Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 41

Review – Michter’s, Single Barrel Straight Rye Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 42.4%

It was a wasteland of destruction. Demolished structures, devastated vehicles, half-hearted and unfinished ideas now deconstructed and cast across the landscape in a detonation of multicolored fragments.

I was shoeless. I was barefoot. And the bottle I required was just beyond the jagged ruins. The voyage before me would be treacherous; a journey of pronounced pain and great sorrow.

With the first few paces, careful and precise as they were, the pain was extreme and penetrating. Promptly there stirred within me a heated disposition against the manufacturer of Legos. In the steps that followed, the revulsion became audible.

“I hate these stupid things.”

A little further on as the blood began to flow, the one recurring thought was just how much I adore the clicking and clacking sounds of Legos as they are sucked up into a vacuum. Ah, and yet such a device was not before me, but behind me.

“No,” I whispered. “I can’t turn back now. I’m almost there.”

The journey continued. But as the terminus was finally within reach, only a few short strides from where I stood, it was then that my mortal frame reached its level of excruciation and could go no further.

Emptied of all strength, I was barely able to lift my gaze and hands and voice to the drywalled sky above.

“Why, Lord?!” I called out. But then I lost my balance.

Toppling forward, I was able to use the disastrous pitch to my advantage by falling into a somersault beyond the last few Lego-laden steps onto the hard but serenely uncontaminated dining room floor.

In no less pain, but happy that the jaunt was complete, I rested for a moment and smiled.

“I made it,” carried on my sigh. “I sure hope it was worth it.”

I said this because I had just walked through the valley of the shadow of death to sample the Michter’s Single Barrel Straight Rye.

“Well,” I said nursing my back while gathering to my feet, “let’s find out.”

I poured a small portion of the whiskey and sat back down on the floor near the edge of the Legos where I’d previously fallen. It was as if I’d reclined beside a serrated sea to watch its waves festooned with mottled caps roll inward and outward again. That with which I was before at enmity was now my serenity.

To be true, it was the whiskey which produced this calm.

The nose reveals a full bodied rye. There are distinct toffee notes, but only an inkling of something earthy.

The palate is curiously rum-like, which of course is perfect for a seaside getaway – even if the sea is made of Legos.

The finish wants to be medium, but alas, it isn’t. After you swallow, its volume races away, but it leaves behind a snippet of freshly sifted rye that has been faintly singed.

“This is a fine whiskey,” I thought. I continued my silent conversation realizing that the only thing that could make the experience even better would be to see the Legos before me disappear.

“Madeline, Harrison, and Evelyn, get down here and clean up your Legos!”

There was no movement in the bedrooms above me.

“Joshua!” I called.

“Yeah?” my oldest son shouted back from his bedroom.

“Bring me the vacuum.” In the next moment, the rooms above me bustled, and there followed the thundering footsteps of three young children hurrying down the stairs.

The Heroes of Ganchimi – Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

The Annals and the Assembly

It had grown dark and we were all very tired from serving the people. I helped Mother to start a fire of kindling at the foot of the Hall steps while Father continued to minister with Bishop Pomnthos. Madeline was sitting a few paces away, surrounded by a few of Sajon’s men as they fielded questions. It must have been that her quick witted nature held them as they often let out a chuckle.

“Those lazy rascals should be helping Father and Bishop Pomnthos,” Mother said. “Instead they tend to their own entertainment.” She continued to stoke the fire.

“Shall I fetch Madeline?” I asked still looking in my sister’s direction.

“Leave it be,” Mother responded. “It would seem that she is well guarded at this moment. We needn’t worry her with her surroundings.” I was a bit confused by Mother’s words. She seemed irritated by the guards and yet did not want Madeline among the people. The lesser of the two evils I supposed, for one only needed to scan the people around us to comprehend the nature of Mother’s concerns. Peppered about the wreckage sat small groups of our countrymen, wrapped in cloth bandages and salve, some resting, others caring for those who seemed less fortunate in their injuries. The sounds of despair and moaning carried up into the air as if pulled in the wake of the cinder sparks that rose from surrounding fires still burning hot.

Father returned, dirtied from ash, he dipped his hands into a wash basin Mother had set on a charred liput stump near the wheel of our wagon. He scooped the water to his face and washed his filthy sweat. Dabbing his head with a cloth, he sat down near to our campfire.

