Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 42

Review – Cutty Sark, Prohibition Edition, (No Age Stated), 50%

It was called the “Noble Experiment,” and yet like so many other well-intentioned efforts, it was a massive failure. Socialist agendas usually are.

The intent was to curb what many thought was an epidemic of drunkenness, and yet during the Prohibition, crime rates increased dramatically, thousands died from drinking poisonous homemade creations, and the national morale was at an all-time low. All I can say is that I’m glad the 18th Amendment was repealed well before World War II, otherwise the United States may very well have done one of two things. In our national sadness, we might have thrown up the white flag in order to be governed by a foreign nation, even a dictatorial one, just so long as it allowed booze. The other possibility is that the entirety of our brigades and platoons led by and full of dry soldiers would have employed such an unbridled joylessness that Geneva Convention resolutions would have mattered very little. Everyone, including our allies, would have been in jeopardy of extinction.

And by the way, before the votes were called, cast, and counted to enact the 18th Amendment, wasn’t there anyone of sound mind to suggest the prohibition of other cultural vices far more worthy of criminalizing? I mean, I can think of several things off the top of my head that would be worth banishing from our time; things like Dr. Pepper, sharks, the IRS, man-purses, clowns, Jackson Pollock paintings, reality TV, the IRS, Christmas decorations still on someone’s house in February, lima beans, turtleneck sweaters, chopsticks (the song, not the eating utensils), the Small World ride at Disney World, people who slurp while eating breakfast cereal, mosquitoes, swim thongs for men, the word “bro,” winter, the IRS, stale french fries, religious solicitors, soap operas, squeeze bottle pickle relish (it just never seems to work correctly – you squeeze and the pressure builds behind a glob of relish until finally it lets loose and explodes all over both your hotdog and your shirt), poison ivy, curling as an Olympic sport, disco, Jar-Jar Binks, mullets, cheesecake, a small portion of California, “My child is an honor student at such-and-such school” bumper stickers, tofu, the 11th of July, glitter, wine-in-a-box, and the IRS.

I’d vote to prohibit all these things.

And while these things may always be with us, as long as the good folks at Cutty Sark continue to provide the soul-tempering edition at the heart of this review, I’m sure I will find these few things on my list a little more tolerable.

The Prohibition Edition is more complicated than I expected. I projected an upsurge of malt in the nosing – and it was there – but it was wafting along a prominent veil of roasted and candied almonds, and these are the extremely sweet kinds – the ones that are quite popular at Christmastime.

The palate is just as intricate, coaxing a sprinkling of the pepper noted on the label, but also a richer caramel coating to the almonds noticed before. And if you savor it long enough, you’ll notice a distant nip of mandarin citrus.

The finish, a consolidation of the nose and palate, was shorter than I’d hoped for, but hey, it sure did make me smile.

And it will make you smile, too, even as you contemplate those things that cause you to simmer – things that for some reason God has allowed the Devil to produce and perpetuate.

Oh man, that reminds me! I almost forgot to add Scoresby to my list.

Review – Cutty Sark, Prohibition Edition, 50%

It was called the “Noble Experiment,” and yet like so many other well-intentioned efforts, it was a massive failure. Socialist agendas usually are.

The intent was to curb what many thought was an epidemic of drunkenness, and yet during the Prohibition, crime rates increased dramatically, thousands died from drinking poisonous homemade creations, and the national morale was at an all-time low. All I can say is that I’m glad the 18th Amendment was repealed well before World War II, otherwise the United States may very well have done one of two things. In our national sadness, we might have thrown up the white flag in order to be governed by a foreign nation, even a dictatorial one, just so long as it allowed booze. The other possibility is that the entirety of our brigades and platoons led by and full of dry soldiers would have employed such an unbridled joylessness that Geneva Convention resolutions would have mattered very little. Everyone, including our allies, would have been in jeopardy of extinction.

And by the way, before the votes were called, cast, and counted to enact the 18th Amendment, wasn’t there anyone of sound mind to suggest the prohibition of other cultural vices far more worthy of criminalizing? I mean, I can think of several things off the top of my head that would be worth banishing from our time; things like Dr. Pepper, sharks, the IRS, man-purses, clowns, Jackson Pollock paintings, reality TV, the IRS, Christmas decorations still on someone’s house in February, lima beans, turtleneck sweaters, chopsticks (the song, not the eating utensils), the Small World ride at Disney World, people who slurp while eating breakfast cereal, mosquitoes, swim thongs for men, the word “bro,” winter, the IRS, stale french fries, religious solicitors, soap operas, squeeze bottle pickle relish (it just never seems to work correctly – you squeeze and the pressure builds behind a glob of relish until finally it lets loose and explodes all over both your hotdog and your shirt), poison ivy, curling as an Olympic sport, disco, Jar-Jar Binks, mullets, cheesecake, a small portion of California, “My child is an honor student at such-and-such school” bumper stickers, tofu, the 11th of July, glitter, wine-in-a-box, and the IRS.

