Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 47

Review – Dufftown, 15 Years Old, 43%

I couldn’t help myself. It just slipped out.

Let me tell you what happened.

It was about two o’clock and I was on my way to visit a parishioner in a nearby hospital. I’d not eaten lunch yet, and so, as I passed a Burger King, I was enticed enough to make a quick turn into the drive thru.

I drew near to the menu board, and once the young girl on the other end of the line gave the go-ahead, I asked for an ice wster and what would be my flame broiled kismet, and then prepared to roll forward to the window to take the prize. But before I could go, the attendant asked, “May I have the name to go with this order?”

I was a little surprised by this. Since when did Burger King start asking for patron’s names? Oh well, that’s cool, I guess.

“Chris,” I said. And then without hesitation, I added, “But you might know me by my outlaw name…”

There was a moment of silence.

“…Starlord.”

There was an even briefer silence, and then a muffled giggle.

“That’ll be five dollars and thirty cents, Starlord. Pull forward to the first window.”

Over the course of the next fifty feet, an expanse of mere seconds, it appeared that other workers had rushed to gather in places where they could see who would be visiting at the window. When they discovered that “Starlord” was a typically-outfitted clergyman grabbing a late lunch, the smiles appeared to get a little brighter and the genuine friendliness continued.

“That was hilarious,” the girl at the window laughed. “Justin thought maybe you were Chris Pratt because you said your name was Chris and then you said you were Starlord.”

Justin, one of the cooks, waved over her shoulder.

Anyway, after another minute or so of pleasantries, one of which was a moment to answer a question about where I served as Pastor, the young girl handed my food to me through the window.

“Thanks. Blessings in the day,” I offered.

“Thanks. You, too!”

“Bye, Starlord!” Justin waved from behind her. I honked.

I tell you this story not only because it was a hiatal moment of fun worth recording, but because it reminds me just how easy it is and how good it feels to make others smile. It reminds me why I own this bottle of the Dufftown 15 Years Old in the first place. It was given to me as a gift rather recently, rendered over unexpectedly by a kindly someone who acquired it at the Dufftown Distillery visitor center in Banffshire, Scotland. Knowing I enjoy Scotch whisky, he seized an opportunity to make me smile. Very generous, and certainly a sip would have sufficed for this servant, but his intention was to be sure that the smile was perpetual – that it would have the opportunity to emerge over and over again in his absence.

As I sit and sip, I assure you, the goal is being accomplished.

The nose is incredibly sweet and exceptionally floral, just as the label describes. Even better, with the first inhalation there is the distinct sense of citrus – an orange.

The palate gives the same sweetness, except the orange is reworked slightly on the tongue to become a sweetened lemon.

The finish is short, but by no means is this whisky forgettable. It’s sweetly gentle enough to be almost thirst-quenching, but it’s sturdy enough to remind you that it’s Scotch.

And Scotch sure does make Starlord smile.

Review – Bruichladdich, Islay Barley, Rockside Farm, 50%

I’m generally a pretty positive guy, but I’ll confess that I’m easily irritated by certain humanoids on this big blueberry we call earth. For example…

“Calm down, Chris,” I said to myself while watching a single person take an otherwise pleasant Facebook thread and turn it in a dreadfully contentious direction. “Just calm down. Some people will make an argument out of anything. It’s just the way they’re wired.”

I’m probably not catechizing you – at least not most of you – in something you don’t already know. And I’ll bet many of you are like me, acknowledging that it often takes an exceptional bit of restraint to resist responding to commentary meant only to stir disagreement. I’ll admit, in the past – in fact, even recently, unfortunately – I have failed to observe that line of restraint and I’ve wandered into the enemy’s territory with guns blazing. Each time, the lesson is the same: It never – and I mean never – helps. It never resolves anything. Why? Partially because personal opinions reign supreme here in this sludge we call post-modern America, but also because so much of that sludge is now being occupied by a certain kind of truth-resistant person. This person is the one who, seeing a post saying something like, “Thanks to all who came to the Fourth of July party yesterday! We had so much fun!” feels the need to weigh in with “Glad you celebrated a day that’s so offensive to Native Americans.”

It’s all downhill from there. One person chimes in with an angry internet assembled history of America’s heritage, a history that has been gathered primarily from the likes of Wikipedia. Then another reads the response, takes issue with a few of the details, and climbs on board claiming to be 1/75th Native American, thus bearing the supposed right to speak as an authority regarding the topic. And finally, by the time the whole thing comes to an end eighty-two replies later, so many who were celebrating together at the party are now found despising one another. The original contender is hovering in the shadows feeling as though he really got a good discussion started, that he has helped to instruct a lot of ignorant people in a better way. He really believes he’s done an admirable thing.

If you are that person, just know that you didn’t do anything virtuous. In fact, I want you to know what everyone else thinks of you – at least those of us who are on to you. Are you ready?

