Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 39

Review – Kirkland Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

I really don’t watch very much TV, but of the little that I do, there’s a particular commercial that makes me laugh almost every time I view it. But it isn’t meant to be funny. It is meant to be informative. It includes testimonials and analytical comparisons and “Made in the USA” credentials. It even touts the product’s esteemed placement as the official item of choice for a particular association.

The company is called MyPillow, and they sell… well… pillows. The company’s claim is that they have managed to design the perfect pillow, one that will give you the best night sleep you’ve ever experienced.

Great. Sounds like a winner. Here’s what makes me laugh.

Only a few moments into the commercial, a testifying gentleman sitting with his wife beside him says rather plainly, “I never realized the connection between a pillow and sleep.”

Yes, he really said this. Now I’ll give you a second to chew on that little confession.

Okay.

In my opinion, admitting that you’ve never realized the connection between a pillow and sleep is a bit like saying you’ve not quite bridged the gap between the alphabet and words, or that you were utterly surprised when you discovered the connection between fuel and a car’s unassisted forward motion. It causes me to wonder further what other obviosities have managed to slip past this poor fellow. Is he aware of the connection between water and thirst? Does he know of the collegiality of the tongue and speaking?

Now I know that my analysis of this man’s testimonial may seem a bit harsh, and so I’m willing to forfeit the folly as resting more so upon the shoulders of those who produced the commercial. What he said was probably scripted, although he should get an Academy Award for his delivery of the line because it was incredibly believable. But since this particular line made it into the final cut, I get the impression that the marketers behind the commercial think we are truly ignorant. And maybe they’re right. Maybe we are. Maybe as a society we’ve become so obliviously disconnected with the elementary things in our lives, that when confronted by the obvious, it’s rather startling – and enough so that we’d be willing to sit through a sixty second presentation about it and then pay top dollar to acquire it online.

Within the whisky sphere, there’s a similar level of “obvious” that needs discussing, and in order to begin the conversation, I’d like to mention a question that was asked of me rather recently.

“Hey, Reverend, can you recommend a good Scotch for under $25?”

When I read these words from the email, I immediately thought of the MyPillow commercial, except I pictured the man giving his testimony a bit differently: “I never realized the connection between a whisky and its price.”

My first question to the inquisitor, “What do you mean by ‘good’?”

The response: “I don’t know. I guess something I won’t be embarrassed to share with my friends who know more about Scotch than I do.”

I followed, “Prices vary, but they are a pretty good indicator as to the quality of the bottle’s contents. Considering the prices here in Michigan, no, I cannot recommend a good Scotch for under $25. I can recommend an almost drinkable Scotch for under $25. I can recommend an okay Scotch for under $40. I become a bit more comfortable referring to and recommending a Scotch as good when you at least reach the $60 mark. There is almost always a connection between the quality of the whisky and the price tag. I know there will be plenty folks who argue the point, but I believe the axiom to be fairly reliable – you get what you pay for.”

Take for example the Kirkland Blended Scotch Whisky.

My dad saw this and picked it up while navigating the thoroughfares of the local Costco. It was a kind gesture, but at $25 for 1.75 L, the imbiber’s expectations shouldn’t be set too loftily. There’s a reason one can buy a jug o’ whisky for a quarter of the price that a higher end whisky might demand.

The Kirkland’s nose is stingy, holding back from promising anything meaningful at all. There is a faint trace of what seems a little like the juice at the bottom of a package of uncooked hotdogs. A good Scotch should not smell like raw hotdog juice.

The palate is a waxy clump of salted macaroni noodles doused with ketchup. It reminds me of the meals I was served while working within various orphanages in Russia. A bowl of macaroni noodles and ketchup was pretty much the lunchtime staple.

The finish is the only moment in the experience that renders something Scotch-like. Malt arrives on the scene, but no sooner than it lands is it overcome by a drop of what seems to be high fructose corn syrup. It makes you wonder how the folks at Costco managed to squeeze you for $25. Surely the teenager charged with the endcap from which you retrieved this edition was confused. I’m thinking that he mistakenly placed the decimal point one digit too far to the right. $2.50 sounds about right.

I know there will be folks out in the whisky blogosphere who will read this review and scold me, once again calling me a whisky snob. That’s okay. I’ll do my best to subdue my befuddled giggling as I continue to behold the detachment between pillows and sleep as well as whisky and price.

Review – Chateau Chantal, Cinq à Sept, Oak-Aged Brandy, 5 Years Old, 40%

I participated in a discussion recently that was really rather stimulating, and with such discussions, as many of you most likely know already, it is a hard thing for me to restrain the yields produced by such occasions.

I’ve learned a few very valuable lessons in recent years. Well, maybe I haven’t necessarily learned them. It’s more like I’ve discovered the need to affirm them more resolutely.

The first can and will sound nothing less than pompous, and yet it remains true no matter how offensive it may be to the reader.

It is a very precarious thing to be set upon a vantage point which sees the fuller horizon, all of its topography, its rising and setting sun, and from this to be right about the way forward when most, if not all, around you are wrong. There’s a fervor and precision of leadership that must be enlisted, or the sometimes irreparable wrongness will most certainly have its day. Even more challenging is the dexterity required of the one given into leadership to be mindful of the fragility of “person” while at the same time maintaining the careful balance between dictatorial mandates and democratic initiatives. It really is a rather meticulous – nay, exhaustive – pathway. I’ve both gained and lost confidants in my practicing of these things, to be sure. Ah, but retirement is only twenty years away.