I’d vote to prohibit all these things.

And while these things may always be with us, as long as the good folks at Cutty Sark continue to provide the soul-tempering edition at the heart of this review, I’m sure I will find these few things on my list a little more tolerable.

The Prohibition Edition is more complicated than I expected. I projected an upsurge of malt in the nosing – and it was there – but it was wafting along a prominent veil of roasted and candied almonds, and these are the extremely sweet kinds – the ones that are quite popular at Christmastime.

The palate is just as intricate, coaxing a sprinkling of the pepper noted on the label, but also a richer caramel coating to the almonds noticed before. And if you savor it long enough, you’ll notice a distant nip of mandarin citrus.

The finish, a consolidation of the nose and palate, was shorter than I’d hoped for, but hey, it sure did make me smile.

And it will make you smile, too, even as you contemplate those things that cause you to simmer – things that for some reason God has allowed the Devil to produce and perpetuate.

Oh man, that reminds me! I almost forgot to add Scoresby to my list.

Review – Virginia Distillery Company, Virginia Highland Malt Whisky, (No Age Stated), 46%

Surely you are familiar with the Rorschach test, yes? It’s a visual tool used by psychologists to assess the general outlines of a patient’s emotional state as well as his or her personality. It’s most familiar form is probably that of the inkblot test. After showing the patient a series of inkblot images and asking what is represented by each, the psychologist tallies the answers and scrutinizes the results. After this, the Doc will finally have the evidence needed to either give you a “Good Job!” sticker and send you home, or recommend to the parole board that you be put away for a very long time.

So, now…

School starts at 8:00 am. Our usual routine involves arriving to my church office around 7:20 am or so. The kids don’t leave for the school side of the building until 7:45 am, so this means they have about 25 minutes to read, play, or do whatever. Sometimes they bring a toy along to help pass the time, but they know that when they leave for the day, they must leave it behind in my office. One day, my youngest daughter decided to bring along two of her baby dolls.

On one particular day, I was in another part of the building when they left for school, but when I returned to my office, I discovered that my youngest, just as she was mandated, left her dolls behind – except she’d left them in the middle of the floor near my office door.

Intending to pick them up and set them on the bookshelf, I reached down. I paused in mid-reach. I reached into my pocket and grabbed my phone to take a picture.

Now, here’s a little Rorschach test for you. What do you see?

Two baby sisters hugging? Perhaps just a coincidental arrangement?

Well, here’s what I see…

Be careful not to judge me, because first, I’d be willing to bet that many of you thought something relatively parallel; and second, I know my zesty six-year-old. She’s the one who sings, “Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open the doors, and see all the zombies!”

Now, these babies may not have been fashioned for a murder scene, but I was willing to wager that they were, at the very least, having a disagreement and were decided upon settling it according to the ancient ways. I showed the picture to my daughter and asked her what they were doing. She said that they were hugging. Clearly my initial perception was skewed.

I’m embarrassed to say that there’s a similar connection to be made with this bottle of the Virginia Distillery Company’s Virginia Highland Malt that I received as a gift from my good friend, Emily.

At first, I beheld the label and thought, “You’re just a Bourbon wishing to be a Scotch – which you will never be.” I said this because the contents are clearly an American craft, and yet the distillery chose to adorn the label with all sorts of Scotch indicators – “Highland,” “Uisge Beatha,”and the word whisky spelled as the Scots do, with no “e” before the “y.” Together these stirred an intolerant response: Pretenders are always just that – pretenders.

But then I took a sip.

Ultimately, I will only admit to being partly wrong about my judgment. Yes, it is an American whisky, but it doesn’t taste like Bourbon at all. It is very close to, if not almost indistinguishable from, many of the acceptable Scottish Highland single malts; and after reading a little bit from the whisky’s website, it would seem that this is within the boundaries of the distillery’s objectives. The copper stills were imported from Scotland, and with a countenance set to produce a dram unlike anything else in the United States, the company continues to import the barley from Scotland as well.

The proof you need that this is a worthy dram even for a Scotch snob is first given in the nosing. There you will discover a lighthearted Speyside sweetness. And sure enough, the palate gives malted honeys and full fruits that carry over into the finish – not long lasting, but enough to let in a brief reminder that the whisky’s ancestry includes a port wine cask finishing.