You are an infantile narcissist nursing from the breast of mankind’s natural inclination to appear “right” rather than actually be correct. You are nourished by chaotically subjective emotion, finding the most sustenance in heightened rage. It is the chief and most prized fruit that you seek, and in the end, your life’s culmination is destined to be a lonely one.

You are a menace. You are intellectually shallow and of little value to most conversations. You speak when you should listen. You advise when you should be guided. If only the rest of us could remember this and refrain from participating in your feast. If only the rest of us were gifted enough to convince the others who’ve already been dragged into the furnace-like fray to understand, withdraw, and refrain.

As I mentioned before, this happened to me rather recently. When it occurs, do you know how I accomplish a calmness, at least how I endeavor to accomplish personal tranquility?

You bet. I set down my Facebooking device, pour myself a Scotch, recline next to my beautiful wife, smile at my wonderful children, and remember that I am immediately surrounded by loving people, and with that, I pretty much have everything I need – even if everything beyond this appears to be coming undone. God is good.

After the most recent event requiring such focus, I took the opportunity to pop open an untapped bottle of the Bruichladdich Islay Barley Rockside Farm. This was an excellent choice, to be sure.

The crisp sound of the cork was pleasant enough in the situation, but the nosing that followed made promises that carried this poor sod to better territories.

Up and out of the bottleneck came the familiar scent of warmed oatmeal. This was by no means difficult to smell. In fact, for those of you who think that guys like me are just making this stuff up, that all whiskies smell the same, well, get your hands on this whisky and give it go. You may even get the incredibly pronounced malty tinge that sweeps in behind the inhalation.

The palate is easy and light. It’s not what I expected from this Kindergartner. Being that it is only six years old, I expected some uncoordinated, and perhaps slightly bittered, resistance. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that a little bit of sugar and some honey crisp apples had been added to the oatmeal.

The finish was medium. It’s here that you realize that the whisky is younger than most. There’s a brief bite in the back of the mouth, but this little disturbance washes into history’s record warmly and sweetly.

This particular whisky could be the standard “go to” beverage when seeking respite from troublemakers. Although, remember to drink responsibly, my friends, or you may just end up crossing that line you were trying so diligently to respect. Indeed, it happens to the best among us, I’m sure.

Review – Tobermory, 10 Years Old, 46.3%

I know that what I do here at Angelsportion is principally devoted to whisky. Ah, ’tis true. And yet, if you a have moment, if you aren’t too busy, if you are in need of more whimsical fare, I would encourage you to enjoy a swift outing through the poetry I’ve included here and there. You’ll find numerous elegies born of varying causes, one or two of which are bound to make you smile.

With that, having urged you into the poetical sphere, tell me, are you familiar with Shel Silverstein? The Giving Tree. Where the Sidewalk Ends. Falling Up. Good stuff. Essentials for any library, including that of an adult. Along with Dickinson, and Poe, and Twain, I most certainly claim him as sort of a subterranean influence. I was the seedling. He was the soil. I was planted into his style as a young boy, and with this, he helped to cultivate the way I look at words and their places in a sentence. He helped to nourish me with the understanding that poetry need not always be so profoundly cavernous that its goal is lost to cumbersome hermeneutics. He “learned” me to the poetically improper and, sometimes, just how fun the wrong words in the right order could be. He proved that with the simplest one-syllable words used by the youngest among us, the poet can often articulate with a handful of sentences what others can only wish to produce in a handful of volumes. Silverstein delivers a lot from only a little, and he does so brilliantly.

This brings me to the Tobermory 10-year-old edition.

It is simple, relatively inexpensive, not very imposing in stature, and effortlessly lost amongst a briny sea of single malts crowding the shelves of your favorite liquor store. And yet, while it appears little among the greats, it gives much.

The aroma sing-songs through with singed but sweetened malt. The palate agrees and adds to the cadence, sending along a lively parade of dried apple slices given a light sugar dusting and a kiss of peat. The finish is medium, tapping through the previous paces and then setting the whole crew down into a sward near a stack of freshly cut oak.

Yes, all of this from something so… simple. It’s enough to keep the “Sharp Toothed Snail” at bay, actually change “Mr. Moody’s” demeanor, and convince a tree that becoming a whisky cask would be the best way show her love for a man who was once her favorite boy.

Now, accepting the risk, here’s a taste of what you will discover if you accept my offer to peruse the available poetry. I’m setting the following before you not just because it is a personal favorite that was stirred in a memorable moment, but because it is brief — a quick spin and its done — and because it’s easily digestible.

I hope you will enjoy it. Be sure to let me know if you do.

___________

My little girl has pencils

Of green and red and blue.

She’ll make those dandy ‘tensils

Perform a dance for you.

And if you’re blessed enough to see

The trees and sky and open sea,

You’ll dance a little dance with me

Just ‘cause you saw them, too!

____________

Review – Caol Ila, Stitchell Reserve, 59.6%

“Arrgghh,” I growled, “There’s another one!”