Another is to acknowledge the “sinister” within all of us. And while it seems genuinely true that most would prefer to avoid conflict (unless, of course, it involves a more preserved participation by way of social media), there remains the need for someone to be ready to steer into it as needed. And while this is happening, there will be those who say that man is genuinely good, and that when troubles arise, it is merely the collision of different, and yet equally valid, opinions. This may be true as the occasional exception, but it is rarely the rule. If man were genuinely good, there would be no reason for laws to quell badness, but rather to control the overabundance of goodness. The need for civil law is your first proof.

The second might be that each of us – and it doesn’t matter where we come from, the system of government that cradled us, the temperament of our parents, or the veracity or timidity of our individual personalities – has a basic sense of what we believe to be our liberties. Sinister man believes one of those liberties to be the license to exact revenge – to get someone back who appears to have gotten the upper hand. And if that interest is denied, then the “offended” feels almost as if a fundamental underpinning of his or her freedom has been stolen away.

I often give a grin for those cinematic expressions which portray the villain fulfilling his vengeful devilry and then appearing to experience a personal emptiness following the event, as if to teach that retaliation, in the end, only hews a deeper, more cavernous hole. Sinister man would exists to teach otherwise. Someone in a position of leadership must not only work to subdue these efforts, but must persuade and compel others to a heartfelt willingness to do the same.

I suppose the last lesson that comes to mind right now is more so a bit of curative counsel that I work very diligently to accomplish as a pastor.

It was George Herbert who said, “Living well is the best revenge.” And while what he means by this may be far different from my practical interpretation, I’ve gathered at least a morsel of its rightness to understand that in the midst of times of internal or external struggles which threaten the vigor of the people in my care, I become acutely aware of the need to provide them with opportunities to be victorious, both big and small. Success in the face of another’s devout prayer for your failure is one way to dampen enemy zeal.

It is for lessons like these that the Creator allows for a portion of His creatures to say, most heartily, “Τὰ ἅγια τοις ἁγίοις” – the holy things for the holy ones. Not all are meant for the holy things, but those who are blessed to survive and thus to continue in the fray, they’ve a privilege as few others.

This privilege was mine in the gifting of the Chateau Chantal Cinq à Sept brandy by a friend and parishioner who remains a confidant even after he beheld his church experiencing darker hours. He picked it up in Traverse City, Michigan while vacationing and thought that I’d appreciate it. He was right.

I’m not one for Brandy, neither the singer nor the liqueur, and yet the corked bottle of five-year-old oak-aged Cinq à Sept is a single exception between the two I’ve been quite pleased to make. In fact, I often complain to my wife that Michigan has very little to offer to the Union. We have lakes and terrible roads – and lots of both – but not much else. Cinq à Sept is perhaps an exception.

The nose of this Brandy is quite heavy, bearing a luscious perfume of what I imagine is a unique combination of sweetened oak sap and mead. The palate substantiates the speculation and then adds a chunk of uncooked oatmeal raisin cookie dough to the experience.

The finish is as thick as the sip. Its texture is milky, but its exit is a medium fading of oak spice and a tinge of fruit strudel.

I do believe that this particular edition is one worth raising at the banquet table of victory, and perhaps, as a kindly gesture of peace, it might even serve to extinguish the streams of fire coursing through the veins of the ones who’ve sought our demise and yet continue to discover us well situated atop the hill.

Review – Label 5 Blended Scotch Whisky, Classic Black, (No Age Stated), 40%

I am convinced that when the Devil first stepped onto the scene with the intention of strangling mankind, he left marks – fingerprints that we can observe.

Walking the corridors of Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor, Michigan, which is a concentrated assemblage of little ones with tumors and leukemia and just about every vicious disease ending in “oma” that has been identified, I am persuaded that cancer is one of the fingerprints.

Another is abortion. I know that the topic is a sensitive one and that not all of you will agree with me, and that’s fine. I would simply say that aside from the Biblical perspective you should expect that I would bring by default, it just seems that there’s somewhat of an intrinsic and almost effortless ominousness that palls the topic of Abortion each time it is broached. For or against it, it is a discussion dealing in very dark things. And to go a bit further, even if I were to acquiesce to an existence without God, it would still seem to me that Life is not necessarily chosen, but rather, it happens. And yet its termination is given over into the realm of choice by those who’ve already benefitted from being preserved and protected from termination during that happening. I’m yet to understand this except as I behold it playing out amongst predators in the animal kingdom. But in the realm of man, the assent of the protector to kill the protected just seems more like devilry to me. Again, you may disagree, but I hope we can still be friends.

Radical individualism is the third. In fact, I think it is the fingerprint on the middle finger that the Devil is quite often extending to all of us. Radical individualism is the inability, or should I say, the willing disavowal of distinguishing between what is objectively true and what is only true by way of subjective interpretation, and it is nothing short of astounding. Western society, namely the United States of America, is embroiled in this foolishness as we speak. It hasn’t quite arrived at the threshold of society’s unraveling,  but I get the feeling that plane is coming in for a landing. Perhaps we’ll know for sure when someone who believes that the earth is flat ends up getting appointed to the chief position at NASA. Sure, it’s fine to believe that the world is flat, but just so you know, it isn’t. It’s round. And so no matter what you believe, you are inevitably bound by the rules of objective truth, and you must affirm this natural law lest you steer us into oblivious things. The Devil’s third fingerprint is societal destruction by way of radical individualism and the discounting of natural law.