The Virginia Distillery Company has imagined an exceptional American whisky edition here, and no matter your initial perceptions, even a Scotch snob would be lying if he claimed to despise it as a whisky lesser. If you doubt me, just pour a little bit of this elixir into a glencairn, tell him it is the Glenlivet 21-year-old and my bet is that he’ll never even consider asking if you’re sure that’s what you gave him.

Review – Royal Brackla, 12 Years Old, 40%

The rant was already in full flex when I walked through the door and over to the receptionist window to check in. The woman across the aisle from her, the one for whom she was narrating her tirade, was wide-eyed. I’m not sure if it was because she was actually interested in hearing all of the dreadful, but most likely overly-compensated bluster about the woman’s ex-husband, or because she was afraid that if she didn’t seem interested, this woman might attend to her in some way with the same vengeful spirit.

I sat down in one of the only available chairs in the room, which unfortunately was only two seats away from the day’s guest lecturer.

As I sat and scrolled through the email messages on my phone, I learned just how much she hated her ex-husband. I learned that he was a terrible father to her children. I learned that he was an abysmal husband to her. She described him as though she were tasked with describing the devil – evil in every way and worthy of the whole society’s scorn, or at least the scorn of everyone in the waiting room.

But then she turned for only a half second and noticed peripherally that she was sitting next to a clergyman so obviously marked by a clerical collar.

From that moment on, the listening room was treated to fantastical tales of her faithfulness in church, her devotion to her “relevant” minister, and how she is very devotional – reading her Joel Osteen books every day.

Funny, isn’t it?

Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time an event like this has unfolded before me. It happens more than you’d know. It doesn’t always take this form, but it almost always plays out in similar ways. Even further, sometimes I am invited into the conversation and am given the opportunity to help lead, other times I’m kept at the rim. But no matter which role I play, I am usually petitioning of God two things: “First, Lord, if it be Your will, deliver me by way of Your servant, the receptionist. And yet, if it is Your will that I be inserted into the discussion, guide my words. Give me the wisdom to speak faithfully, because I am human, Lord, and what I am thinking of sharing right now might not help.”

That second petition is crucial. Why? Because, as I said, I know what I want to say, and it often isn’t what I should say.

For example, in this most recent event, my human desire would have been to affirm the sinful fellowship of the whole human race, which almost certainly included her husband, but then to take an extra bit of time reflecting back to her the venomously bombastic nature of her viscera on display as most deserving of an “ex” husband. “I mean, if you act this way in public, I can only imagine your capabilities in private. In my opinion, your ‘ex’ looks to have been delivered.”

Second, I would have liked to say rather succinctly, “Your ‘Osteen’ comment didn’t unembarrass you, by the way. It only made things worse. The only good thing about Joel Osteen is that he has really awesome teeth. He can really teach us a thing or two about proper dental care. Other than that, most folks who genuinely believe in Jesus and read His Word know that Osteen is an idiot and devotionally useless for Christians. Sure, he’s got a lot of folks duped and he makes a lot of money pretending to be a ‘preacher,’ but in the end, anyone who publicly rebukes Peter and Paul, saying that what they wrote in the Bible is in need of correction; or anyone who says that God wants you to be ‘comfortably wealthy,’ and if you aren’t, it’s because you aren’t trusting God enough – well, those are the guys that the Bible – and thereby the true church, mind you – refer to as false prophets. We try to stay away from those folks.”

Alas, I did not say such things, but the Lord did grant the substance of my first petition, allowing me to grieve through only a few minutes before moving the nurse to call me to the door in order that she might lead me to an examination room and thereby my rescue.

The dram I am lifting tonight – the Royal Brackla 12-year-old – is in high thanksgiving and praise for the swift relief, and yet is offered with somewhat of a tempered sorrow for the woman.

Unlike her, the Royal Brackla 12 contributes to an air of gentleness in the nosing, signifying that it is by no means harsh, but instead is ready to contribute a resonance of fruity character in order that your spirits would be raised rather than afflict.

The palate endorses the kindheartedness and sees to settling what has been offered. It comes in the form of cherry pie and malted whipped cream. There’s even a hint of smoked butterscotch, although it isn’t incredibly pronounced.

The whole delightful little conversation comes to a medium conclusion, one in which you can still sense the malted cream, except now it has been slightly warmed.

And so, here’s to you, dear lady from the waiting room. May you find peace to calm your angry spirit. May you learn to forgive and be forgiven. And may you understand that ripping someone to shreds before a room full of listeners and then listing your supposed spiritual achievements in order to bring your scale of discomfiture back into balance is by no means a valid tactic for personal adornment. I sure hope your “relevant” minister has enough time to help counsel you during what I suspect is most likely your “once-every-six-months” visit to church.