“There is no use in trying to come clean in this place,” Father said in a voice that reflected his exhaustion. His words rang true when I caught a glimpse of his face in the fire light. It was apparent that he had dabbed his face with a cloth upon which ash had settled as well as washed his face in water that was contaminated the same. Now it seemed as though he was merely spreading the ash across his face more evenly.

“Where is the Bishop?” Mother asked and handed Father a chunk of steamed bread.

“He’s at the east rotund of the Hall,” Father answered with a sigh. “He is caring for the people with…” He interrupted his words as Sajon’s men laughed out loud near Madeline. Looking to her, he called, “Madeline. Come to eat.” Sajon’s men rose to their feet and Madeline carried herself swiftly to Father’s words. “You, men, find your lord and tell him his attendance is requested here. And do reach out your hand and help someone in need on your way. Your garments are much too clean from sitting idly by.” I could tell that the men did not appreciate Father’s comment, but nevertheless, they turned and set off into the darkness.

“Will you offer thanksgiving, please, Joshua?” Father asked before eating his bread. I must have looked a bit perplexed at his words because he spoke them again, “Joshua, give thanks before we dine.” Mouth open, I blinked and looked around us at the utter destruction in which we were sitting. Father knew my disbelief and yet he raised his eyebrows and motioned for me to begin. Strange that he would still insist upon giving thanks before receiving so little and in such dire consequence. I closed my eyes and, with reluctance, mechanically spoke the words I’d known since birth:

“The eyes of all are set upon you and you care for them as is your will and good pleasure. Your grip is released and you satisfy the desires of all. Bless these gifts which we receive from your bounty. For your goodness, we thank you.”

“Thank you, Joshua,” Father said, “but it would seem that your heart was far from your words. Do you offer thanks or are your words as those cast against a cavern wall?”

“I am here and that is all that I am.”

“You are more than ‘here,’ boy. Give reason for your tone.”

“How is it…?” I began to ask, but stopped.

“Finish,” Father said. “Finish your speech.”

“Look around us!” I said and stood to my feet. “What have we to be thankful for in this place? We lie among despair and ruin and we move further toward that which seeks to destroy us.” Father sat with a patient expression. He listened intently. “Where is the goodness?” I continued. “Where is the providence in this? Where are the gifts for which we are thankful? This bread? This fire? Tomorrow they will be no more and what are we to do then?”

“And so it is possible that the same may come of us,” Father said in return. “Perhaps it is that tomorrow we perish. Shall we then reject this day for the sake of what comes on the morrow? Shall I cast aside the company of my family in my final hours? Shall I lie down in the dust refusing the legs that let me stand? Shall I forsake you and send you alone since this is your fate and not mine?” It looked as though Father held great sorrow in speaking such words. His eyes seemed saddened, but confident, as if he were working to convince me of something he knew he could not iterate properly. I didn’t tell him then that his words were true. I was indeed convinced and I knew that my words were foolish.

“As I have spoken before, it is good to be with fear, son,” he continued, apparently losing his tone of sorrow and building his voice with a certain confidence. “Fear is not as effortless as respect or humility. It requires your wits in order to face those things which deserve respect, those things that we fear that offer the prospect of loss. You will meet these things, but do not lose heart, lad. How this meeting will come about, we do not know. You do not know what tomorrow will bring to you. Set your face toward Center-Wood and trust that you are going forth as you are called, even more so, followed in faith by your countrymen. Let tomorrow be tomorrow. Only be sure to meet it with fear while standing on both legs.”

Not all of Father’s words made sense to me. My heart was so burdened with what seemed to be hopelessness. I surveyed my surroundings and tried to focus my attention in order to keep from crying. In the flickering light of the fire I could see Mother’s face. She lacked the same confidence held by Father, but I knew that she would have spoken the same. When our eyes met, she looked away as if tending to Madeline. Perhaps it was that her burden had returned, her great distress and fear for her dear children, the Heroes of Ganchimi.

Review – WhistlePig, Straight Rye Whiskey, 10 Years Old, 50%

(This is the second of four whiskey samples I received for consideration.)

—————

Routines are good, but routines that become blind expectations will often fail us. Let me give you an example.

As a point of reference, I am the pastor of a church with a preschool through 8th grade school.

