Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 5

Review – Ardbeg, Scorch, (No Age Stated), 46%

Jennifer and I just bought a king-sized bed.

We committed many years ago to never buying a king-sized bed. We neither needed nor wanted it. We’ve always slept close to one another, so we’ve only ever owned full or queen-sized beds. That changed somewhat recently when I began awaking to find Jennifer asleep in the closet or on the couch downstairs. I’d find myself on a quiet search and rescue mission at 2:00 AM, and each time I located her, she’d say her exodus was due to my snoring.

“But, I don’t snore.”

“How would you know this when you’re asleep?”

“Because I just know. If I snored, you would’ve smothered me with a pillow by now.”

“Well, okay, maybe it’s not snoring. You just breathe deeply and heavily.”

“That’s because I go to bed exhausted every single day.”

“But, If I wake up, I can’t fall back asleep when you’re doing it, so I have to leave.”

“So, what am I supposed to do about that?”

“Stop breathing.”

“So, we’re back to you killing me, then?”

“Well—”

“—Wake me up when I’m doing it. I’ll move somewhere else.”

“But, what about your back? It’ll hurt the next day if you sleep on the floor or couch.”

“Yeah, but—”

“—But if I kill you, all that pain goes away. It would be a mercy killing.”

“We don’t believe in mercy killing, honey. And if even if I did, I’m telling you I don’t anymore.”

“But, remember how you’re always telling me how you’re worth more to us dead than alive? Now’s your chance to help make it look like an accident.”

“How about, instead, we get a king-sized bed?”

“How will that fix the problem?”

“I don’t know. However, what I do know is that we both seem to sleep pretty well when we’re in Florida. That house has a king-sized bed, and there are plenty of other comfortable places in that house for you to hijack if my Vader-breathing was keeping you awake. And when we went to San Diego, that bed in the hotel was king-sized. I didn’t wake up to find the bathroom door closed and you in the tub with a pillow over your head. I’m guessing you slept well in that bed, right?”

“Yes, I slept all night.”

“Then, a king-sized bed it is. You’ll sleep better. I won’t get murdered. All will be well.”

So, as you can see, buying a king-sized bed was essential to our marriage’s maintenance. Do you know what else remains crucial? Whisky. Jennifer and I work together to make it possible for me to buy and review the aqua vitae. This cooperation prevents me from asking the dear woman to assist in staging her death for a substantial insurance payout. Synergy at its finest—just like the Scorch edition from Ardbeg. Indeed, this is a well-match stride between Ardbeg’s masterful elixir and some intensely burnt finishing barrels, all in tribute to “the legendary dragon of Islay.”

I’m guessing that dragon was probably some guy living in a cave because he’d been kicked out of his house for snoring. A few kids probably walked past the cave, heard the guttural resonations, and ran back to town in terror. And so, the legend was born.

But whatever the source of the legend, the nose of its namesake whisky is worthy of Vader-sized inhalations, being a rich breeze of smoke-filled ocean air and smoldering molasses. A sip brings along charred sea salt and rye toast coated by a generous swipe of citrus jam. Its finish takes a while, being sure along the way to remind its imbiber of its ashen oak planks and seaside view.

The Ardbeg Scorch is the kind of dram that can put someone right into bedtime’s dreamscapes within minutes. Although, the remnant scents such a person brings into bed—even if that person brushes his or her teeth mightily—have the potential to keep a light-sleeping spouse awake. No one drinks an Ardbeg and then hides the evidence immediately. Ardbeg whiskies stay with you. The Scorch edition is no different, and this can be dangerous in my house—the kind of danger that not even a king-sized bed can avert.

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Review – Sinister Distilling Co., Sinner Series, Experimental Batch No. 5, (No Age Stated), 40%

Someone once said that man is the only beast that can genuinely laugh and cry. This is true because we know how things are compared to what they should be. In other words, we are joyful when life moves along accordingly, and we cry when it steers into the ditch. Take, for example, the fast-food sandwich I ate while driving earlier this afternoon. How joyful I was when I discovered its crafters had been generous with its ingredients. How sad I was when a second bite triggered a small avalanche of ketchup and mayonnaise carried along by a few chunks of lettuce.

Thankfully, most of the unfortunate clump splattered into the cupholder. Ah, joy returned. What’s more, the drive-through attendant sent along plenty of napkins. I needed only to scoop up the slop, toss it out the window, and then wipe my hands clean with the napkins. And so, that’s what I did. I reached down, scooped up the chunks, and whipped them from my hand toward the window.