Review – Laphroaig, 15 Years Old, 43%

My son spotted a red fox tiptoeing at the edge of the woods behind our house. My wife grabbed her camera, and to get its attention, she tapped the window. He stopped and squared off, looking directly into her lens. After a moment or two, he continued on his way through and into the thickening woodland backdrop.

While I didn’t get the firsthand experience, I have seen him before. Last year I caught a glimpse of him trotting through the neighbor’s flowerbed, around our pond, and through the mouth of the trail that leads back to the river. Ever since I staked that claim, I’ve been treated like a Sasquatch fanatic.

“You didn’t see a fox.”

“Yes, I did. It was a fox.”

“It was probably a cat.”

Yeah, just like that beaver that you claim to have seen in the backyard at our old house, which, by the way, is nowhere near a natural water source. You saw a groundhog. Anyway, whatever. I saw a fox, just as I reported. And now here he is as clear as day.

I think I’ll call him “Nessie.”

At first glance, it is a fairly simple photo for which Nessie posed so kindly. But “simple” is often the veil behind which complexity hides. When you look closer, there’s an interesting detail. Do you see it?

Now consider the Laphroaig 15-year-old.

Be careful not to glance at the 15-year-old with a simple eye, thinking that it couldn’t be anything more than a signature Laphroaig.

Yes a fox is a fox, and a Laphroaig is a Laphroaig. But look closer.

You’ll notice that this time around, the Laphroaig has tipped its canister cap in friendliness to invite a sour but mild citrus carried into its peaty bouquet by a salty sea wind.

Scanning the palate’s silhouette, take note that the citrus sour carries on, although it is so distinct that it almost seems like it is attempting to keep to itself in one corner while the grill grease and singed wood wrestle in the other.

The finish is medium – long enough to make you think you just smoked a Don Tomas, short enough to prove that its oily fingerprint isn’t too overbearing.

Now I know Nessie is a traveler, but I wonder if he’d ever consider resting for a moment to join me on the deck for a dram. As earthy as the Laphroaig 15 is, I’m sure it would pair well with his field mouse.

Review – Basil Hayden’s Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

A man’s reputation is that one fiber of his being that he owns but everyone else keeps for him. In a sense, it is a type of currency that other people spend on your behalf, sometimes spending it wisely; other times paying it out far too frivolously – to the point of devaluation.

I know for a fact that people are more than capable of ruining the worth of their repute by their own election. People make choices. People do stupid things deliberately, and so the repercussion is just, but I smile knowing that such justice almost always bears the promise that if better choices are made, time will allow for a slow but steady return of status. But when I see integrous action unaware and affected by another’s misdeeds, so much so that it becomes a near-permanent damaging of that one fiber held in the hands of others, I am unlikely to remain silent – not to initiate combat, but to bring about reconciliation between those who require it and to shine the light on those who’d choose to take shelter in the dark of deceit.

Sadly, this was a recent course for a duet of men I consider friends – Sean and Michael Jonna, the proprietors of Jonna’s Market in Howell, Michigan.

These men were unjustly maligned and regrettably it happened during one of the busiest times of the year for their business.

The essentials to the difficulty is that the gentleman who runs “Red, White, and Bourbon” (a fine whisky site that I would encourage all of the Angelsportion readers to visit, by the way), well, an article was presented there which unfortunately painted a portrait of the good men at Jonna’s in hues most undeserving. Of course, as I noted above, I felt compelled to investigate and then respond in a way that would bring restoration. You may click here to read the original article. The following is the comment I made on the post:

———

First of all, greetings to a fellow WordPresser and whisky lover. I’ve happened upon this quality site and am certainly glad that I have since, while Scotch is my dram of preference, I’m just now beginning to visit and investigate amongst the Bourbons and the ones who love them. By the way, I’m yet to find one that I actually like, but I’m no quitter. Rest assured, I will press on. Any advice you might supply would be greatly appreciated.

Next, I’ll ask if you’ve ever been maligned in a way that has caused you great heartache because you knew, in a sense, you yourself had been duped into a shadowy invention, and yet even as you discovered it by way of complaints and sought to make things right, there wasn’t much you could do about it because the fiery chariots of the internet had already carried that which you own but everyone else keeps for you — your reputation — up, up and into the nethersphere?

I say this because I happen to know the Jonna family very well. I deal with all sorts from the whisky sphere and I can say that I know of no other establishment that I have dealt with personally in the tri-county area of Michigan where I live that is as honest, upright, and as worthy of an unscathed reputation as the men who own and operate Jonna’s Market. These men are classically honorable and above reproach.