I park my car in the same parking space every day. Each morning when I bring the kids to school, I park my car in that spot. If I come back to the church for an evening meeting, I park in that spot. During the regular work day, even if I leave to make visitations or accomplish other tasks related to the church’s business, when I return, I steer my vehicle into the same parking space. And very rarely is it necessary for me to park anywhere else.

One midafternoon, I returned to the church from a busy day of travels to find my parking space occupied. No big deal. I simply found an empty space about four slots away and parked there instead. Later that afternoon, most of the parking lot now empty, my children and I made our way to the lot to head home. I walked straight to my car, which was pretty much the only one in that particular area of the lot. They walked – chattering and laughing about the day, being carried along by an expectation of sorts – right to where I normally park.

They arrived right in the middle of the empty space and stood there. They stood there – visiting and waiting.

I paused for a moment to see if they’d realize that neither the transport nor its pilot were near them, but they didn’t.

“Hey guys,” I called. “What are you doing?”

A glow of surprised enlightenment overtook Madeline, but before she could speak, Harrison asked, “Where’s the car?”

I, of course, was standing right next to it, and as I said, it was the only car within at least a radius of about 100 yards.

“I don’t know,” I spoke and opened the driver door to climb inside. “Maybe you can help me remember where I parked it.” They laughed and trotted over.

My point: The routine had become, even if only for a moment, unreliable, and this resulted in a near failure to discover something rather important to the situation.

As it concerns the WhistlePig Straight Rye, there was a soft whisper before pouring from the vile, and it urged that I not smell the whiskey first, but that I move directly to a sip. I listened to the whisper.

Now, you may be asking, “Why would this even matter?” The simple answer is that the nosing and palate are very closely connected. In one sense, the palate comprises the primary chapters of the book, but the nosing is the introduction. As one who prefers Scotch, I’ve noticed that such a preference is reaffirmed every time I nose a Bourbon. It’s the smell of the stuff that so often trips me. This time, I was going to skip the nosing and go straight to the palate.

In the case of the Canada-born (bottled in Vermont) WhistlePig Straight Rye, I’m glad I did. Had I nosed it first, I probably would not be telling you now that I’ve discovered a most excellent whiskey that isn’t Scotch.

The palate is a thick scoop of steaming rye cereal speckled with cinnamon and walnuts. Outstanding. Simply superb.

The medium finish turns slightly to introduce a sweetness not discernible in the palate. In fact, it reminded me of the mixed fruit jelly packets the waitress brings along in a trolley with your English muffins. It’s subtle and fast fleeting so pay close attention. Very nice.

Now, the nosing.

It smelled like canned tomato paste. Had I followed my routine, I would have been a bit disappointed by the transition, as if I’d read an introduction which set the stage for a cookbook, but the story itself was a thriller. Not that it couldn’t work, rather it’s just too unusual.

This whiskey will indeed be gathered among the favorites. And by the way, I’ve discovered a workaround for the nosing. Feel free to give it a try.

Review – Michter’s, Small Batch Unblended American Whiskey, (No Age Statement), 41.7%

Clearly something dreadful happened in that hospital elevator. How do I know this? Because whoever was charged with cleaning up the mess forgot to wipe down the ceiling.

Yeah, the ceiling.

Having one of those very brief but friendly conversations with a fellow passenger, I was asked about the various hospitals that I visit as a clergyman.

“Well, one thing I can tell you for sure,” I started, “is that this is the slowest of the all the hospital elevators.”

We both laughed. I gave a little sigh and tipped my head back to rest against the wall for a moment. That’s when I noticed the ceiling tiles above the both of us were covered in some sort of dried, whitish substance. And I should add that it didn’t take a forensic spatter expert to know that whatever it was had its origins not from something leaking through from above, but from below in the passenger compartment.

Something had more or less exploded and shot skyward to coat the elevator canopy.

“What do you suppose that is?” I asked my momentary companion and pointed aloft.

“Oh, my,” was the response.

I didn’t say it, but the only explanation that immediately came to mind was that scene from the 1980s movie “The Thing,” the one where one character appears to be having a heart attack, and so the other characters throw him onto an operating table and grab the defibrillator to give him a jump start. A man shocks him once, and as he goes to do it again, the patient’s chest opens up as a mouth with teeth and chomps off the arms of the other man trying to save his life. Then, all of the sudden, while everyone stands around in disbelief, the chest begins to pulsate violently until finally there is a vicious surge which flares a raging creature from a bloody and foaming mess up and onto the ceiling above them. Dripping in milky white goo, it screams at the bystanders. They light it up with a flame thrower.