The fourth is winter. I hate winter. Surely had the Devil stayed away from Eden, maybe changed his mind and decided to ask God for some grace, there’d be no such thing as winter.

I’m not completely certain as to the fifth, but I think I may be onto something. I think it may have been poured into the vile you see in the photo and sent home with me for a review.

The Label 5 Classic Black Blended Scotch Whisky may just be one of the marks of Satan’s deviance.

When I snapped back the latch to sniff the whisky, I’m certain that I smelled the familiar scent of rotting grass at the bottom of a moist yard waste bag. Rot exists because decay. Decay is the progression toward and into death. These are the Devil’s things. That was sign number one.

Next, with the first sip there was the overwhelming sensation that I’d consumed this whisky before. It took some deep digging into my mental matrix, but after a time of contemplation, I believe I made the connection.

When I was younger I worked as head counselor for a summer camp in Illinois. But not only was I the head counselor, I was also the head lifeguard, sports director, and the weekend camp maintenance assistant. Well, one Friday after the last of the campers had been collected by their parents, I decided I’d get a head start on mowing the soccer fields, and so I fired up the bush hog and pulled up next to the elevated gas tank to fill up. I used my key to unlock the latch which would allow for gas flow into the hose, but for some reason the flow knob wouldn’t budge. I pulled and pushed and pried until finally it popped open. The only problem is that somehow I managed to tear the hose and I was sprayed by the gasoline, some of which ended up in my mouth.

Sipping this Label 5, I now know that all those years ago I’d been filling the tractors with cheap booze.

And by the way, this is another sign. I tastes like gasoline. Gasoline is flammable. Coincidentally, Hell is a place of fire. Again, surely these are the Devil’s things.

Lastly, the finish did all but sign and seal a certificate revealing this stuff as an unholy sacrament.

There was a hint of fruitiness to the gasoline, but I can only surmise that the fruit therein is of the same batch snipped from the Tree of Knowledge in Eden. Right after Eve took that bite, shared the rest with her idiot husband, and God came ‘round to deal with the situation, Lucifer snatched a few to put into Hell’s freezer before slithering away in shame. Fruit from Eden is good, tempting, luscious. And that’s sign number three. The sweetness in the finish nearly convinces you that the poisoned cocktail you just swallowed wasn’t all that bad.

Lies. Filthy lies. Surely these are the Devil’s things.

Review – Ron Zacapa, Centenario Blended Rum, Sistema Solera, Aged 6 to 23 Years, 40%

They didn’t speak anymore. They were distant. Something was wrong.

“Talk to me,” she pleaded.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked and looked away.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Anything. Anything at all.”

The room was already too warm and the tears were beginning to form on her aluminum frame.

“Don’t you want me anymore?” she asked.

“It’s not that I don’t want you,” he began to explain.

“Then what?” The tears were streaming now.

“Listen,” the bottle of Ron Zacapa Centenario Rum said, “I don’t think that we should see each other anymore.”

“What are you saying?” Cola was stunned. “Why are you doing this, Ron?!”

“It’s just that…” he began.

“Is there someone else?” she said before he could finish his words.

“No,” he said firmly. “There’s no one else. There’s never been anyone else. Just you.”

“Then why? Then what? What happened?”

“Cola,” he said and took her by the hand, “you’re a sweet girl – in fact, too sweet – and I know that one day you’ll find another liquor, one that will love you just the way you are – carbonated and syrupy.” He took her other hand, “And the two of you will mix and be very happy. I just know it.”

“But why not you?” she cried. “Why not us?”

He let go of her hands and turned away again. “I’ve moved on,” he said plainly. “I’m a blend between six and twenty-three years old and I don’t want this lifestyle anymore. I don’t want to be a mixer. I don’t deserve to be a mixer. There’s a spice inside me and I want…no, I need to be free.”

“But I need you,” she whispered struggling to catch her breath.

“No, Cola, you don’t.”

“I need everything about you,” she said fiercely. “I need your spiced chocolate scent. I need your warm embrace and the caramel sweetness of your kiss.”

“There will be others, Cola,” he said to calm her. “What about my cousin, Morgan? He’s a Captain, you know.”

“He’s not like you. No one could ever love me like you. No one else could love me and leave me honey-touched, promising dried citrus and minced almonds at the end of each embrace.”

Her words fell at the base of his bottle. He said nothing.

“Ron!” she called as he reached to put her back onto the refrigerator shelf.

“Goodbye, Cola,” he said. “I’ll never forget you.” And he closed the door.

With the snap of the stainless steel appliance’s air-tight seal, her sadness was muted and they were no more.

 

 

——

I hope you liked this one, Jim. Thanks for giving me the last of the bottle!

Review – Glenmorangie, Milsean, (No Age Stated), 46%

“Sir,” Millie buzzed across the intercom, “Mr. Wonka is still holding on line two.”

Dr. Bill Lumsden, Glenmorangie’s Master Distiller, drew a breath and gave a slow exhale. He knew he’d made a mistake in reaching beyond the marketing department’s recommendations for the forthcoming Milsean edition packaging.