But, admittedly, I was troubled by this article. And so I went to my friends and sat with them to hear what happened. I listened and they, with no venomous spite whatsoever, but rather with a bit of sadness, gave me their side of the story. I would humbly urge you to do the same. Reach out to them. I’ve considered your words, and I’ve considered the evidence — distributor documentation as well as the merit of these good men’s words — and I believe there is an undue pall of inferred participatory deceit being hung upon them that just doesn’t suit what I know to be true. If you’d like to chat with me personally, I am your servant. Just contact me through my site. I’ll get right back to you.

With that, cheers to you and all your followers. — Rev Thoma+ (angelsportion.com)

———

Josh, the whisky scribe who keeps RW&B did contact me privately offering that he did not mean for the blame to land at the feet of the Jonna brothers. This response served the heart well. I sent Michael’s mobile phone number to him letting him know that I’d spoken to Michael and he would be quite pleased to chat about the situation. At this point, I don’t know what has resulted. Last I heard, there’s been no call, but I do understand that life is often far too busy to act right away. If I do hear anything, I’ll be sure to update this post. And again, be sure to visit RW&B. Josh is a sharp contender in the aqua vitae collegium.

In the meantime, I managed to get my hands on one of the bottles at the heart of the controversy – the Basil Hayden’s Kentucky Straight Bourbon.

Already you may be expecting a poor review as I typically struggle to embrace bourbons. It’s just that in comparison to Scotch, bourbons so often seem rather careless in design. I did realize some pleasure from the High West, but when I pried the cork from this one, I’ll admit that the first nosing wasn’t promising.

I always smell the whisky in the bottle before I pour and sip it. It was no different here. In this case, it seemed a bit coarse – I was convinced it would be as two-dimensional and unkept as so many of the others I’ve tried. But everything changed in the glencairn.

I could actually sense honey-dipped berries and a mere mention of the barrel wood.

The palate was a softer rendition of melted toffee and roasted cloves. Rather delightful, if not exceptional.

The finish seemed a bit swift, although I wonder if in my case that is a good thing because I began to sense an unbalancing citrus char that I’ve experienced in other editions.

I suppose the Basil Hayden reputation, as it has passed through Angelsportion County, is relatively unscathed and by no means devalued. In fact, I’ll just go ahead and say it – this is a bourbon I might keep on hand, and you might want to consider doing so as well.

Review – McClelland’s Speyside Single Malt, (No Age Stated), 40%

Even the woman at the hospital information desk said that the parishioner I was looking for was on the eighth floor – the top floor. “Go all the way to the top,” she said as clear as day. “He’s in room 812.”

When I got into the elevator, I didn’t even need to look at the numbers on the buttons. I pressed the one at the top of all the others.

Sure enough, I arrived at the top floor. I walked down the hallway to room 812 and there he was. And what a pleasant visit we had together on the top floor. It was good to see him doing so much better, especially since only a few days prior he was quite literally near death.

But never mind those details. What is this button for?

I’m on the top floor. When I get into this elevator again, I know for a fact that there won’t be a button for a ninth floor. There isn’t even a card reader or a biometric device for granting access and carrying secret government agents up one more floor to a lab where the military arm of this Catholic hospital dissects alien samples.

Hold on. I’m going to ask one of the nurses if there is a ninth floor…

Nope. No ninth floor.

What is this button for, then? Does it have a purpose? Will I learn its secrets if I push it? Will the “up” arrow turn red, and when the doors open, like some strange Wonka device, will it carry me skyward to a place that doesn’t really even exist? Will I be lost in some sort of trans dimensional sphere that allows the curious in, but does not let them out?

This whole scenario sort of reminds me of my experience with the McClelland’s Speyside Single Malt. What is its purpose? Why is it here? There is no particular motive that I can seize. There seems to be no exacting objective toward which I might set my gaze.

The cork barely pops. It begins with little motivation, and it takes a strong draw to measure its first standard of worth – which is a heavily sweetened oatmeal that almost needs to be roused from sleep by constant eddying. It’s already too laborious.

But still I’m curious. What is the point of this whisky? The first sip is momentarily surprising – a very small clump of petroleum menthol rub with a slight suggestion of something fruity – maybe a ripe concord grape. A second sip delivers a nipping malt pulled along by the sugar in the nose.

All of this is gone so quickly. It leaves and I ask of the event, “Why?”

Leaving the hospital, I asked the woman at the desk if there was a ninth floor. She said no. I confirmed her confession while walking to my car. I paused to count the floors.

Eight. So why the button?

Review – Royal Brackla, 16 Years Old, 43%

It was a shallow grave. I could tell, but not just because the ground had far more clay than dirt, but because the corner of the box nearest my feet was showing.

I tucked my Father’s note into my pocket.