Except the window wasn’t rolled down. Somehow, I’d missed that step in the calculus, resulting in a ricochet of creamy condiments and a very sore hand. Indeed, sadness had returned. One might say it was dripping down the interior of my driver’s side window.

Well, things are what they are, and tomorrow will be a new day for laughing and crying. Until then, there’s one more thing worth mentioning that only the human beast can do: make whiskey. Although, if each step isn’t carefully minded throughout the process, as has already been shown, bad things can happen. Consider the Sinister Distilling Company’s “Sinner Series” Experimental Batch 5.

A promising dram, Batch 5 offers sugared vegetal scents right before it stabs you in the back of the throat with its chili peppers. Yes, chili peppers were added to the calculus. The only thing I can surmise about that particular choice is that someone actually meant to toss the peppers into a bin, but like my window, the container was closed, and the peppers bounced into the vat. And yet, instead of being an unfortunate misstep in the procedure, the result is an unusually lively sipper. I’d say the chili peppers are a fine partner to the hops used in the distillation, ultimately amplifying the ingredient in a way that communicates seasoned citrus—perhaps, limes and black pepper.

The whiskey concludes quite nicely with a medium-length echo of the American Oak barrels used in the finishing process. The chili peppers remain long after everything else fades.

Perhaps like the Sinister Distilling Company’s chili peppered whiskey, the glob of ketchup, mayonnaise, and lettuce I exploded against my car window was something of an accidental blessing. Perhaps. I can’t see how, yet I’ll revisit the event in search of its positives. Until then, I suppose I’m just glad my sore hand was still functional enough to pop the cork on the Batch 5 edition.

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Review – Nirasaki, Shunka Shuto, Japanese Blended Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

Do you want to know how to get a whisky into a pastor’s conference filled with flaming teetotalers?

Stop by the refreshment table. Ask for an unsweetened iced tea. Next, proceed to the hotel’s restaurant bar just around the corner from the conference room. Order up a clean two fingers’ worth of whatever stirs your fancy. Drink half while enjoying the company of a kindly bartender, explaining how you’re feeling somewhat apart from most in attendance at the event. Finally, dump the rest of your whisky into the iced tea before returning to the conference room.

Pietists be damned.

For the record, I was an outcast the moment I walked in. I wear a clerical collar. It’s the uniform of my office. I just didn’t fit in among the ocean tide of forty to sixty-year-olds in skinny jeans and surfer hairdos. The stares were unconcealed, ultimately announcing my alien presence by asking, “So, uh, bro, uh, are you here for the pastors’ conference and stuff?”

“Yes, bro,” was my reply before taking a much larger-than-normal gulp from my iced tea. Actually, I nearly replied, “Oh, there’s a conference? I was called in to perform an exorcism on the hotel. Management says it’s haunted. Have you seen the movie ‘The Shining’? Yeah, that kind of haunted.”

The point: I might as well try to dull the discomfort with a nerve-soothing dram. In this case, I wrestled between the Oban 14 and The Balvenie 21, both delightful editions adorning the bar’s shelf. Considering the context, I chose the Oban—an extraordinary whisky I know for a fact the angels enjoy in the heavenly realms while observing human foolishness.

The truth be told between us, I wish I’d brought a flask of Nirasaki’s Shunka Shuto Japanese blended whisky. It’s not the grandest whisky I’ve ever consumed, but it is a delightful sipper. By no means expensive, had the bottle been confiscated by the TSA, I’d be able to cope. Had it made its way through to my destination, after what I’ve experienced so far, I think it would’ve matched the tenor of my experience.

I’m a conservative, liturgical Lutheran—someone who holds to the historic rites and ceremonies of the Church throughout the ages. I find value in tradition and believe creeds are preservatives for truth. I’ve been sitting in a banquet room filled with hundreds of non-denominational pastors, all trying to outdo one another with the latest in hipster prattlings that mock such things. So much for ecumenism. If only from a human perspective, it’s like being the only English speaker in a room filled with people speaking Japanese—which would make a rock glass half-filled with something from the orient feel right. At least I could say I was trying to assimilate.

A wafting of the Shunka Shuto’s roasted vanilla beans and fresh plums would all but certify the whisky’s suitability for such a moment. A sip—one offering cinnamoned plums and a touch of oakiness—would stir a spirit of tolerance, the kind that can endure small talk conversations about the shallowest of theological things. Its medium finish of soured barrel wood might help one to keep smiling politely no matter the presenters’ jabs at men like me.

