequate, barely desiring to serve, but this one works there, too, although it is bearing a rigid smile, a zealous apron of flare pins, and distant eyes. It is far too cloying – more candy, more custard, and something new – a syrup of ground walnuts and cinnamon. It seems unnaturally sweetened.

Tired by its medium voice, which continues to recite the menu previously described, I finish the dram, pour into the same glass a short depth of water, retire to my quarters and bed.

In the darkness, my wife is puzzled to hear me say, “Tomorrow, I intend to make my own coffee.”

 

Review – Woodford Reserve, Distiller’s Select, Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, 45.2%

I did a pretty thorough search online and it would appear that you are the only storage facility in town.

There are other facilities in the surrounding townships, but as far as actual city limits go, you’re a lonesome proprietor here in our sleepy little town.

I wonder if our local MacDonald’s might consider putting the same message on its sign. Or maybe the gas station in the center of town. They’re the only of their kind in our burg, and I’d be willing to bet that in that same election, they were voted the best, as well.

Speaking of the election, when did that happen, exactly? I voted in the recent primary, but I didn’t see the “Storage Facility” candidates listing section of the ballot. I guess it’s not important, although I remain curious about things such as these, especially when I drive by this particular sign almost every day.

I’m somewhat curious about the word “Reserve,” too.

In its verb form, it more or less means “to hold back, to save, to keep preserved.” In its noun form, it infers a stock or cache set aside that isn’t to be used unless necessary. With that, I’m assuming that the regular stock there in Woodford ran dry and Labrot & Graham needed to dig into the stuff they set aside. I’m glad they did, because this Distiller’s Select edition is okay, and if that is the case, I can only imagine that the regular stock may have been barely choke-downable.

I can tell you, it smells great right out of the bottle – honeyed raisins, mocha, and cream. Swirling in a glencairn, however, the valve marked “Rubbing Alcohol” gets opened slightly, and unfortunately, it’s enough to lose interest in the experience before it really even begins.

But you can count on me to go forward.

The palate shuts off the valve – thankfully. There’s a crisp bit of the mocha from the bottle’s nosing that takes a rather interesting turn toward something like buttery sweetcorn with a dash of pepper. This ramps up in the finish and hangs around long enough to take another turn back toward the nose’s honey. The pepper stays.

At the time of this writing, this is the only bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon I own. And while it didn’t necessarily usher me into fandom nor am I likely to spend money on this particular rendition ever again, I am at this moment willing to cast my vote for it as the best bottle of Woodford Reserve in my whisky cabinet.

Review – The Glenrothes, Sherry Cask Reserve, (No Age Stated), 40%

This is my view at the moment. I am one of the few on planet earth privileged to observe it from this vantage on a regular basis.

Now, I know what you may be thinking, but don’t worry. This is the first whisky review I’ve ever written while sitting in the clergy pew directly behind the pulpit in my church, and I’m only writing it because I am more or less taking a mental break from a great many things that have already transpired this early Saturday morning.

It’s 6:45 a.m. and I’ve already managed to finish the Palm Sunday sermon, receive and respond to a less-than-kind email, and clean all of the papers off of my desk…which essentially means that I shuffled them into a stack and put them on a shelf behind my chair amidst a pile of books, almost guaranteeing that’s the last I’ll see of them for a while.

Right now – this quiet moment in the chancel – is an exercise in mind-vomiting before transitioning to the next few events on my schedule, which happen to be a breakfast for our catechumens (soon to be confirmands) at 8:00 a.m. followed by what we confessional Lutherans call the Great Confession. This is a prayer service in which the same catechumens we honored with a morning meal will be required to present themselves before the congregation and answer questions that I will ask them regarding the Christian Faith. It isn’t an easy task. There are about 360 questions in total. I won’t ask them all, but I will lay a good number of the most significant ones at their nervous feet.

Considering the exploits of the morning, both the receding and approaching ones, it is most appropriate that the pulpit is propped in my view at this moment, because if you think about it, by the time I get home today, I will have done a multitude of things that are, in a sense, centrifugal to this piece of liturgical furniture.

First, I don’t take it lightly that each and every Sunday (and plenty of additional days in between), it is required of me to step into this pulpit, open my mouth, and say stuff. Thus, the Palm Sunday sermon did not come along any easier or harder than other preaching occasions. Second, with this, I don’t blink at the fact that sometimes the stuff I say will make the listener angry enough to send me an email. And third, being very aware of this possible outcome, to the surprise of many of you I’m sure, I still refuse to tiptoe through the sermon preparation process choosing the vernacular’s softer words in order to avoid such confrontation, that is, choosing to preach in a way that the listener will be so impressed that he will desire to give a high five on the way out the door as opposed to avoiding the usual post-service handshake altogether. It’s never my goal to entertain or thrill. My goal is to preach substance that gives a spine to events like the Great Confession. I want folks to know the One at the core of the Christian faith, to believe, and to be unwavering in that belief.