“I should get started,” I whispered to myself. Just as I let the shovel swing down from my shoulder, the grayed sky gave a swift bluster that rattled the trees behind me. I hesitated. But only for a moment.

I put the shovel in near the marker, which was two jagged shiplap boards held together in a cross by a piece of rusty fence wire. There was writing on the marker, but so many winters had seen fit to gnaw a good portion of it away. “A.D. 2016 Royal Brac” was about all that remained in what was once a fuller verse in a fading white script. And still, it was enough to assure me that I was in the right place, and in a few short moments, as long as the rains were kept away, I’d know.

The shovel felt weak against the clay – each thrust seeming so useless, moving not much more than what a child’s hand could scoop in a sandbox. It was getting darker and the wind was taking notice. If what my father told me was true, it wouldn’t be long before the hillside would protest my pillaging.

Another corner began to show. Buried in haste and unevenly, it was lower than the one the seasons had already revealed. I noticed a gathering of blackbirds above me, thinning and thickening, swelling upward and downward, calling down in irritation from the sky. I laid aside the shovel. A swiftness was needed, and so I began clawing the clay until I found the edges and could lift it from the earth.

The birds screamed when I took hold.

The box was smaller than I expected, encompassing only a little more than a square foot. Still, it felt heavy. There was no time to open it, only to move, only to get back to the house.

I made my way back down the trail my father had made over thirty years ago. The sun was beginning to set. It was dropping too fast, as though the cosmos was in a hurry, accelerating the globe’s spinning. The trace turns were becoming shadowed and harder to see. I moved more quickly. Each stride felt small, and each yard saw the trail become narrower, as though it were coming awake, as if it were realizing and preparing to swallow me.

“He said this would happen,” I thought. “He said that the forest wouldn’t let it leave.”

And in a moment I knew this for sure.

The sun was fully hidden, and the horizon’s fading glow was all that gave me light. The forest awakened. The wind changed its course and became strong against my face. It skipped across the moistened ground throwing up wet debris to blind me. The tree branches scooped down in the winds to scratch at the box to snatch it. The willows and marsh grass snapped at my face and feet. The creatures in the side brush began to chirp and hiss and snarl and fill the path before and behind me as I steered further along looking for the mouth of the trail.

And then I could see – the lighted eyes of my childhood home cutting the darkness and calling, “Hurry, my son! You’ve only a short way!”

But still, the forest would not have it, even in the last few yards.

I could see the gateway beginning to close. The timberland floor swam below me, crackling and swiping. I hopped and dodged, bloodied by thorns and livid pines, slowing as the assault increased but still eluding capture.

It was in the last yard that all of the trees bent down together to bar the trail and move in to suffocate what they in their counsel had deemed a thief. The birds bawled and dove into the branches, hopping in and through in pursuit. I scratched and climbed, pulling apart nets of branches and falling over roots and thistles until finally, in a last push, I hurled the box through the angry foliage and into the shallow grass of the backyard.

The wind calmed. The forest loosened its grip and retreated into itself. All of its creatures withdrew as well preferring its shadows.

“It’s done,” I sighed. It started to rain. I rested long enough for the sky to rinse the sweat from my face and the dirt from the box, and then I carried it inside.

My father’s note was soaked and severely torn, but I could still read the words:

————

A.D. 2016

Taking no chances, I set this one aside for you in what I now

know to have been an unpromising manner. Never mind my reasons,

only consider that there is something different about it. It is

a kindly but powerful dram, a “Drink Divine” as the label heralds,

a remedy that no sooner did I find myself without it, did I seek

to retrieve it. But it was too late, and now there is trouble

before you.

The soil in which I’d planted it has stirred a sentience in the

forest. And now the surrounding meadowland is relentless to protect

it. I tried for many years, dear boy, to retrieve it, but the forest

wouldn’t let me. It just wouldn’t let me.

If you are reading this, then either I am still alive but much too

old, or I have gone and there is no more discussion to be had. A much

abler frame is needed to return what I have so foolishly lost.

You’ll find it along the trail to the river, where the way begins to

climb just past the hungry pitcher plants. The forest rests during the

day. It rests, I say, it does not sleep. Be cautious but quick. Take

little with you and leave all behind. Bring home only what you discover.

Remember what I sang to you when you were little. You did not know then.

But you know now.

“For whomever my chief

Will hold fast in belief

And never let me from my keep.

But beware, and be swift

If you elect to lift

Lest you join with me here in the deep.”

————

Once inside, I opened the box and removed the canister. The Royal Brackla 16-year-old resting within was well-preserved, unspoiled, as my father put it—kindly.

I did not hesitate as with the wind on the trail. In a moment my glass was near full and the room was beginning to burst with the scent of highland sweet blossoms and molasses. This alone fed my wits as to the forest’s greed.