“Whatever happened in here,” I said not knowing if my traveling partner knew the cinematic image to which I was referring, “I hope it isn’t loose in the hospital. You think they have flame throwers in this place?”

The doors opened. “Have a nice day,” went the hurried goodbye.

“Blessings in your day,” I said. “Be sure to keep a look out,” I added before the doors could close.

I laughed to myself. Every now and then it’s fun to shake it up a little bit for folks. The best place to do this is in a fast food drive-thru. Take a look at my review of the Dufftown 15-year-old to see what I mean.

Still, I wonder what that was on the elevator ceiling.

Right now, I’m wondering what comprises the formula for this Michter’s Small Batch Unblended American Whiskey. And I don’t mean all the usual formulaic things, but rather the deeper things, the elements of care and concern not listed on the label. I wonder because this whiskey, I do believe, has nearly lifted me to a higher praise for something other than Scotch.

You’ll notice by the above photo that this is but one of four edition samples that were slipped into my booze bag before leaving my friend’s store.

“Give these a try and tell me what you think,” he said.

Well, here’s what I think.

I never thought I’d say it, but this American edition is, in an all-around way, a phenomenal medley.

The first nosing, if carelessly decided, will tell you, “It’s just another Bourbon.” But then an additional, more concerned intake reveals the lack of chemical bite that in my experience is so often the case with Bourbons. This one is clean, only giving over the sweet intention of the master distiller – which I’m guessing he had in mind a stack of warm buttery pancakes, a little too browned, and covered in 100% pure maple syrup.

The palate is equally rewarding. The pancakes were poured and flipped in a griddle warmed over a fire kindled with barrel planks. Above that same fire is a small cast iron cooker housing fresh corn bread.

The medium finish is the whole meal’s memory. Very much frontier and extremely original.

Okay, so, did this review stop your heart, especially knowing my history with Bourbons?

Well, you’d better get someone other than me to use the defibrillator. I saw that movie I mentioned before when I was nine. It’s one of my favorites, but it did leave me scarred.

Review – Johnnie Walker, Select Casks, Rye Cask Finish, 10 Years Old, 46%

“Hey Madeline,” Evelyn giggled trying to get her big sister’s attention. “What do the people in Throw Up town do?”

“What?” Madeline responded without even looking up from her Nancy Drew book.

Already starting to laugh before she could get the first few words out, “They throw up so hard that they poop their pants.”

“You’re gross, Evelyn,” Madeline said still retaining her glance.

Evelyn was on the floor at her feet laughing and Madeline was becoming noticeably annoyed. I watched from a distance, curious as to what Maddy might do.

“Hey Maddy,” Evelyn snickered again.

“What?!” This time Evelyn had pried into Madeline’s attention.

“What do the people in Throw Up town do?”

“I don’t care what they do, Evelyn, I’m trying to read,” Madeline said angrily.

Evelyn didn’t care. She wanted her big sister’s consideration, “After they throw up, they throw it at each other.”

“That’s just gross, Evelyn! Leave me alone!”

“I want you to come play school with me!”

“No, I’m reading.”

“You know what the people in Throw Up town do after they throw it at each other?”

“Leave me alone, Evelyn!”

“They roll around in it and throw up again!”

Coming to the realization that her six-year-old sister was in no mood to play alone and had plenty of energy for irritating her sister with intolerably gross stories about the irrational residents of a little town called “Throw Up,” Madeline caved.

“Okay, okay. But you can’t be a dog running through the school this time,” she said sternly. “You have to behave.”

“Okay, I will,” Evelyn smiled and both were off.

It was only a few minutes later that I heard a pretend dog barking and Madeline shouting, “That’s it, Evelyn! I quit!”

I honestly don’t know where Evelyn gets her feisty side. She was a wonderful baby, as sweet as could be, and yet she is a full-blooded princess who struts a deviant rule and does so as though she has nothing to lose. I already feel great sorrow for any future suitors who might cross her.