“Millie,” he asked somewhat sheepishly, “would you mind asking him if I might return his call a bit later? As you know, I am terribly busy at the moment.”

“You are?” Millie asked.

“Yes, Millie, I am.”

“Oh, okay. Very good, sir,” she said. Lumsden’s line went blank and line two turned from red to green signaling that Millie was negotiating at a least a momentary reprieve with the infamous chocolatier.

Lumsden watched the phone, waiting for the line to cease its green flashing, but it didn’t. It went red again, and Millie buzzed the intercom.

“Sir,” she said, “Mr. Wonka is rather insistent that he speak with you about the Milsean packaging designs that he’s compiled. He said that you received them.”

Lumsden was quiet.

“What shall I tell him, sir?”

Lumsden hovered so closely to the intercom speaker that Millie could hear and almost visualize him pounding his fist against his forehead.

“Put him through, Millie,” he said and took a sip of coffee.

“Very good, sir,” and in an instant, the direct line to Lumsden’s desk awoke. He took another sip and pressed the button for the speakerphone.

“Willy!” he said exhuberantly. “It’s great to…”

“Dear Doctor Lumsden,” interrupted the nasally caller. “I am mortimatically discombobulated and well washed over by a course of dread I’ve not rounded since my last visit to the dentist. Oh, where are my manners? How are you, my fine gent? Well, I do hope. Although Miss Millie did divulge that you are really rather assiduous. Is it trouble at home? Maybe you’re not getting enough sleep, dear sir. Too much to do, if I do say so about my own trade. Many incumbencies and far too few Oompa Loompas at my disposal for hauling the arduous billet. What say you, dear fellow?”

“I’m, um, doing well, Willy,” Lumsden measured carefully while simultaneously wondering as to the meaning of “mortimatically.” Still, too much had been said already and he didn’t want to stir another filled response. “Time is a bit short for me right now, Willy” he said succinctly, “but I thought that since you called, we could go ahead and discuss the designs you sent over.”

“Splendid!” Wonka shouted and banged his handset on his oaken desk. The percussion rattled Lumsden’s speaker causing him to shrink back into his chair. “Where shall we begin, good Doctor?”

“Well,” Lumsden began but was once again interrupted.

“There’s no need to convince me by way of high praise, good sir,” Wonka confusingly slowed into almost a whisper but then gradually began to increase his voulme. “I can already sense that your heart has all but traveled door to door, caroling amidst both friend and foe with regard to the splendicity of my designs. This is true, yes?”

“Well,” Lumsden started, “the designs certainly are very…”

“Beautiful,” Wonka whispered again. “Yes, I know this. Good grief, man! There’s no need to repeat yourself. You are indeed under much stress. I can tell. Have you tried flavored coffee? That’s all I drink. In fact, I do so believe that it is the secret to my success. A day full of flavored coffee allows me to see things that no one else can see. It truly is thaumaturgic.”

“Say, Willy,” Lumsden said trying to bring the conversation down a notch. “I’m concerned that the box…”

“Isn’t colorful enough?” Wonka broke in. “Oh, my good man, we believe as one another here, yes? Being that your Gaelic term “Milsean” means “sweet things,” I was ever so inclined, as it seems you were as well, to choose from the gobstopper color schemes, but then by way of private conversation with one of the chocolate machines in the factory, we decided that you’d asked my opinion because you knew that I was an expert in such things and would follow toward a minimal but ornately colorful theme. I am, as you well know, a horizon’s length in keenness of eye when set against even someone as yourself, even having a doctorate as you do, wouldn’t you agree? Yes, I know you do. And so, my academicious friend, I settled for a slightly less imposing box. It will urge the purchaser not only to prefer the beverage, but will stir within them a strange urge to attend the circus. In this case, it just so happens to be a zippity zop bottle of Glenmorangie whisky. What fun, yes!”

“Willy,” Lumsden petitioned, “the packaging of our editions, in a sense, work to communicate the character of the whiskies within. Did you try the sample we sent you?”

“Oh, indeed I did. Oh my, indeed, we all did. I have many minutely-framed workers who’ve been clamoring for the delivery of another bottle. And I did promise them as such. Say, is that a possibility? I’ve made the promise, and you know, it really is good business to work within partnered associations to maintain such asseverations. Might I be so rude as to impose such a request of your kindness? It’s settled then. Once we’ve concluded, I’ll let the Oompa Loompas know another bottle will be delivered. There will be rejoicing, to be sure.”

“So, you tried it, then?”

“Oh, yes! And please do not forget, good Doctor, that I am a chocolatier of the highest order, one who with little effort is as agile in scent discernment as you are with the whisky craft itself. And so it is a note of truth, one you cannot deny, when I affirm that the nose of the Milsean is a magnanimous bathing in Portuguese artisanry – sweet red wine and the finer castor sugars I use in my meringues. With little effort, I am certain that I have pinpointed your mind in this pursuit.”