Well, whatever. When I get home, I’ll pour myself a glass of the Shunka Shuto. Of course, before doing so, I’ll pray. First, I’ll thank the Lord for bringing me home safely. Next, and as always, I’ll rejoice in the existence of pietists. The less they prefer whisky, the more there will be for the rest of us who know better.

Τὰ ἅγια τοις ἁγίοις.

The post Review – Nirasaki, Shunka Shuto, Japanese Blended Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – That Boutique-y Whisky Company, Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Springbank, 25 Years Old, Batch 14, 47.6%

I live in a relatively populated neighborhood. And yet, of all the surrounding neighbors, I really only know and consider one family as friends. Indeed, they are quite delightful. The others most immediate to my location, not so much. I won’t go into all the reasons for this, except maybe to say that the matriarch of one of the families has serious anger issues, and the other has spawned children the local police already know by name.

Let’s just leave it at that.

In the meantime, as much as I avoid them, I do what I can to ensure they second-guess interacting with me. They know I’m some sort of clergyperson. But even as they’ve seen me coming and going in my clerical collar, they’ve also witnessed me mowing my yard wearing Stormtrooper armor or checking my mail disguised as a Yautja from the “Predator” films. So far, these things combined seem to be the right concoction of “crazy” for keeping them away. At least, I’ve not found it necessary to up the ante. If I do, I have some ideas.

One particular idea involves my chainsaw. For instance, I thought I could leave each morning conspicuously through the front door of my home carrying a clean saw. I’d be sure to return each evening with the saw smeared in blood-red paint with fleshy latex pieces sticking to the chain. It might be a lot of extra work to add to my already busy day, but you know the old saying: a gore-stained chainsaw a day keeps the neighbors away.

Aldous Huxley once said, “There are things known, and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception.” When it comes to my neighbors, I prefer to keep perception’s doors painted in startling uncertainty and its hinges well-oiled with frightful ambiguity. When it comes to whisky labels, I think the folks at That Boutique-y Whisky Company are working from the same premise. The outside of their bottles are adorned with some really off-putting imagery, yet their insides contain editions any neighbor would be blessed to meet if they took the time. Batch 14 of Boutique-y’s 25-year-old from Springbank is the perfect example.

While intricate, the label for this dram feels like an artistic tangle of images to be combed over for meaning. I don’t get it. But then again, I’m more into creating perception entanglements than interpreting them. That said, the whisky’s nose, palate, and finish remain charmingly uncomplicated. Ushered to the imbiber on scents of vanilla and crème de cacao, a sip offers medium-roast coffee and sundried apples and oranges. All three cast shadows of peat smoke. The medium finish is a peppered version of the vanilla from the nose.

Daydreaming for a moment with this delightful dram in hand, I suppose if my chainsaw idea doesn’t produce the results I desire, I can always add to the homebound routine a giant black garbage bag or two that I can drag from my car into the garage. If I find I need to do more, I could also start adding incredibly noticeable grave-like mounds of fresh dirt to various places in my front and side yards. I’m guessing the neighbors will figure it out at some point. If not, I’m sure the internet will provide me with an audio track of random screaming I can occasionally play in the evenings, followed by an appearance on my front porch, a whisky in hand, and wearing something most appropriate.

The post Review – That Boutique-y Whisky Company, Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Springbank, 25 Years Old, Batch 14, 47.6% appeared first on AngelsPortion.

Review – Compass Box, No Name, No. 3, (No Age Stated), 48.9%

A black hole is born when a star feels the need to be the center of the universe’s attention. Essentially, the star explodes into a fantastical supernova. In due course, the self-centered nature of this spectacular event overcomes the star’s ability to exist at all, ultimately signaling its doom. Soon thereafter, the once glorious celestial collapses in on itself, becoming a thing of negative nothingness.

I just finished reading several studies proving, I think, humanity’s similar trajectory.

Considering the astrophysical theme, one particular study revealed that an alarming 25% of adults believe the sun orbits the earth. These people make babies, drive cars, and vote. They’re the kind of people in government who work to control urban sprawl in some regions of Puerto Rico out of concern that the island might one day become too heavy on one side and flip over.

Another study aimed to determine what the average American citizen believes about his or her own intelligence. The results showed that most believe they are significantly brighter than everyone else. In other words, the average citizen believes he or she is more intelligent than the average citizen.