Looking at the pulpit right now, I can say forthrightly – I don’t want the listener’s praise. I don’t want his adoration or admiration. I just want his soulful attention, that is, I desire an irreducible measure of his contemplative and honest heart by way of his ears to hear what is being said, and to understand that even though I’m the one in the pulpit, we – both he and I – are included in the fellowship described in the message. We’re in it together.

Now, I just noted a whole bunch of things that I don’t want from the people in the pews, but in contrast, I should be sure to include that besides being accepting of an honest and listening ear, I will always receive an invitation to discuss your joys and/or offenses over a dram, especially if it is the Glenrothes Sherry Cask Reserve. This particular whisky is a calming spirit from nose to finish. It can accentuate a solemn joy and it can relieve the strain of a troubled friendship.

There is a pother of sherry, to be sure, but in the midst of this wafting sweetness, the hour for rejoicing or reconciling is also wrapped by an additional bit of red raspberry jam and freshly ground coffee beans.

Rolling into and through the colloquy, the whisky keeps stride with the pace of either friend or foe, giving moments of palatal care to both between each sentence. Namely, the sherry is a pleasure to match each politeness and an uplifting distraction to each negative commentary. Further into the visit, friends become sounder and all animosity dissipates with the vanilla cake and sherry spice interludes.

The finish is longer than you would expect, leaving behind juicy mandarins and the ginger noted on the label.

Too bad these are my notes from the tasting last night and I don’t have the whisky right here in my hands. I’m making myself thirsty. And while I seriously doubt that the Lord would be offended by one of His servants sipping and thinking on higher things in His holy places, it is still quite early in the morning and there’s always a fair share of pietists roaming the countryside. I haven’t seen any yet this morning (which is probably because there aren’t too many, at least none who come to mind, that are members of this beloved fellowship), but I wouldn’t want to risk a chance run-in and cause a lesser brother or sister any offense.

Nevertheless, I know that with which I’ll be pairing my turkey sandwich when I get home later this afternoon.

A Little Inspirational Pick-Me-Up for Your Day…

Internet memes are everywhere.

There’s a particular group of theologians sprinkled into the LC-MS these days that has inspired me by their memery.

Actually, no, they haven’t. They’ve encouraged me to take out of context snippets from things I’ve written, slap them on stock landscape images, and pass them off as inspirational-looking, not necessarily useful, just inspirational-looking.

I intend to do more. It’s quite therapeutic, I must say.

Enjoy.

 

Review – Port Dundas, 12 Years Old, 40%

The fire was kindled and snapping, sending pixie embers into the gentle breeze already combing the barley fields north from the Cowcaddens. This traveling band’s encampment was presently but an acre’s edge from the Monkland. They could hear its waters lulling the daylight as it twisted through the Scottish dusk.

“Only a moment, my lads,” the minstrel teased with a toothy smile and leaned to his satchel, taking the gittern into hand but plinking a string by mistake. “I be not greedy, friends. Lend me only one of your two ears and we shall send the sun into her dullness and torpor, and in the goodbye we will befriend the eve’s denizens.”

He plucked at the strings and found his beginning. The others, even those attending to business, were carried to a place near the flames. And as the songster began his first few lines, the flames seemed to catch his rhythm and give way to his choices and changes.

“Aye, to the miles and lochs tha’ bind them,” he purred, “thar is but near to mine lads a Dundas, and a fine fellow he be…”

The sitting men tapped, and the standing men swayed. The minstrel observed the gazes and chose his lyrics from nothing, but did so quite mindful of the gathered jury.

“Look, the Lawrence is the man we pray will take us,” he trilled, “and is he nearest yon hill and the bond’ry sea…”

He kept the cadence, and more and more the men gave both ears as to one. More and more the embers encircled him, keeping near as to learn mortal lore.

“For there she resides, the lass, and she’s a sof’ened haze of the Norseman’s bees,” he sang with vigor. “Her honey, nay but a perfect bussing tha’ brin’ a good man to ’is knees.”

The men knew the scent he was foretelling – a whisky’s kiss – for no woman all the way through to the Clyde and Forth at the city’s midpoint could awash a man’s mind with such occultist enchantment.