I fanned my hands through the air violently to prevent a fruit fly from landing on the edge of my drink.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked in a huff. “Where are these things coming from?”

“I don’t know,” Jen responded. “There’s one by me, too.”

I hopped from my chair, exhaling another guttural snarl, and headed to the kitchen with the intention of getting a paper towel. I was going on the hunt. I intended to walk around slapping my hands together near every light like a “Clapper” tester until each of these little buggers lay dead. The paper towel was to collect the corpses.

I arrived in the kitchen and reached for the paper towel only to disturb a significant swarm resting upon an unusually dark banana sitting on the countertop. With the tearing swoosh of the paper towel, the swarm took to flight like a Biblical plague set upon consuming the landscape.

“What the…?!” I stumbled backward and shouted. “I found ‘em!”

I grabbed a plastic grocery sack and then reached into the rolling black sky of insect doom now returning to the banana. I grabbed the evil fruit almost certain that I saw lightning flash from within the swarm, shoved it into the bag, and ran to the deck to chuck it out into the yard.

“This house is clean,” I said.

But it wasn’t.

Within the gentle confines of our beloved domicile hid a remnant of the demon pestilence – tiny, silent, not too fast, but hard to smoosh. I learned that my hands are far too big and as I bring them together in a slap, the fruit fly gets carried through on the current being pushed out. What I couldn’t figure out is why they were flying around my Scotch more so than Jen’s lemonade. Every now and then one would fly past her, but it was no bother because it was on its way to my whisky.

We finally got the bright idea to petition the internet for aid. We learned that these little sinners are pretty content to do one of two things – mate or enjoy fermenting delights, most notably decaying fruit.

“Well, that makes sense,” I said with less intensity than before. “Mating and drinking. I can appreciate that.”

“Hah.” Jen punched me in the arm.

That one was pretty much teed up for me.

The recommended solution was to pour a little apple vinegar into a rock glass, take a plastic sandwich bag and cut a small hole in one of the corners, wrap it around the top of the glass and fasten it with a rubber band. Next you push the corner with the hole down into a cone shape just above the liquid. Apparently, this trap is designed to attract the fruit flies down to the vinegar. They fly in, but they’re just not bright enough to find their way out. Done.

Drink up boys. This is your last frat party on earth.

I tried this. I monitored it carefully. It failed miserably. In fact, every time I set my Scotch down, I found that

I was swatting these crazed drunkards away. In fact, at one point I returned to find a few on the edge of the glass and one drowned in the golden glory.

“Arrgghhhh!”

And then I had an idea – a brilliant idea. I’ll reveal it in just a moment.

I want you to know that I drank that whisky with the dead fruit fly in it anyway. I had to. It was the Caol Ila Stitchell Reserve and I wasn’t about to waste it. I mean, I tried a few times to scoop him out, but he was just too small and kept slipping over the edge. And in the end, I figured he’d only been eating a banana, he was quite small, a little extra protein wouldn’t hurt me, and being that this particular edition is nearly 60%, the alcohol would sterilize the whole tragedy. Heck, if kids can eat worms and survive, I can swallow a fruit fly a little bigger than the size of a sand grain and be okay.

Bug or not, the nose of this edition is heavenly – the perfect drink for an autumn evening. It’s an unpeated island whisky, and so without the expected island nip, there’s less distraction for sensing the same thing the fruit flies were after – a warmed phenol fruit and honey mixture.

By the way, down he went in the first sip. Again, bug or not, the palate was a bit unctuous, and yet, this seemed to be a good thing. The oil coated the tongue allowing for a more precise discernment with regard to the fruit – warmed grape jelly, a tiny bit of dark chocolate, and a passing malt.

The finish is long, but you should expect that from the higher octane whiskies. The jelly dissipated, but the chocolate and malt stayed till the end.

So, do you want to know how I managed to rid our home of the fruit flies? Well, I poured these fine fellows a tiny bit of the Stitchell Reserve, placed it into the microwave, and waited an hour for them to gather. Let’s just say that they were ushered into the next life in style.

Review – The Arran Malt, Port Cask Finish, 50%

My wife can’t ever leave me. I’m serious. I could tell you a million reasons why, but for now, I’ll shed light on only one.

She was off at a hair appointment tonight, and while I’m not necessarily around to be the parent that participates in the bedtime rituals with any regularity (at least not as much as I’d like), I remain confident in my ability to keep the household humming in synchronous rhythm toward the Sandman’s hour while the grandest of Architects is away.

Behold, under my watch, the hordes were showered, enjoyed a nighttime snack of freshly cut honey crisp apples, brushed teeth, cleaned up the bathroom, gathered up the laundry, presented their completed homework assignments and then returned said coursework to their backpacks while I made lunches. After this, the troops laid out their clothes for the coming sunrise.

“Daddy,” Madeline called from her room, “would you iron my shirt and pants, please?”