In the sip I discovered a luxuriance of sherry and simmering applesauce. This carried through to a medium finish of raisins so perfectly minced and divinely applied.

I was sad for the forest. I was sad for my father. But I would not make the mistake he made.

I finished the dram and put the whisky back into the box. It was time to leave. It was time to go to my own home, to my own family. And so I put on my dirtied coat and I lifted the box up under my arm. It was heavy again.

I reached into my pocket for the house key and made my way to the front door. It slammed shut and locked before me. The blinds in every window snapped and dropped to the sills beneath. The lights flickered momentarily — a few bulbs burst in the chandelier above the dining room table.

“For whomever my chief

Will hold fast in belief

And never let me from my keep…”

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

Dear Reverend,

Vader here. I just wanted to check in and see if you’ve had a chance to see Episode VII yet. That’s probably a stupid question. Of course you have.

By the way, do you remember Edith? Remember I was telling you about how I met a nice woman who was visiting the gator farm, she’d moved down to Clearwater last year to get away from the cold Minnesota winters? Well, I proposed to her last week and she said yes! Great, huh?

So, anyway, we’re in Orlando right now. Well, actually, we’re just outside of Orlando in Davenport. We’re staying at Edith’s daughter’s house. We just got back from a very long day of buying all kinds of useless crap for her grandkids at Downtown Disney. We had lunch at Planet Hollywood. I managed to convince her that afterwards we should hop across the way to the theater and see the new Star Wars movie. She’s not much of a fan, so unfortunately, I ended up having to use a Jedi mind trick to get her to agree – not that she’s weak-minded or anything. She was tired and I took a chance.

Well, we saw it, and I just have to say that I’m really disappointed in my grandson, Kylo Ren.

Sure, he’s a pretty sinister guy when he wants to be, and I appreciate that he misses me, and that he keeps my melted helmet in that little shrine and all, but he’s as whiny as his uncle Luke if not more so. I mean, c’mon, crying in front of your opponent and revealing the deepest of inner struggles; whimpering things like, “I’m being torn apart…” Whatever, you wimpy twit. Either get your Vader genes together to man up and fill that black leather like a real dark lord, or put down that lightsaber you obviously failed to design correctly (it looks more like a tri-flamed torch lighter you can buy at a Circle K) and go back to the daycare on whichever planet Han and Leia raised you. You sound like a typical Millennial – wanting everything, bearing no responsibility for your own life, and throwing tantrums. In fact, there at the end of the flick when Rey was kicking your butt (with my old lightsaber, by the way), I was hoping that before she finished you off that she’d take a quick minute to pull down your diaper and give you a spanking, you little crybaby.

Oh, man… Sorry about that, Reverend. Can you tell I’m a bit bothered by the male genetics of the Skywalker tree? I mean, where did I go wrong?

I have it in mind to give Disney a call to request reinsertion into the story line. Having just spent 12 hours at one of their shopping attractions and seeing a bazillion different “Darth Vader” things for sale, I’d say they owe me a chance at knocking a few “First Order” skulls in order to get some quality badness back into the story. Whaddya think?

I should tell you that I came across a little liquor store not far from my future daughter-in-law’s house that had a Scotch I don’t think you’ve reviewed yet. It’s called Sheep Dip. Yeah, I get what the descriptor means to Scotch, but I don’t understand why a company would actually use the name for a bottle of whisky it actually wanted to sell. I think most folks see it on the shelf and wonder if maybe it’s an ingredient for making Queso.

I took a chance on it. It is a blend so I’m not sure if you’ll like it, although I’ve noticed that you’ve been trying blends a lot more these days. The nose for this one is pretty malty. I noticed that when I take it in with a really deep breath, I get a little bit of something sweet. I’d say it smells a little bit like cupcake batter.

You know I really like my Lagavulin, so when I read the label and saw that Sheep Dip had some Islay blood in its veins, of course I was anticipating a smidge of smokiness. I tasted a nip of citrus and a little bit of something peppery, but there wasn’t any smoke until the finish, and even then it tasted more like cigarette ash. Not pleasant in a whisky.

Now, I suppose it wasn’t completely terrible, but I wouldn’t recommend it to you, my friend. It would be a waste of your preacher salary. Maybe I’ll save a little for you so that the next time you get down here to Clearwater you can try it for yourself and see what you think.

Tell Jen and the kids I said “hi.” And be sure to let me know if you think I should approach Disney.

Slàinte mhath,

Vader

Review – The Balvenie, 30 Years Old, 47.3

“Sorry about that,” I said as the front door opened to its full range and slowly came to a stop at the arm rest of the couch where I was sitting. “I must not have closed it all the way.”