Completely surprised that the mechanics of his lungs were beginning to force air up and through his throat to form any words at all, Lumsden added, “I’ll admit, Willie, that you have a good handle on the bouquet. But what about the…”

“Egad, Bill!” Wonka intruded again, although he turned once more to a whisper as if attempting to keep a secret. “The whisky is just marvelous on the tongue. I do believe it will serve to keep my teeth as white as can be.” He got even softer. “My dentist did say that to swish a little whisky at night is better than flossing, although I am suffering with receding gums. Strange.” His voice went into a crescendo. “Regardless, the Milsean is an ineffable basketful of sugar-dipped cherries. And they are so very crunchy and sweet, as though you picked, purified, and preserved them in an instant, not settling for a loss of a single drop of juice. I thought I was the only one capable of such feats, and yet, there it is, right there in your Milsean.”

“Well, Willy, as I said,” Lumsden said sounding exhausted, “I’m really very busy today, but I’m glad we had a chance to consider…”

“Me, too,” Wonka interfered anew. “Very glad we’ve had the fortuity to appoint my designs. And by the way,” he continued, “have you been to the subcontinents, or Southeast Asia perhaps? I have. I’m really quite fond of the people there, and I’m equally sure that the Milsean’s finish reveals evaporated cane juice. Did you use cane juice in your formula, and if so, I’m positive that you joined it to passionfruit, yes? No need to confirm my surmising. It could only be this. So, shall we sign and seal our deed with a gentleman’s word that the lawyers may begin their dance?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Bill? Good Doctor?” Wonka banged the handset on the desktop again. “Oh, my. I must have lost the connection.”

Rubbing the mental debilitation from his eyes, Lumsden spoke, “I’m still here. Your designs will do. I’ll patch you back through to Millie. She’ll give you Marc Hoellinger’s number. He’s Glenmorangie’s CEO and will get the ball rolling with marketing.”

“Splendid. Thank you, kindly; and I do hope we’ll have the pleasurable convenience of visiting…” Lumsden pressed the “hold” button and rang for Millie.

“Yes, Dr. Lumsden?”

“Wonka’s on hold. Give him Hoellinger’s number.”

“Will do, sir.”

Lumsden gave a soft moan and took a sip of his coffee.

And that, my dear Angelsportion friends, is why Glenmorangie’s new Milsean edition, while it is quite tasty, is bottled and packaged as though it were designed by Oompa Loompas.

Review – Bulleit, Rye Small Batch American Whiskey, (No age Stated), 45%

Who doesn’t always appreciate the opportunity to give his or her six-year-old daughter a hug before leaving the house?

Me, that’s who.

Shocked? Well, you shouldn’t be. And before you go slapping me with the label “Terrible Parent,” you need to know why.

My six-year-old is a brilliantly conspiring trickster.

I live in a wonderfully loving home. Every time I leave, and it matters not whether it is a trip around the corner to the hardware store or a week in Washington D.C., all of the kids line up to give me a hug goodbye. I absolutely love it. And I revel in it knowing that one day it will come to an end, at least in its current frame.

But then there’s Evelyn, our six-year-old, the one I sometimes refer to as “Malevelyn” – endearingly, of course. Yes, she loves hugs from her Daddy, but she also has other, more sinister intentions.

I can always count on her to be the first one to come running, arms opened wide and calling, “Hug! Hug!” She’ll give a tight hug, a quick peck on the cheek, and then she’s off again to do whatever she was doing before – at least that’s what she wants you to think.

The other kids line up for the same, but once I’m out the door, they disperse. But not Evelyn. Oh no. She lurks around the corner waiting. And then not long after the front door closes, she runs back through the house yelling, “Another hug! Another hug!” Of course, what is a loving father to do except turn right back around and give her another hug? It wasn’t until recently that it finally clicked. I finally figured out that all along she’s been orchestrating her own little game, and we, the parents, are the pawns. She gives the first hug and then waits to pull the trigger for a second only after seeing how far she can let us progress in our efforts to depart before we come back and do it again. She doesn’t really want that second hug. She just wants to discover the extent of the strings that make her puppets dance.

Personally, I’ve gotten as far as backing out of the driveway, shifting into drive and seeing her in my rearview mirror yelling through the front door window and then opening the door and making a tearful scene for the neighbors. And so what did I do? I made a loop around the block and came back for another hug.

Dirty little guilt shoveler.

Jen is much tougher in this department than I. Only a few days ago, she announced she was going to make a quick trip to the store and that she would be returning shortly. The announcement initiated the hug ceremony. But as Jen was nearly in the car, the driver door still open, Evelyn came running around the kitchen corner shouting, “Another hug!”

Jen heard the screeching, but she didn’t flinch.

Desperate to win the match, Evelyn opened the front door and screamed, “Momma! Momma! Another hug! Another hug!”

“Get inside and shut the door!” Jen called out pointing at the little manipulator through the windshield. “I already gave you hug.” And then she got into the van and drove away. Evelyn waited a minute to see if she would loop around the block and come back. But she didn’t.

Evelyn was in shock. I was in awe. Momma was the winner.

It didn’t take long for Evelyn’s astonishment to turn toward the realization of defeat. She closed the door as instructed. Knowing that I was watching the whole episode, she leaned on the door, head against her forearm, and let out a sigh. And then to heighten the drama, she lurched a bit and did what I can only describe as sort of a zombie walk over to the piano only a few paces from the front door. She plopped down on the bench and plunked a few keys until she found just the right notes – in minor key, of course.