Wait. Iron your clothes?

Every time I try to iron something, I end up redesigning the garment altogether, being sure to impose permanent creases in all the wrong places. I just can’t ever seem to get it right.

I started to sweat.

“Okay, honey. Bring ‘em here. But just so you know, I’m not making any promises on the quality.”

Sure enough, it took me no less than ten minutes to iron my ten-year-old daughter’s pink polo and khaki pants, and so that she isn’t embarrassed by the wonderfully new fashion statement I’ve created, Mom will most likely need to fix it when she gets home.

Sheesh.

Needless to say, after tucking the kids into their beds and then settling myself into the couch in order to await the return of a freshly groomed Grand Architect, this poor perfectionist found a kindly solace with The Arran Malt, namely, the Port Cask Finish.

With the scent of the steam iron still haunting me, I was so glad to have its swift eviction by the port wine bouquet most evident in this particular edition’s nosing. I should add to this the sense of warmed malt. Very nice.

The palate was a bit aggressive at first. It didn’t exactly roll over the tongue, but rather seized it with the malty wine and then loosened its grip with a syrupy chocolate and berries mix. Not what I expected, but still quite nice.

The malt stayed through to the finish, gently easing into my immediate past, cementing a delightful awareness that if ever I failed at a task again and needed consolation, I would always have The Arran Malt to reassure me that all’s well. Just sit back and give thanks that the Architect will be home soon to save the sartorial day.

Review – Tomatin, 15 Years Old, 43%

Strap yourself in. I can tell you right now that this will be the longest whisky review you’ve ever read – even longer than my philosophical crucifixion of Scoresby.

I would imagine that there are folks who, at first, may have investigated the whisky prattlings here because of the highly asymmetrical source of the information. In other words, the whole whisky/pastor thing just seemed so strange, so curious. I get it. And while I am becoming somewhat bored by the intrigue, I must continue to remember that whisky is not the typical topic for pastoral contemplation, and as I have mentioned in so many other locales, I know that this intrigue is built upon a fundamental misconstruction. Still, I won’t go into that now. To learn more, I’d suggest reading my reviews of The Dalmore 12 and the Ardmore Traditional Cask. You’ll learn that I’m not being rebellious. I’m just not.

Now, before I get to a review of the Tomatin 15, I want to acknowledge something else, something that follows a similar vein and relates to the introduction.

I’ll bet a good number of folks from the same grouping noted above, while genuinely interested in what a clergyman may or may not say about booze, they are relatively sturdy in their disinterest in religious things altogether. In fact, I’ll bet they look in upon modern mainstream evangelical Christians at worship, they behold the happening, and it just seems so silly.

Well, it makes me laugh, too. It looks ridiculous, and in the famous words of Hank Hill (the main character from the animated television show “King of the Hill”) to the contemporary Christian rocker Pastor K: “Can’t you see you’re not making Christianity better, you’re just making rock n’ roll worse.”

And here’s where I anticipate losing some of my Christian readers. Oh well. Thanks for stopping by.

You anti-religion folks have good reason to laugh at contemporary Christianity, especially if the worship services you are observing look and feel more like rock concerts than a gathering of people who believe they are in the presence of the holy One giving holy things. I’m in your boat. That worship is just lame. No, wait. Let me be a little more direct: It’s stupidly out of place.

I would say that anyone who is even remotely serious about worship as it is defined in the Bible will know, God willing, that worship is something enunciating a divine language, a holy vernacular that is by design quite foreign to this world. In other words, you and I will probably part ways when the temptation to lark at what many would label as “traditional” or “confessionally liturgical” worship shows up. This kind of worship is altogether different. It isn’t trying to be “relevant.” In fact, in many ways it may appear to be strangely irrelevant, and this fact alone, I dare say, probably won’t stir you to laugh, but rather to be inquisitive. I say this because such worship, by nature, isn’t about what man is doing for God but what God is doing for man. Look up the word “worship” in any dictionary, society’s cultural lexicon, and you will see that this isn’t how worship is understood. How the Bible defines worship is counter-intuitive to what you would expect.

In short, I would say that if the world looks in and sees the heartbeat, the emphasis, the epicenter of worship (and everything emerging from it) as anything that resembles itself and its efforts, it most likely isn’t biblical Christian worship. Period. Christian worship brings people into a completely different sphere. And one more thing. The people it brings into this sphere are not bound by the timeline. In other words, if I picked up a 3rd century Christian and set him down into a 21st century worship service, would he know what was happening? If not, you’re probably “doing” worship (if I can even say it that way) incorrectly.

I know, I know. There are a gazillion opinions about this. You can pretty much go to any popular Christian resource from any denomination of your choosing and discover the dialogue, although I think the debate has become somewhat stale for most because fewer and fewer Christian churches have remained unscathed by the “praise band” approach. So, from a whisky-drinking clergyman’s “insider” viewpoint, let me fulfill your expectations as to my rebelliousness and shoot straight with you. Weak-kneed clergy are to blame.