While the scene was unfolding, I figured I’d do a quick review of the Johnnie Walker Select Cask Rye Finish. You’ll notice that the bottle is nearly empty, and that’s because it’s all that remains from a sampler that my friends over at Merchants Gourmet Wine Shop in Fenton saved for me to consider.

Oddly, the Rye Cask Finish is partly similar to the event that just unfolded between my daughters.

I wanted to discern the subtle particulars but was pestered by an intruding astringency that definitely gave a “chemical” impression. I did manage to sense a hint of wood spice and a nip of the rye through the fog.

The pestering continues on the palate, but it opens up there with a more pleasant ferocity which sees the chemical tang dismissed and the ushering in of vanilla-soaked grains and citrus.

The finish is longstanding, all the while urging again and again that the Rye Cask Finish makes for a great friend, one worth setting aside other interests for an interlude well worth the while.

And so with that, you need to know that I’ve never been much of a Johnnie Walker fan, but with the Rye Cask Finish edition I have a newfound appreciation for their efforts. This whisky harassed me enough to give it consideration and now I am intrigued to go along with them to school and give a try to the others that I’ve been avoiding.

Review – Elijah Craig, Small Batch Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 12 Years Old, 47%

The conversation turned from a cordial discussion of the whiskies I’ve reviewed to the photos I provide for each…

“I just use the camera on my phone.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just pour a little into one of my Waterford rock glasses, set it next to the bottle, and take a picture. I use a glencairn for Bourbon. Before we moved to our new home in 2014, I used to take the photos on my whisky cabinet. In the new place, I use the same spot on my fireplace for all of them. I think I took the Glenmorangie Lasanta on my dining room table. I took the picture of Scoresby at a friend’s home. A couple of times I’ve asked my wife to take the whisky photo. She has a great camera and she’s an excellent photographer and there’ve been a few exceptional whiskies or articles in particular that I felt deserved a little more photo drama than what my Samsung Note 5 could provide. My article entitled ‘Glencairn or Rock Glass… Does it really matter?‘ is an example. My review of The Balvenie 30-year-old is another.”

“Don’t you think you should make each photo as dramatic as possible? A lot of the whisky blogs do that.”

“I don’t know what the other blogs are doing. I got the impression that a lot of them used distillery stock photos. I don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because I’m rarely dealing with a sampling. Excepting only a few here and there, I own every Scotch you see in those photos. Many I buy. Some are gifts, but no matter the circumstance, I’m taking a picture of something that’s right in front of me in its fullest form. It’s my bottle, the one that I own. I can get to know it, investigate it, truly explain every available aspect of its hidden narrative for the reader.”

“When it comes to taking the picture, does that really matter?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess what I can say is that no one will ever be able to read one of my reviews and wonder if I’ve ever really experienced the whisky. There it is, right there on the Reverend’s fireplace mantle, in the same place as all the others.”

“What about this edition of the Elijah Craig?”

“I’m still rather new to Bourbon, and so far, it’s been a struggle to find enjoyment in it. The Basil Hayden is pretty good. I own that one. I own a few others, but I’m struggling to find an inclination to buy them, especially when someone is willing to let me take home a sample first. This Elijah Craig is a sample.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Well, I certainly tip my hat to it since the Elijah Craig of history was a fellow clergyman. We’re a rare breed, I tell you. A very rare breed.”

“And the whiskey?”

“I actually thought this one was pretty good. I didn’t have high hopes, and yet I was pleasantly surprised.”

“What surprised you?”

“The nose isn’t as syrupy or sour as other Bourbons. This one has a rarer placidness that continues from nose to finish.”

“Placidness?”

“Yeah, it’s gentle. It’s calm and more sophisticated than the bottle may represent. It was created to be great and not just to sell booze. Go into any liquor store and you’ll see rows and rows of booze. Scotch, Tequila, Rum, Bourbon. Booze and more booze. But on those same shelves are editions made by artisans and not marketing departments. I can tell by the balanced nose in this one that the distillers knew that there would be guys like me who actually care about this stuff, and they were aware that if I pop the cork and smell ‘cheap,’ there’s a good chance that it will be both the first and last bottle of Elijah Craig I ever buy.”

“What about the taste?”