“No one wants to hug me,” she began to sing and play. “Not even my Momma…”

The dirge continued for a minute or two. It finally ended when I poured myself a dram of the Bulleit Small Batch Rye, sat back down, took a quick sip, and interjected, “That’s a great song, Evelyn. You should perform that at the next church talent show. I’ll bet you’d win.”

She turned to give a menacing look, got up, and zombied upstairs.

“Bye honey,” I said. “I love you.” I think she mumbled that she loved me, too. I don’t know. Maybe not.

Either way, I was well into considering the whiskey in my hand.

This particular edition was recommended to me by a Twitter friend who was rather insistent that I try it. I’m glad that I did.

The nose of this little gem is one of toasted rye bread swathed in sweet butter. Quite nice. This is a whiskey I could sit and smell while watching a six-year-old wander around the living room in a daze of defeat.

The palate carries along what is present in the nosing, but is joined by a light and well-balanced glaze of marmalade.

Something rougher is added in the finish. I’d say there is a smoky existent in there somewhere, reminiscent of the bread crumbs that fall to the bottom of the toaster getting slightly singed over time.

I think when Jen gets back from the store, I will be there waiting at the gate with a margarita in one hand and a dram of the Bulleit Small Batch Rye in the other; and I’ll give a hearty “Slàinte mhath!” when the returning hero crosses the threshold. She deserves the praise for making the tough and immediate call in the midst of the battle tumult. Confronted by Evelyn’s cute but sinister assaults, she held her ground and was the first of the parents to take aim and fire, bringing awareness to the unbeknownst war between the puppets and the puppeteer. She deserves a most notable acclaim for such fearless decision-making. Not me. The only bullet I’ve managed to fire off amidst these shenanigans, as you already know, is spelled a tad differently.

Review – Wild Turkey, American Honey, (No Age Stated), 35.5%

I ended up in the Emergency room rather recently. Boy, that was fun. Really, it was an inspiring event.

I was able to people-watch for about seven hours before I was finally ushered to a room where I was able to people-listen for another two.

The first seven hours were a grand waltz of people coming and going, ailing from various illnesses, breaks, and a number of other things that I can’t really explain. For example, one woman wandered around the waiting room for about an hour hunched over and moaning. She couldn’t have been more than 35 or 40 years old, but she was a bedraggled middle-ager. At one point in her journey, she approached to ask me if she could buy a cigarette, saying that it would help with her pain. I told her I didn’t smoke. She gave somewhat of a ratchety moan and then kept on. Now what on earth gave her the impression that I was a smoker, except perhaps she smelled something burning – maybe the kindled rage that began to surface right around the four hour mark.

Once I was finally in a room is when the real fun began.

First, you need to know that each of the ER rooms is separated from the others by a curtain and nothing more. Everything you say is heard by everyone else around you. It seems rather unfair that only the folks within a 100 feet radius get to hear the details of what is supposed to be a private consultation. They really should install microphones into each of the spaces so that everyone in the hospital can hear. I guarantee can almost guarantee that would empty the waiting room and seven hours would turn into seven minutes.

Second, while there are a multitude of precise questions asked by the doctors in that first interview, all of which are designed to locate the reason for the visit, there are two questions in particular that are asked of everyone: Do you drink? Do you smoke?

And so, here’s something of what I heard across the hall from my cloth enclosure…

“So, I hear you’re not feeling well?” the doctor asked politely. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“I’m having trouble breathing,” the woman said, “and I feel dizzy a lot, like I’m going to pass out.”

“How long has this been going on?” the doctor pried.

“I don’t know,” she said exhaustedly. “For a while now. But it’s been getting worse.”

After a few questions about her medical history, the doctor asked the two questions.

“Do you smoke?”

“Yes,” she said and coughed.

“About how much do you smoke?”

“Oh, not much. Maybe a pack a day.”

There was a pause.

“Do you drink?”

“Yes, but only every now and then,” she continued to strain.

“How much would you say?”

“I don’t know. I only drink when Phil brings over a case.”

“How often does Phil bring over a case of beer?”

“Maybe once a week,” she said plainly.

“Once a week?!” The doctor was astounded. “You drink a case of beer every week?”

“Yeah, but it’s usually in a weekend. I don’t drink beer during the week.”

“Do you drink anything else during the week?”

“I drink Diet Pepsi pretty much,” she added.

“Do you drink anything else?” I could hear the doctor scribbling in his notepad.

“I drink my coffee.”

“Do you drink any water?”

“Well, there’s water in coffee, right?” she answered with a tinge of snide.

“What’s your diet look like?”

“I’m not on a diet,” she said and coughed.

“No, I mean, what do you usually eat during the week?” he questioned. “What does a regular meal look like for you?”

The woman’s daughter was there with her, and so she pushed for her mom to answer.

“Go on, woman,” she pressed. Tell ‘im what you eat all day long.”

“I eat just fine,” the mother defended.

Before the doctor could ask the question again, the daughter let loose, “She eats ice cream and Twinkies. That’s it. Ice cream and Twinkies all day long. She smokes a pack a day, drinks beer all weekend, and eats nothing but chocolate swirl and Twinkies.”

“Well,” the doctor started but was immediately interrupted.

“She’s dyin’ isn’t she?” the daughter asked bluntly. “This ol’ woman’s just plain ol’ dyin’.”