“Would you just get to the review already?” No. Hold on a second. Before you can enjoy the Tomatin 15, you need to know some stuff. You need to know that there really are three reasons a pastor might embrace the “praise band” form.

First, he’s just a self-centered dork who realizes, in a sense, that he has a captive audience and so he figures he can relive his rock and roll youth, drawing people to think they are followers of Christ but really are just pastor-groupies. Joel Osteen, anyone? (By the way, the pastor may not realize he’s doing this so, as an outsider, feel free to go to him and tell him to stop being a dork. Remind him that when you ponder “church” you want your first thought to be of Christ crucified for the sins of the world and not how cool the church is because of the pastor and his laser light show.) Second, the pastor is concerned about his struggling church’s finances and so he feels the need to do something to “attract” more givers. Most churches these days, I think, understand this problem. Third (and this point is very much connected to the second), attendance is dropping and the pastor mistakenly believes that if he can appear hip to the times and appeal to the youthful demographic, he’ll be able to reinvigorate the church with a new generation of core members. Of course he’ll most likely communicate this to his parish members as, “We need to do this because that’s what Jesus did. He was a man of the people. He went out and became like them in order to meet them where they were. We should do the same. I’ll play lead guitar and be the lead vocalist. Who wants to play the drums?!” Again, this kind of reminds me of the response that Pastor K gives Hank right after the comment I mentioned above. Pastor K answers something like, “You folks are all alike. You look at us and think we’re freaks. Come on, even Jesus had long hair.”

Hank merely answers with, “Only because I wasn’t his dad.”

But I think the better part of this whole episode happens at the end. I’ll play it out as a narrative for you…

“When I turn 18,” Bobbie, Hank’s son and Pastor K groupie, says rebelliously, “I’m going to do whatever I want for the Lord. Tattoos, piercings, you name it.”

“Well, I’ll take that chance,” Hank responds and then continues, “Come here, there’s something I want you to see.” Hank takes hold of a box and opens it up to show Bobby what’s inside.

“Remember this?” Hank asks.

“My beanbag buddy?” Bobbie says sort of surprised. “Oh, man, I can’t believe I collected those things. They’re so lame.”

“You didn’t think so five years ago,” Hank teaches. “And how about your virtual pet? You used to carry this thing everywhere. Then you got tired of it, forgot to feed it, and it died.”

Bobbie sees a picture of himself at Halloween wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles costume. “I look like such a dork.”

“I know how you feel,” Hank twangs. “I never thought that ‘Members Only’ jacket would go out of style, but it did.”

But then Hank gets incredibly catechetical and offers, “I know you think stuff you’re doing now is cool, but in a few years you’re going to think it’s lame. And I don’t want the Lord to end up in this box.”

Well said, my animated friend.

Hey folks, be ready to say to your dorky pastor, “Um, no, Jesus didn’t really do what you just said. God becoming man and suffering all that mankind suffers and then some, that’s what He did in the “relating to us” department. After that, your argument becomes somewhat straw-like, burning up and dying a very swift but painful death when confronted by the Bible. Christ went down into the world of ‘people’ not to be accepting of or affirm and leave us in the everyday relevancy of our humanness, which essentially means to leave us trapped in sin, but rather to bring us to acknowledge our condition and then by His efforts to lift us up and out of such dreadful relevance through faith in Him and His conquering work on the cross. In that alone you can see how counter-cultural Christ was. I mean, whose death is ever considered a victory? Even further, it was the Pharisees who complained the most about how Jesus was so out of step with the expectations of the popular culture, and they themselves were iconic of the fact that the preferences of man always seem to have their dastardly way with the church. What did Jesus do in response to their pestering and persecution? Well, He pretty much told them to shut their pie-holes, calling them whitewashed tombs, giving their outward performances a sarcastic thumbs up but cluing them in to the fact that their inner substance was actually death. Hey, pastor, how about we follow Christ and His word up and out of the culture rather than giving culture the authority to do the defining?”

So, anyway… I suppose I should get to the review since I’ve more or less written a theological paper for folks who may or may not want to read one. Well, one more quick thing since you’ve made it this far.

I think I figured out recently that there is a possible fourth reason for the “praise band” infection in the Christian churches. I shared it with my friends on Facebook. Maybe it’s not just poor pastoring, but poor pastoring combined with bad German food. Quickly…

Two nights ago I had the strangest dream. In the dream, I had gathered together with the staff from our school to start a praise band. Yeah, me. Weird. Anyway, as the pastor, of course I was the lead guitarist. In the dream we sucked – badly – and I was getting incredibly frustrated with the band. The kindergarten teacher was on the drums and she couldn’t keep the beat at all. Our school principal, while she has a wonderful voice, kept trying to seize the lead vocalist position while I kept trying to convince her that one of our elementary level teachers should sing lead and she should help one of our junior high level teachers figure out the bass guitar. Anyway, these were the general contours of my dream, and while I should probably stress that this was more of a nightmare than anything else, the folks in my church don’t have to worry about a “praise band” ever being a possibility. I’ve proven myself sturdy in the face of such factions in our midst. I am not weak-kneed in this department. Nevertheless, I am chalking the dream up to the under cooked Bratwurst and Sauerkraut I’d eaten for dinner that evening. So, my point, if your pastor is already weak-kneed and then eats some bad German food, your liturgy may be jeopardy.