“This one nips at the tongue a bit, but I suppose I’d give it a little leeway to be the 94 proof whiskey that it is. Personally, I like the burn. It’s why I rarely add water to my whiskies. But if the burn tastes and feels a little more like the Dow Chemical Company is its birthright, then the bottle sits in the back of one of my cabinets for a very long time. In this case, as I said, it nips. But there are some sweeter notes, too. I’d say that someone was a bit over zealous with the vanilla extract, although there’s a spicy, oaky character that brings back the balance. This is really noticeable in the finish, which I’d say is one that just crossed the border from medium to long.”

“So you’d recommend it, then?”

“Yeah, I suppose. I don’t rate whiskies using numbers, but in this case, as a Bourbon, I’d give it about an 8.”

“So, this one didn’t convert you?”

“Convert me? No. Stoke my determination to keep searching for the Bourbon that will? Yes.”

Review – Elijah Craig, Small Batch Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 47%

[image error]The conversation turned from a cordial discussion of the whiskies I’ve reviewed to the photos I provide for each…

“I just use the camera on my phone.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just pour a little into one of my Waterford rock glasses, set it next to the bottle, and take a picture. I use a glencairn for Bourbon. Before we moved to our new home in 2014, I used to take the photos on my whisky cabinet. In the new place, I use the same spot on my fireplace for all of them. I think I took the Glenmorangie Lasanta on my dining room table. I took the picture of Scoresby at a friend’s home. A couple of times I’ve asked my wife to take the whisky photo. She has a great camera and she’s an excellent photographer and there’ve been a few exceptional whiskies or articles in particular that I felt deserved a little more photo drama than what my Samsung Note 5 could provide. My article on the difference between using a glencairn or a regular rock glass is an example. My review of The Balvenie 30-year-old is another.”

“Don’t you think you should make each photo as dramatic as possible? A lot of the whisky blogs do that.”

“I don’t know what the other blogs are doing. I got the impression that a lot of them used distillery stock photos. I don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because I’m rarely dealing with a sampling. Excepting only a few here and there, I own every Scotch you see in those photos. Many I buy. Some are gifts, but no matter the circumstance, I’m taking a picture of something that’s right in front of me in its fullest form. It’s my bottle, the one that I own. I can get to know it, investigate it, truly explain every available aspect of its hidden narrative for the reader.”

“When it comes to taking the picture, does that really matter?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess what I can say is that no one will ever be able to read one of my reviews and wonder if I’ve ever really experienced the whisky. There it is, right there on the Reverend’s fireplace mantle, in the same place as all the others.”

“What about this edition of the Elijah Craig?”

“I’m still rather new to Bourbon, and so far, it’s been a struggle to find enjoyment in it. The Basil Hayden is pretty good. I own that one. I own a few others, but I’m struggling to find an inclination to buy them, especially when someone is willing to let me take home a sample first. This Elijah Craig is a sample.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Well, I certainly tip my hat to it since the Elijah Craig of history was a fellow clergyman. We’re a rare breed, I tell you. A very rare breed.”

“And the whiskey?”

“I actually thought this one was pretty good. I didn’t have high hopes, and yet I was pleasantly surprised.”

“What surprised you?”

“The nose isn’t as syrupy or sour as other Bourbons. This one has a rarer placidness that continues from nose to finish.”

“Placidness?”

“Yeah, it’s gentle. It’s calm and more sophisticated than the bottle may represent. It was created to be great and not just to sell booze. Go into any liquor store and you’ll see rows and rows of booze. Scotch, Tequila, Rum, Bourbon. Booze and more booze. But on those same shelves are editions made by artisans and not marketing departments. I can tell by the balanced nose in this one that the distillers knew that there would be guys like me who actually care about this stuff, and they were aware that if I pop the cork and smell ‘cheap,’ there’s a good chance that it will be both the first and last bottle of Elijah Craig I ever buy.”

“What about the taste?”

“This one nips at the tongue a bit, but I suppose I’d give it a little leeway to be the 94 proof whiskey that it is. Personally, I like the burn. It’s why I rarely add water to my whiskies. But if the burn tastes and feels a little more like the Dow Chemical Company is its birthright, then the bottle sits in the back of one of my cabinets for a very long time. In this case, as I said, it nips. But there are some sweeter notes, too. I’d say that someone was a bit over zealous with the vanilla extract, although there’s a spicy, oaky character that brings back the balance. This is really noticeable in the finish, which I’d say is one that just crossed the border from medium to long.”