Societal implosion into negative nothingness.

And lest you think the ethereal realm of academia would provide comfort, a recent poll of college students proved no small number’s inability to do rudimentary math, spell basic words, write an elementary sentence and punctuate it correctly, iterate simpler facts of science, or recall easy history—such as naming the warring parties in the American Civil War. I think it’s pretty likely these same students also make up 100% of the ten people who are killed by vending machines each year. I’m guessing they also comprise a large percentage of the 100 people who choke to death on ballpoint pens and the annual 6,000 pillow-related injuries requiring ER attention each year.

Again, negative nothingness.

With that, thank the Lord for whisky and the people who’ve successfully handed along its creation to the generations that followed. As the world continues spinning into self-consuming ridiculousness, we’ll need a lot more of it. And not just whisky in general, but the good stuff—stuff like the Compass Box No Name No. 3.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen a few negative reviews of the No. 3. A handful jabbed at it with disdain, calling it their least favorite from Compass Box. One in particular compared it to a sweaty sock. Interestingly, poor grammar and bad punctuation were standard among everyone who despised it. Still, there are plenty who adore it. I’m one of them. Well, maybe adore is too strong of a word. I like it. It’s calming, offering plenty to keep one distracted. I certainly wouldn’t say no to anyone offering it as we sit together watching a planet-killing asteroid plummeting toward earth. It could serve as one’s last dram.

With a peaty nose of ashen pineapple and blood oranges, the No. 3 primes one’s senses for the oncoming tidal wash of apocalyptic fire. A swig’s warmth foretells the super-heated saltwater and charred tropical fruits carried inland on the asteroid’s impact wave. Again, the pineapple and citrus float by, and they’re incredibly singed but not beyond recognition.

The whisky’s finish maintains the nose’s sincerity and the palate’s reality, promising a lengthy recovery to whoever remains for more.

I read another brief article about how one-third of adults still sleep with a comfort object such as a stuffed animal or favorite blanket from childhood. In that same study, one-third of those adults admitted to sucking their thumbs on occasion.

Again, we’re in trouble, folks. And yet, we don’t need to endure it joylessly. While countless in our world just can’t seem to climb out of adolescence—many of whom appear to be in charge—the rest of us have whisky to keep us comfortable until the implosion… or impact… whichever comes first. My guess is you’ll know those who understand this by scanning their shelves for a bottle of the No. 3. Its presence is a sure sign they know the sun does not circle the earth, Puerto Rico won’t become lopsided and tip over, and keeping a good whisky on hand for the apocalypse is one of the wisest things any of us can do.

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Review – Berry Bros. & Rudd, North British Distillery, (Cask Ref. 224751), 18 Years Old, 57%

Driving to the airport after our annual Florida vacation is like traveling along in the funeral procession following the death of a friend. It’s quiet. It’s reverent. The procession’s mourners know when they arrive at the cemetery, all will enter its gates together. When they leave, one will stay behind.

The emotion in this is genuine, and sometimes the best any traveler can do is endure.

I think for future vacations, I will wear my black clerical collar the day we leave for home. It just feels right. I’ll bet my family would agree, being willing to don black, too. In fact, I could probably go full rites and ceremonies, vesting in my cassock and surplice and holding a graveside funeral service right there at the departure gate. Apart from the obvious fact that no sane person leaves Florida to vacation in Detroit, the somber silence palling the entire space is likely due to most of the folks being there for the same reason as the Thoma family.

Their friend, vacation, has just died. They’re in mourning. Like us, they need a comforting word, or in my case, a whisky.

I don’t mean to bring rain to any mourner’s already dreadful emptiness, but thankfully, when I leave the cemetery, I do not go to a whisky-barren landscape. At my home in Michigan, I have one cabinet, two sizeable trunks, and a spacious bar, all of which have met their capacity with various editions from around the world. I can meet my sadness with the joy of plentiful selection.

This time around, and after dealing with several catastrophes within moments of arriving home, a generous dram from the Berry Brothers & Rudd 18-year-old edition from the North British Distillery in Edinburgh seemed in order. This particular whisky was a gracious gift from my Bishop and friend, Rev. Dr. Jamison J. Hardy, a man who knows the countenance of the scene I’ve described. Or maybe he knows that the seductive draw of an overly busy clergyman’s time away on vacation can only be met by something with far stronger gravity—that is if he wants him to return to his post willingly.