Now, the Tomatin 15.

Similar to the previous discussion, the Tomatin distillery appears to be quite unlike all of the other distilleries in the Scotch whisky realm. What I mean is that their whisky is beyond exceptional, but the price doesn’t reflect this. This is highly counter-intuitive to a Scotch connoisseur’s expectation. Essentially, the 15 year old edition is easily attainable at around $50 while many other 15-year-olds of the same quality will most often be found above and beyond the $75 mark. And as I implied, the Tomatin is just as good, if not better. It just doesn’t make sense to mortal man.

The nose of this edition breaths creamy vanilla and mild fruit, and this wafting is so pleasant that you may find yourself spending more time smelling it than usual.

At first, the palate will give you some seasoned oak with a subtle hint of the fruit and vanilla you experienced in the nosing, but in the next instant, the vanilla becomes even sweeter, giving over a leathery piece of sugar-rich caramel bussed by a spiced apple.

The finish, while shorter than other whiskies, is still quite delightful, bringing back the mild fruit but adding something buttery. Interesting. No, wait – incredible.

I suppose that I’ve made another theological discovery here. This is a really good whisky, and if you want to strengthen your spineless pastor so as to retain good worship, try bribing him instead. Make him the promise that if he will keep with the historic liturgy, you’ll visit him regularly with a bottle of the Tomatin 15. It’s both an affordable win-win for everybody involved.

Need something to do? How about a Scotch Whisky crossword puzzle!

The first person to figure this out and then contact me with the answers will win a free copy of the book! Of course, it might help if you already own the volume. Have fun!

Across

2. Just say “no” to the 80s.

5. This smiley face would stop an aggressor.

7. What happened to the Tackleton house?

9. All they do is swim and eat and make baby sharks.

11. He’s a creepy old man.

13. It doesn’t even hurt when you get it in your eye.

14. Sweat, urine, cheap cigars, and maybe some puke.

18. A powerfully gentle lion.

20. A deadbeat who’s always willing to let others buy his whisky.

21. The bad guys are always so predictable.

23. Two words: Radioactive teabag.

25. He appears to be somewhat envious of others.

26. Save the whisky, lads!

27. Yes, you can marry my daughter.

29. This is well worth an arm and a leg…well, at least an arm.

31. That’s stupid. Everyone knows an acorn won’t stop lightning. But it will protect you from evil spirits.

Down

1. Nine hours of people watching in…

3. Going to war without the French is like going hunting without your accordion.

4. Go to church, you heathen.

6. Wax on, wax off.

8. I mean, who doesn’t appreciate water buffalo?

10. You know, that schnauzer was really tasty.

12. Illinois is a state full of mad vernacular surgeons.

15. Pixies and allergens.

16. Elective surgery is lookin’ pretty good.

17. If you can’t get my name right, it’s going in the trash.

19. I have no idea what’s going on or what they are saying so just pour me a whisky.

22. Wook at the wanedeer!

24. What would you prescribe, Doc”

27. I think William Grant & Sons may be interested in acquiring your stills.

28. A good companion when it’s -35 F outside.

30. Black leather requires the right antiperspirant.

Review – Aberfeldy, 21 Years Old, 40%

Take a pinch of Mark Twain’s wit, a princely measure of Noah Webster’s skill for defining, a dash of Emily Dickinson’s observance, a sprig of Theodore Roosevelt’s forthrightness, stir in a generous helping of Edgar Allen Poe’s gloom, shake it well, and then pour it into the head of a Victorian fellow with a great hairdo and a gentleman’s moustache. This is Ambrose Bierce, the late nineteenth and early twentieth century writer who, by thorough comparison to the writers of his day, was a virtual font of stinging sarcasm and jovial negativity.

It was most appropriate that I happened to be reading a portion from Bierce while sipping the Aberfeldy 21.

Bierce, in his crass and demeaning way, seemed to make the point that the common man was indeed capable of knowing greater things, but it would be required to bring him to this knowledge through extreme trial. While this isn’t exactly a novel surmising, for Bierce, a raving pessimist, this signaled something lively – like that one bulb on the strand of Christmas tree lights that you thought had burned out but then flickers occasionally to show that it is not yet departed.