“So you’d recommend it, then?”

“Yeah, I suppose. I don’t rate whiskies using numbers, but in this case, as a Bourbon, I’d give it about an 8.”

“So, this one didn’t convert you?”

“Convert me? No. Stoke my determination to keep searching for the Bourbon that will? Yes.”

Review – Teacher’s Highland Cream Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 43%

I listen to news and talk radio while driving, and this is so because I’ve very little appreciation for modern music.

I heard something rather interesting not all that long ago while driving the kids to school. It was a traffic report, and it sounded something like this: “It looks like a pretty serious rollover accident has slowed the eastbound lanes of I-94. It does appear that rescue crews are already on the scene. And good news, traffic is getting through…”

Notice the good news wasn’t that the accident victims were alive and unscathed, but that all the passersby shouldn’t expect to be too hindered by another’s tragedy.

Even if only for a very brief moment, and in a nearly invisible way, a narrative of societal priorities was broadcast to hundreds of thousands across the metro Detroit region.

“I’m sorry for your troubles, but get out of the way.”

It is the nature of Man to be a narcissist. Many might disagree, but to recognize, be concerned for, and serve the needs of one’s neighbor is by no means instinctual. It is learned. And so we need teachers.

It was C.S. Lewis who said, “The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles, but to irrigate deserts.” He said this because he believed as I do, that man is more so parched and barren of life and incapable of producing it without help. A teacher must be provided, one who will alter the landscape that it would be a worthy dwelling.

Unfortunately, not all teachers are up to such a challenge, and I’m not so sure that when one is standing at the edge of a thirsty whisky wilderness, the Teacher’s Highland Cream is the one to hire. But it is very close.

I twisted the cap on this popular bottom shelf edition and was straightway enticed by its malty perfume. Even in the glass, the malt is equally commanding, distracting from any other perceivable aspect of the whisky. There is, however, an iota of caramel that makes it through.

The palate is good, giving one over to a suspicion of fresh Arabica beans and almond milk, but it also lets in a simmered brine that coats the mouth and all but ruins the experience.

As the longer finish fades, the malt returns, almost as if to apologize for the sour note and then proceed to work to convince that it deserves one more shot at meeting the need.

Lamentably, I must hire another to the fulltime position and only call upon the Teacher’s Highland Cream when I am in need of a substitute.

Review – Grand Macnish Blended Scotch Whisky, 3 Years Old, 40%

I’d be willing to bet that if anyone went back through to check the temperament of my writings between mid-October and February in any given year, that person would discover a disposition more inclined toward communicating truth with a tad lesser concern for searing the listener than in any of the other months. Even today while I was working on a sermon in anticipation of Ash Wednesday, at one point, the grammatical exercise reached with such brutality into the darkest corners of “self” that I nearly made myself cry right there at the computer.

I don’t intend to rewrite a single sentence.

Still, I don’t think I have it in me to write like that in the summer. Sure, sin is sin all year long, but it just seems that the need to consider it more seriously becomes heavier – more viscous – in the twilight of summer. Seasonal depression? Perhaps. Again, it just seems that the sunless, icy landscape of seasonal death holds its role as more than just a contextual bystander. It becomes a participant. It inserts itself. I almost feel as though I can see my breath as winter gathers beside me at the computer, its invisible digits tapping at the keyboard, adding this adjective and that adverb, changing a relatively neutral sentence into one with a frozen edginess.

It can be quite draining when it comes to writing something for public consumption. When it comes to sermons, there are some Sundays when I come home, and although it is usually only about 2 or 3 o’clock in the afternoon, I’m so exhausted that I nearly fall asleep at the wheel.

When it comes to whisky, there’s somewhat of a lingering sadness for the lesser editions that are reviewed during the winter. They may be bad, but I’m pretty sure I’ve unleashed hell on a few that maybe only deserved a frowny-face sticker.

Take for example my review of the Famous Grouse. It was bad in comparison to so many others, and yet it probably wasn’t bad enough to line up on the gun range log beside Scoresby.

Another example, the whisky before me now – the Grand Macnish.