The doctor tried to speak again, but the daughter turned her attention to mom and kept going, “And when you pass on, you best not be leavin’ nothin’ to Phil. He don’t care nothin’ for you, that dirty ol’ man. He’s just takin’ your money and takin’ yer life.”

At this point in the conversation, I left what was becoming more like purgatory than a hospital room and went in search of a bathroom. I didn’t have to go. I just needed to get away and find a place where I could close a door and either laugh, cry, or pray out loud. I chose the latter. It wasn’t something I could’ve accomplished silently in the midst of the contentious but strangely humorous/horrible discussion happening only 10 feet away. And so there in the bathroom, I sat on the toilet seat and prayed for the woman, the family, and for Phil the enabler. Then I laughed. But it was more like a chuckle.

Let this story serve as a lesson, however, for those among you considering the Wild Turkey American Honey. Essentially it’s a cheap bit of booze and sweets, and that’s it. And I’d be willing to bet that some guy named Phil came up with the idea for this stuff because his girlfriend was complaining that a case of Miller Genuine Draft was getting too expensive.

The nose is nothing but candy. There’s barely anything in the wafting to give the slightest indication that this yellowish liqueur is anything but something like a syrupy pour of yellow #5 and sugar, which I believe are essential ingredients to Twinkies.

The palate confirms the syrupy goo. The honey is there, but it’s too much. I took a total of three sips before I dumped it, and after each sip I whispered to myself, “Why am I doing this? Oh, yeah. So the reader doesn’t have to.” There’s a little bit of whiskey in there, a minimal bourbon sour, to let you know that this particular Twinkie will indeed intoxicate you.

The finish is…well…I don’t know. Ask the drain in my kitchen sink. I drank some water pretty much right after the third sip. But I suppose that if I had to revisit the terrible moment in my mind, I guess I’d say it was medium, but in the sense that it was like someone dipped a paint brush into a vat of melted Bit-O-Honey candy and then painted it onto my tongue, and then the sip of water caused it to cool so that I could scrape it off with a butter knife.

In the end, if your diet consists of ice cream and Twinkies, you’ll probably love this stuff. Everyone else should probably just walk on by.

As far as my trip to the ER, it wasn’t a total bust. I finally convinced the doctor to install a port into my arm, which I thought might come in handy for doing a quick saline flush of my innards after consuming some crappy stuff like this Wild Turkey American Honey.

Review – Grant’s Blended Scotch Whisky, The Family Reserve, (No Age Stated), 40%

“No!” Madeline’s Barbie pressed to Evelyn’s horse. “Don’t go that way because it’s dangerous!”

“Just pertend,” Evelyn paused, “that I didn’t go that way, but that instead I swimmed under the shark’s house.”

“Oh good,” Madeline played along. “The shark won’t see you if you go that way.”

A few seconds later, Maddy cried, “Daisy, look out! The shark saw you and he’s coming to get you!”

“Maddy,” Evelyn said calmly, “just pertend he didn’t see me and I made it to the castle safely.”

“Okay,” Maddy performed in time. “I’m glad you made it to the castle, Daisy. Close the door so the water doesn’t get in. And now we can have cake!”

“Just pertend,” Evelyn added, “that we had a lot of castle paperwork to do and so we eat our cake and do the paperwork.”

“I don’t want to do paperwork, Evelyn.” This time, Maddy was less agreeable. “Who does paperwork in a castle? That doesn’t even make sense.”

I was thinking, “Yeah, and neither does a horse named Daisy swimming underwater dodging shark houses and looking for aquatic castles.”

And by the way, I spelled “pretend” as Evelyn pronounces it.

Considering this singular aspect of the story, don’t you wish that it was available to us to say, “Just pertend…” in any particular circumstance so that we might reverse its course and change the results? I can think of a few things I might change. I would most certainly “pertend” this and “pertend” that to change the condition of my terrible back.

On a more serious note, a family of six living only a few miles north of us were found dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. I wish I could say, “Just pertend that didn’t happen. Pertend instead that I was able to get to them in time so that they lived and grew old together.”

If I had such power, I’d change these things. And I’d work to make changes to the really big stuff – Hitler, September 11, certain Presidents, and the like. But while I was taking breaks between these event adjustments, I’d probably use it to change the little stuff, too.

“Just pertend that this bottle of Grant’s didn’t smell like watered down malt-flavored additives, but instead offered a fuller plume of something less chemical-like.”

And then I’d try, “Just pertend that when I took a sip, I wasn’t sad, but happy; happy because it wasn’t substituting everything good about Scotch with an alcohol chaw, but gave a sapid abundance of regional and finishing character.”

I’d conclude with motivation, “And then just pertend that the finish wasn’t short and pretty much absent of anything but boozy leftovers. Instead, pertend that it was at least moderately lengthy and teeming with the best of the William Grant & Sons library.”

(Sip.)

“Just pertend…”

(Another sip.)

“Just pertend…”

(One more try.)

“Just pertend…”

Nope. It’s still bad. Just pertend you read this review before purchasing a bottle of your own.

Review – The Girvan, Patent Still No. 4 Apps, (No Age Statement), 42.6%

I want braces on my teeth. I don’t exactly need them, but I want them.