By the way, when I referred to Bierce as a “pessimist,” I did not use this descriptor lightly. It is to his credit that we own the following avowals: “Optimism, the doctrine or belief that everything is beautiful, including what is ugly,” and “Cabbage, a familiar kitchen-garden vegetable about as large and wise as a man’s head.”

In general, it’s easy to see that he doesn’t think very highly of the human race, but I suppose what I am suggesting is that I think it’s possible for the reader to discover in Bierce’s cue a flickering optimism, a scale-tipping hope for heaven beyond the apparent presence of hell.

Again, this fell rather conveniently into stride with the Aberfeldy 21.

Admittedly, this was my first go-round with the Aberfeldy wellspring. I’d had the fullest intention of trying it at some point, that is at least until I read an article revealing Dewar’s as its owner. With this, I was facing a conundrum.

Dewar’s is, in my humble opinion, a mortally wounding blended Scotch. You only consume it if you really need a drink, are nearing death, and it’s the only booze available. If these three strictures do not intersect, then you do well to avoid it. Aberfeldy, being one of Dewar’s holdings, was guilty by association.

My pessimism was stirred by a general uneasiness that the overseers of one would influence the other, and I questioned spending the marks to buy something that I was convinced would be disappointing. In other words, I would need my bulb to flicker with hope toward heaven in the face of what I was pretty sure would most likely be hell.

As you can see, my innermost optimism won. And I’m glad for this.

The nose of the Aberfeldy 21 is faultless – rich with fresh citrus and vested just slightly with malted cherries.

The first sip is transcendent. The nose hands over to the palate a heavier dosage of the malted cherries and then adds a little bit of honey and white chocolate. A second sip seems to stir in a bit more of the honey.

The finish is medium, that is, it is a silky conferring of warmed malt that lasts just long enough for you to ask yourself why you didn’t try this splendid concoction sooner.

Oh yeah, because it says “The Heart of Dewar’s” on the label. And Dewar’s blended Scotch sucks.

Review – Laphroaig, Select, (No Age Stated), 40%

Early one morning as I made my way to the office, I happened to tune into my favorite AM radio news station just as the sports segment was unfolding. The sports reporter was relaying the audio from a locker room interview he’d conducted with a professional player.

I don’t know about you, but when I listen to and ponder the constructs of some of these colloquial dialogs while traveling along my cheery way, I sometimes find myself looking toward the empty passenger seat and asking the invisible traveler, “Do you have any idea what he just said?”

I know that he is saying something, and I suppose that to some it may even make sense. In the end, this is what it sounds like to me and often how I recall the exchange:

Reporter: “So, how do you feel about how the defense handled that second half?”

Player: “Well, the book shelves were just too heavy for us. We were drivin’ the oxen and tryin’ to get down by the road sign to pick up the groceries, but the snow plows were there drinkin’ some pretty stiff coffee and keepin’ all the rhubarb from walking the highline. We just need to keep our heads in the game and get through to water the grass and light the fireworks, know what I mean?”

Just once, I want the reporter to be honest and say, “Um. No, I don’t. In fact, no one knows what you mean because no one understands what those particular words in that particular order have to do with your particular sport as it relates to my particular question.”

There are some whiskies that do this, too. What I mean is that while some editions may indeed present themselves with professional league credentials, in the end, they are just, well, confusing.

The Laphroaig Select is an example.

The nose starts by offering the potentiality of silky smoke and a mild, but still promising, sweetness. But then you take a sip and suddenly it drops to a very dry and hostile place. It’s almost as if the fruit you were anticipating turns so irrationally toward becoming something foreign to the whole lot – something a little more like a dried butter and herb crust.

The finish is confusing, too. At first it feels as though it will be a medium spree teetering on the edge of the acrimonious features of the palate, and yet, like the surfeit of other editions bearing the Laphroaig badge, it turns toward a lengthiness that provides just enough time to sense the smoked fruit desired in the nose.

Just so you know, I felt it only proper to jot my notes and then go out to my car, climb into the driver seat, and ask of my invisible passenger, “Do you have any idea what the Laphroaig Select just said?”

The Top 10 Reasons I Want to Live in Scotland

Small talk gets a bad rap. This is true because most of the time small talk feels so uncomfortably forced, being something seen as not all that necessary to friendships but almost certainly required for interaction with acquaintances. But the problem is that at any particular gathering of people, both friends and acquaintances are in attendance. To this I say that as long as you aren’t completely incapacitated by antisociability, small talk can be the onramp to a swifter thoroughfare, one that sees acquaintances becoming friends. It doesn’t have to be relegated to that fearfully unapportioned space between arrival and departure. You just need to be prepared. Being prepared helps you to identify obvious but fertile topics. Here’s what I mean.

Surely you’ve been chatting with your spouse or friend and small talk has occurred. What did you talk about with ease? Excusing the inappropriate topics suitable only for such friendships, let the others remain. Did you talk about work? Maybe the kids? Did you talk about the weather? All of these epitomize small talk, and all are available for coaxing the conversation to more robust worlds of rapport.