Now, I could relay to you what winter’s angry specter is urging me to say about this less than adequate whisky – which is that it is most likely comparable to the de-icer solution I just poured into my car’s windshield washer fluid reservoir yesterday evening – but I won’t. Instead, I’ll first try to imagine a ray of sunshine streaming through my window shade revealing an exquisite performance of dancing dust particles, and then I’ll take another sip.

Okay, here goes. Sunbeams. Blue skies. Unicorns…

The nose of the Grand Macnish brings showers of prodigiously cleansing tears to the eyes. (How’s that for softening the sketch of the nocent harshness of this whisky?)

A sip of this unique tonic offers the imbiber the corner of a sugar cube, but also an unstinting savoring of nature’s creativity. (Oh yeah! No one can argue that’s not a nice way to say that this whisky has a nip of sweetness, but that it also tastes a little bit like somewhere along the line in its production, fermenting mold was introduced. As though the master distiller looked at the muck growing beneath a rotting log and motioned to his assistants, “Take the buckets, my good men, and start scooping. That’s nature’s creative side, right there. You never know what will sprout from that stuff.”)

The finish is a medium wandering that, once it finally fritters away, leaves one to wonder if ever you’ll meet one another again. (There’s only one way to make sure we don’t meet again. This $6.49 bottle is getting dumped, plain and simple.)

Ah, and yea, O cold and desperate winter tide, will thou never flee to another to haunt? I grow so tired of thy rage, and so shattered by thy sunless demeanor and constant moons. But if thou dost depart, and soon, leave behind in thy wake some measure of thy vernacular, for it is ever advantageous to a whisky man who is fatigued and incautious.

Review – Macgavin’s Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky, (No Age Statement), 40%

Jen hung a cow’s head on the wall in our kitchen. Not an artsy picture of flowers or a finely woven basket only appropriate for a kitchen’s décor. A cow’s head.

The kids have already named it. Madeline started calling it Kathy, at least until Joshua objected, telling her that it needed to be ascribed a traditional cow name. The kids chose Bessie. Personally, I think Kathy was a great choice. But no matter, I usually just refer to it as the “Cow’s head.”

We’ve had friends over since the head was put on display. Funny, but they didn’t say anything. Nothing at all. I’m surprised. I wonder if they kept quiet throughout the visit because it was a situation like those where you see something so strangely out of the ordinary in someone’s home – strange enough that it makes you wonder about the person’s ability to live alone without proper supervision – that you stumble over your comment, not intending to offend, but knowing that’s how it is being birthed verbally anyway.

“Say, that’s a really…neat…cow head. Where, um, where’d you get that?”

Jen likes it. I’m getting used to it. As long as it doesn’t one day awaken and start adding to the children’s swirling cloud of never ending chatter, it is welcome in my home. One more voice just might cause me to live in our basement. On the other hand, I keep telling Jen that I need a whisky-drinking partner, so if the cow’s head, or Bessie, was so inclined, I would certainly oblige.

I’m writing this review with the cow just over my shoulder, and for some reason I feel as though Bessie, already very familiar with the caliber of whisky that I prefer, is concerned that I have a bottle of Macgavin’s Highland Single Malt whisky before me.

I’m glad she’s concerned, although she needn’t worry. I’m a professional. So, here goes…

Hmm. The nose isn’t too hefty, but because I am sensing the sour exhaust from a distant chemical factory, I’m hesitant to take too deep a draw. I don’t want to end up with emphysema. Okay, maybe a little more. Yep, there’s the alcohol, and maybe a little bit of something sugary. I’d say one of those orange sweets I often mine from among the cherry, grape, and sour apple candies just inside the entrance of a particular funeral home I know well.

Arghhurrlmp… “Say, that’s a really…neat…taste. Where, um, where’d you get that?”

I’m almost positive I just drank orange Kool-Aid spiked with the silt of the ethanol tank down at the corner gas station here in Linden. There’s some burnt popcorn (which perhaps explains the ethanol), a sizeable dosage of those funeral home candies – except liquefied, and a strange anticoagulant, which I’m guessing is used to keep the jumble from hardening.

The finish is medium. It vests the tongue with the candy syrup and then throws in a little vinegary malt just for the heck of it.

Needless to say, Bessie, I was less than pleased with this particular edition. During our future times together, rather than staring beyond me, perhaps you might go ahead and speak your mind when you behold me venturing into whisky foolishness. The least you could do is moo.