She gave a half-chuckle, “That’s just my ghost.”

“Your ghost?” I asked somewhat puzzled.

“Yeah, he does that sometimes.”

“Oh, really,” I said showing outward inquisitiveness but inwardly disregarding her claim. As I’d already indicated, I must not have closed it enough for the latch to click into place. “So, tell me about yourself; where were you born, what are some of the things you like to do?”

The discussion continued along for a reasonably comfortable amount of time, just as a first-time visit usually does. We talked about family. We talked about her past relationships with various Christian churches. We touched on a few Lutheran distinctions, and then I gently urged her to consider allowing me to continue to visit her in order to catechize her so that perhaps one day she might join the fellowship. She said she’d think about it.

I took the next few minutes to read a Bible text and talk about it. I offered a prayer, and then we prayed the Lord’s Prayer together. I closed with a Benediction.

Having thanked her for the time, I got up from the couch and leaned over to give her a polite hug. She stayed seated because of particular physical issues which keep her homebound.

I said goodbye and reached to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The deadbolt had been engaged. I was about three feet away from the door throughout the entire visit. I was the last person to interact with the door. When I closed it, I can assure you that I did not engage the deadbolt. And to disengage the lock, it was necessary to push the door slightly – which while that may explain the door’s swinging open, it also means that it was a tight fit for the deadbolt and so it could not have fallen into position when I closed it.

“Hmm,” I sounded discreetly to myself.

But despite my quiet pondering, she knew right away what had happened. “Yep, that’s just my ghost,” she half-chuckled again. “He does that sometimes, too.”

“Well, that is strange,” I affirmed. “Maybe we can talk about it the next time I come back.” And I intend to, as gently and carefully as possible, because according to the Christian faith, her ghost is no ghost. But I’m not going to get into the Biblical theology of ghosts here.

What I will say is that I’m not afraid of things like this. Lots of people are, but I’m really not.

I’m never scared in a dark room. I’m not scared in Halloween haunted house attractions. I’m rarely impressed by scary movies. I was held at gunpoint in Russia back in 2003, and even then I was more concerned about my travel schedule becoming disjointed. I suppose that if you really want to know what frightens me, read my review of the Tomintoul 16, but even then, I think you’ll find that the list isn’t very long.

I’ve been in homes where magnets and the photos they were holding to the refrigerator door literally flew off and across the room. As a pastor, probably the strangest thing I’ve seen is walking into a bedroom and seeing a closet full of items, walking back into the hallway to visit another room, and only moments later returning to the first room to find the contents of the closet stacked in the bedroom corner. No wait, I think the strangest thing I’ve seen is a man refusing to take his hat off in our Children’s Christmas worship service. I almost performed an exorcism right then and there.

I know that there are things we cannot see, and yet they are there – just like my bottle of The Balvenie 30-year-old. It exists. I even have a photo of it here for you, a snapshot that is much different than my usual whisky photo staging mainly because it is a special edition that deserves such reverential care. But still, you’ll never see it. No one will. I’m keeping this one for myself. It’s my ghost.

I’ve not experienced such an exquisitely crafted whisky in a very long time, perhaps never.

For those of you who follow Angelsportion fairly closely, you will already know that I unabashedly hearken before the masses of enthusiasts that The Balvenie, no matter the edition, is my favorite whisky. From the 12-year-old to the Roasted Malt, up and over a shelf to the Rum splashed 17 or the Caribbean Cask, you’ll never regret crossing paths with any such phenomena that haunt the local pub or liquor store.

When you first lift the cork from the signature flagon, the whisky’s messaging apparition arises to assure you that everything you love about The Balvenie – tender seasonings of fruit and flora, freshly collected honey, toffee, sweet chocolate – all these tantalizing effects are awaiting you in the deeply ambered spirit below.

And most certainly, they are.

The palate is the presentation of an oven-warmed oak plank carrying a softened, and equally warmed, orange half still partially dressed with its peel. Hovering in the steam is a spectral sweetness of sorts. It taps one portion of the tongue with a thicker toffee, but then it drifts to another with a sweeter chocolate.

The finish is itself an ethereal dimension. I wouldn’t say it is long, although I wouldn’t say it is medium, either. It sort of carries you to an in-between region that is left for each and every consumer to discern. But no matter your conclusion, everything you experienced in the nose and palate is swirling there. And there is plenty of time in the finish to find and savor each.

I suppose I should close by suggesting that if anyone reading this has somehow discovered this particular edition haunting his or her humble domain, please, don’t hesitate to call me. I am more than willing to come for a visit, to detect your woe, and to exorcise it from your home. You can count on me being 100% successful.