Take for example any of the topics I mentioned above. They all deal with life where you are right now at this moment. But after a few somnolent nods from folks around the dinner table, maybe someone took a chance and helped graduate it to: “If you could choose to live anywhere in the world, where would it be?” See what just happened?

Now, I need to reveal something.

I couldn’t figure out how to introduce this particular list. To be completely honest, feeling a bit dulled today, I originally started this post by asking, “So, how’s the weather in your part of the world?”

Yeah. Lame.

Hopefully those of you who know me already appreciate that I don’t like to dwell in the realm of small talk with what I offer here at Angelsportion.com. I want to take whatever it is that I’m writing – a review, an article, or whatever – and go quite a bit further. I want the reader to feel as though he or she has received more than what was expected, that it was worth the while, and perhaps even led to the reader sensing the kindled ember of friendship beginning to glow. In order to get to this point today, it was necessary for me to employ my own theory regarding small talk, and so I went back and inserted the evolution of my inner conversation stirred by the question about the weather.

Michigan weather sucks. In fact, I’ve articulated for my wife that we could just as easily be poor clergy folk living in Florida as opposed to living where it’s cold eight months of the year. Of course to this, our conversation has sometimes evolved to the question I mentioned before: “If you could choose to live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

And now my list, which is also my answer to the question. Here are my top ten reasons for desiring to live in Scotland.

#10 – Grass grows everywhere.

At our previous residence, there were places in my yard where, no matter how hard I tried, I could not get grass to grow. It drove me crazy. And yet, when I visited Scotland in 2010, the kindly couple with whom I was so graced to reside owned and drove a truck that had grass growing in the bed. They assured me that in Scotland, if something sits for a short period of time, grass will grow on it. Amazing.

#9 – The Loch Ness Monster

My wife laughs at me often for this. She laughs because while I’ll openly criticize the levels of stupidity employed to create the modern television shows she and a multitude of Americans so thoroughly enjoy, if I’m not watching the news or the History Channel, I’m watching some cryptozoological or pseudoscientific show on the Discovery Channel about yetis, Jersey devils, or more specifically, ol’ Nessie. Yeah, I know. So, sue me. I just happen to believe that there are quite a few of God’s creatures roaming around out there that are pretty good at hiding from us.

#8 – Kilts

Kilts are flat out cool. To think that men use to go to war wearing these and little else is even cooler.

#7 – Golf. Just kidding. I hate golf. But the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews is magnificent.

Golf is the one thing that Scotland gave us for which it should be sorrowful and perhaps even write an official apology; however, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews is worth a regular visit for the sheer architecture and atmosphere. In fact, while I’ve never been there, I hear there is a fine venue for lodging and dining in St. Andrews proper called the Peat Inn. When I am eventually retired and living in Scotland for a few months of the year, I hope to visit.

#6 – Castles

So many tourist destinations tout their castles – England, Germany, heck, even North Carolina, West Virginia, and Illinois stake claims as having magnificent castles – but none are like Scotland’s. Even the wimpiest castle in Scotland bares itself as a brusque warrior in comparison to the world’s collection. Take a look at Edinburgh and Stirling castles when you get a chance. You’ll see what I mean.

#5 – William Wallace

Watch “Braveheart” and you’ll understand.

#4 – The Scottish Highlands

Coming in for a midday landing, passing just above the misty highlands, well, I just can’t remember seeing anything as equally inviting or serene. I suppose that the only other thing even remotely comparable was my wife coming down the aisle, or perhaps an infant sleeping.

#3 – The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo

No, this isn’t a tattoo parlor in Edinburgh. It’s an event within a larger series of festivals that happens every August in Edinburgh. The word “tattoo” literally means “turn off the tap,” and from this alone, I’ll bet you can tell it’s a big deal to the Scots. The “tattoo” was the signal sound to the pubs to turn off the taps and to send the imbibing soldiers back to the barracks to prepare for duty. Now some might suggest that this would only see to the ranks being inundated with armed and drunken Scots, but having read about the whisky-drinking fortitude of these soldiers, I doubt they were any less capable on the field. Anyway, in the esplanade of Edinburgh Castle, there is now this world famous exhibition of military music and theatrics. It is quite the experience. Take a look.

#2 – The Scottish Isles, namely, the Isle of Skye

Skye is the largest of Scotland’s isles. Not only is it the place to go for visiting picturesque seaside hamlets that can so easily whisk you away to centuries prior, but it’s also like visiting a miniature Scotland within Scotland. In other words, you have nearly everything that the country as a whole offers – misty highlands, sea swept lowlands, ancient forests, historic distilleries, verdant glens, vibrant flora, and bountiful wildlife. I would live in Scotland if only to be able to make regular visits to Skye.

#1 – Scotch Whisky and the innumerable assortment of Distilleries

Go figure, right.

Slàinte mhath!