The song carried on, and the camp drew together. Even the overarching trees appeared to clasp one another’s limbs, their lowest forming a gallery and their loftiest a chandelier twirling by the sky’s southern breath – all together shaping the darker havens in nearby Glasgow, stone and thatch firms filled with willing women and fools, ales and whisky – but just the whisky of the minstrel’s hypnotic claim – the Port Dundas 12-year-old.

“And with, why a ginger, will ne’er leave thee weary.” He went to the higher strings, “a’fore one knows her sweet and oaky relish, aye, her ‘nilla and careful creams.”

Some of the men were overcome by the skillful description of a common love. The weaker ones stared while the sturdier, the honest, appeared to gather their wits and their belongings. This was of little bother to the minstrel. He smiled and finished the next lyric.

“O, she leaves, yea, done ‘ere but stays a medium moment even as she serves ‘er fruits,” he teased, “peaches and sweet plums pluck’d from a dist’n jungle’s screams.”

One by one, as if fate had chosen them each by lot for a particular moment, the men forsook the camp that very night and wearied their already belabored horses to finish the journey before the deepest of the night could exhaust and dissuade them further.

All else a haze but the singular crispness of mind to reach the city’s gates, to gaze upon and taste the minstrel’s muse which had been chanted an hour or less before in that same night. But now it was so long ago, and as many miles behind them as when they may have first began. Their hearts were set to another end, and were content as to have acquired the Port Dundas 12-year-old.

Can you tell I kinda liked this stuff?

Review – Rittenhouse, Straight Rye Whisky, (No Age Stated), 50%

The line at the drive through was moving dreadfully slowly.

“What the heck is the hold up?” I whispered to myself just as I heard the crackling AM radio sound of the attendant through the speaker to the woman in the van just before me.

The woman paused for a moment as if trying to understand what was said, but then she went ahead with her order. There was no response. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. My only thought was that the computers were down and the attendant was using an abacus to calculate the order.

Finally, a distorted voice came over the speaker and spoke. And then spoke again. And then kept on speaking. The woman in the van just sort of stared at the menu board before finally pulling forward to the first of the two windows in her immediate future.

It was my turn. I rolled up to the menu board already prepared to make a simple request. All I wanted was a medium shamrock shake.

“Mister Crowley… what went on in your head? Welcome to MacDonald’s. Can I take your order? Oh, Mister Crowley… did you talk to the dead?”

“Um. Yeah. I just need a medium shamrock shake.”

“Mister Charming… did you think you were pure? Mister Alarming, in nocturnal rapport… That’ll be $2.58. Uncovering things that were sacred…manifest on this earth… Please pull ahead to the first window.”

I caught myself in the exact same stare as the woman in the van before me. The female attendant had taken my order while singing a passionately dreadful rendition of the Ozzy Osbourne song “Mr. Crowley.”

After a moment, I pulled forward expecting the window to slide open and reveal a carefree high school girl with an iPhone earbud in one ear and the drive thru headset earpiece on the other, but instead I was met by a gyrating twenty-something with freckles and ginger locks, no earbud and singing acapella, “Mr. Crowley, won’t you ride my white horse? $2.58 please… Mr. Crowley, it’s symbolic, of course…”

I gave her $3.00 and pulled forward to retrieve my shake without waiting for my change, although to her credit, she called up to the girl at the second window and she handed me forty-two cents along with my shake.

Now, you may be laughing as you read this, but it really was an uncomfortable situation. She was absolutely immersed in the song playing in her head, enough so that I almost expected to see blood spatter on the window and a few headless bats lying around her register. I really just wanted to get my shake and get the heck out of there.

I found myself in a similar situation with the Rittenhouse Straight Rye Whisky. After the first scent, sip, and swallow, I just wanted to get my notes onto a piece of paper, cap it up, and put it in the back of the cabinet. I wasn’t impressed.

The nose is very much an inundation of the alcohol. There’s hardly a nip of rye to be had, although you might notice chocolate covered sour cherries.

The cherries show up in the first sip, but so do pinecones. The rye finally makes its debut, but it seems to be almost an afterthought to a more spicy rum.

The finish is long, woody and dry. There’s a sweeter spice – cinnamon, perhaps – that arrives as it gets to the tail end of its fade, but still, it remains a less-than-spectacular conclusion.

Much like the girl at the drive-thru, this whisky performs impetuously, and it moves with an even more frighteningly careless balance which made this particular whisky consumer extremely uncomfortable. When it comes to presentation, it isn’t the one you want in the first-face position with customers or friends you are trying to impress. It’s better suited in the back and out of sight, somewhere near the fry cooker or the roast beef slicer.