I don’t need them because I already had them when I was a kid – twice, in fact. Still, I want them because I truly enjoy visiting my children’s orthodontist, Dr. Susan Abed, and I know that when the last and littlest of my four snaggletooth younglings has had her final appointment, I’ll be turning the finishing page of a chapter in my family’s life and I’ll have less opportunity for regular visitation with someone I’ve come to admire.

I’d say I have a good number of friends, my wife, of course, being the chieftain of them all. She is, as Aristotle described, one half of a single soul that resides in two bodies. And yet from among all the others, I know of only a few that I’d count as never being overindulgent or taxing with my time. Dr. Abed is one of those friends.

It’s not a friendship in the sense that we meet regularly for coffee or play racquetball every other Tuesday. My life, which observes entire seasons much in the same way that you observe days of the week, would never afford such luxuries. And if it did, my wife would be the first in line for my time. Still, my friendship with Dr. Abed is one that sees us taking time to catch up each time we are together, no matter how crowded her office might be and no matter how little time I may have.

I should also mention that not long after my book The Angels’ Portion first came out, she bought a hundred copies to give to her staff, family, and friends – and she really doesn’t even like whisky. Well, let me rephrase that. She’s not its greatest fan, but she has confessed to ordering up a dram in a restaurant, revealing a willingness born of trust in the words of her Reverend friend that he might help her find the right edition.

Good Lady Abed, it may just be that I have discovered it.

After a long day of clipping wires, inserting spacers, adjusting retainers, wafting away a common redolence of less-than-regularly brushed children’s mouths, and grappling with teeth in general, I am confident that a sip of The Girvan Patent Still No. 4 Apps would serve you well.

Its mistral carries a snug scent of warmed vanilla paste and buttercream. Adding a few drops of water betrays an allspice and sugar tinge.

The whisky itself is extremely light on the palate. It sees the vanilla do a bit of twirling, and with each flection, it catches a few cherries, a little bit of chocolate, and then finally a wood spice.

The finish is medium and moderately pepper-like, which may seem at first to be somewhat unbalanced, but just give it a moment. The cherries are now chocolate dipped, and they are the last ones out the door.

Certainly this is a fine dram for the good Doctor. Secured as a favorite by this whisky’s dessert-like qualities, she may even catch herself in the office the following day warning the newly metalized children in her care, “Now, no more gum, or hard candy, or Patent Still No. 4 Apps…”

Review – The Balvenie, New Oak, 17 Years Old, 43%

I dropped off my 10-year-old daughter at dance class tonight and then returned an hour later to retrieve her. I feel I need to let you know that something very important was revealed to me in the event. I am absolutely convinced that if a zombie apocalypse begins, it will have had its beginnings in the lobby of my daughter’s dance studio.

It is in no way hyperbole to say that the lobby is only a tad larger than an average sized restaurant bathroom, at the most being about 10 feet wide by 12 feet deep.

Now imagine, if you are able, the transition from one class of ten students to another class of twelve. Add to the mix a scattered mess of dance bags, shoes, and coats strewn across the floor. In between, the parents attempting to depart are working to re-shoe and re-dress their children before going out into the cold while the incoming group is attempting to do the opposite.

If you are claustrophobic, this place isn’t for you. No matter where you stand, if you move at all, you are practically making out with the person next to you. Bend down to help your child and your face will be in someone else’s nether-regions. It’s overly warm, uncomfortably crowded, and smells of unbathed toddlers who lied about brushing their teeth that morning.

As I said, the zombie outbreak is sure to begin in this lobby.

But not to worry, my friends. Not only am I prepared when I walk in, wearing a riot helmet and having duct-taped magazines to my forearms to protect my most defensive and yet most vulnerable limbs from a zombie ambush, but I also keep a pretty regular regiment of Scotch whisky consumption – at least one dram a night.

I’m old school.

There are plenty of folk stories about werewolves and vampires gobbling up the countryside, but never do you stumble across early American or European fables about zombie outbreaks. That’s because alcohol has forever been considered a staple in both the new world and the old for fending off sickness. It doesn’t work well with curses. Everybody knows that. But when it comes to the infectious undead, it’s obviously pretty reliable.

I intend to be virus free when the world begins to come undone.

Anyway, tonight’s pre-apocalyptic inoculation involved a tantalizing gem that’s been haunting me for a few years now from the cabinet where I keep my prized whiskies: The Balvenie New Oak 17-year-old.

Surprisingly, when I pulled the cork to catch its redolence, I smelled something incredibly familiar, and so I traveled around my cabinet popping the corks on other editions until finally I arrived at the Dufftown 15-year-old. In my opinion, these whiskies smell nearly the same.

The New Oak is a zephyr of citrus and nutty vanilla. And in that same breeze is an inclusion of roasted almonds.

Slightly soured wood arrives in the palate, which sadly, I find to be rather undesirable. It is reminiscent of a youthful, unbalanced Bourbon. There is a notion of Speyside honey on the tongue that brings it back to Scotland, and for that, I am grateful.

The citrus returns in the finish, although it doesn’t stay long. Had the vanilla faded as quickly, I would have dubbed it short, but it really is more of a medium vanishing.

So, remember, my good lad, that which is required of a man in the end days. First, avoid the lobby of your daughter’s dance class. Second, if you must brave the lobby, do not – I repeat – do not stoop down to help your daughter with her shoes. And third, sip a fine dram at least once a day. Not necessarily The Balvenie New Oak, although it would certainly be counted as acceptable.