This selection acquired by the merchants at Berry Brothers and Rudd certainly is centripetally gifted.

The North British Distillery in Edinburgh, Scotland does not make and send its whiskies directly into the consumer market. Instead, they’d much rather serve as a wellspring for other more mainstream blended whiskies, such as Cutty Sark and Chivas Regal. It’s not to say the good folks at North British don’t have what it takes to pierce the grim dismay of a society longing for quality drams on their own. They do, and this single grain whisky is a perfect example. It’s just that they’re more inclined to serve as a part of the framework for others to bring the sunshine. I don’t know why.

On my part, I’d recommend the North British Distillery take a chance at going it alone. The purest enchantment contained within this 18-year Scotch is the kind that shouldn’t be lost to a blender’s equation, no matter how good the blend it eventually creates might be.

With such a light nose of vanilla crème brûlée and concord grapes, you’d expect the ABV to be more in the 40s. But at 57%, this genius provision sourced by Berry Brothers and Rudd proves an incredibly sneaky delight. A sip reveals the grain’s sweetness. There’s a buttery assumption, too, along with a hint of raspberry jam on crisped toast. The finish matches the nose almost perfectly, except it adds to the mix a nip of spicy cola.

Again, hiding this flavorful masterpiece within the likes of mass-produced mid-shelfers is heart-wrenching—almost as tragically heart-wrenching as the drive to the airport following a glorious vacation.

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Review – Old Camp, American Blended Whiskey, (No Age Stated), 40%

An older man sat alone at a table not far from where my family and I were dining in Englewood, Florida. He appeared to be enjoying the pleasant view of Lemon Bay while eating fish and sipping a whiskey. I don’t know which whiskey he was drinking. I only know he had ice in his glass. I’m guessing he might be a serial killer.

Although, I’m not bothered when whisky drinkers put ice in their drams. Not only does it take guts to betray openly one’s mental illness, but it’s likely quite therapeutic. Firstly, I’ve already written on this topic, having confessed to the same occasional sin. Not serial killing, of course, but rather that there are certain whiskies I enjoy with ice. Not many, but a few. Usually, they’re ones that need a little doctoring. Secondly, I say these things because I’m willing to share my own abnormalities. For example, not long ago, I willfully—deliberately, intentionally, consciously—elected to spend twenty of my hard-earned dollars on a bottle of bottom-shelf whiskey.

It’s been my experience that most whiskies with a price tag of twenty dollars or less have at least four things in common:

They’re typically horrible.They’re often quite horrible.They’re almost always horrible.Most often, the only way to improve them is to dump them down the kitchen sink.

Mindful of these four usuals, I proved my ability to part with reality when, having caught a glimpse of the Old Camp Blended American Whiskey guarding a bottom shelf, I thought, I should buy that and give it a try. Before I could regain control, my invisible struggle had become knowable to others. I called for the attendant to fetch the bottle as I conversed with myself, saying, “I mean, why not, Chris? It’s only twenty bucks.”

Thankfully, this very public episode was over just as soon as it began. However, the fruits of its truest obscurity blossomed in the privacy of my home. It was there I opened the bottle, poured a short dram, nosed, sipped, and savored, and then concluded so irrationally that the incredibly cheap whiskey was, in fact, pretty good.

Indeed, I liked it. What’s more, I was already on the road to recovery from the incident, having discovered the willingness to admit this whiskey belonged in my cabinet and not in the drains beneath my kitchen sink. With a gentler nose of red berries and vanilla, the whiskey is surprisingly inviting. Its first sip is a bit syrupy, warning of artificial flavoring. But the second spreads out evenly enough to suggest it could be natural, sending along a list of the ingredients: vanilla-drizzled strawberries and nutmeg.

The finish is dry and light, packing very little punch. I was surprised by this, especially since the whiskey’s palate seemed capable of a thorough coating. I’m not sure how I feel about that imbalance, except to say that as someone capable of his own particular imbalances, I probably wouldn’t even notice it while eating fish and wondering which area in the bay would be best for the disposing of bodies.

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Review – Starlight Distillery, Carl T. Huber’s Small Batch Bourbon, Finished in Sherry Barrels, 4.5 Years Old, 53.2%

Palm trees and sunburns aren’t the only indicators one has begun his or her vacation. There are other, less conspicuous signs that testify similarly. Consider the following list.

There’s a good chance you’re on vacation when:

the word “doughnuts” is an appropriate answer to the question, “What do you want to do for dinner tonight?”a dip in the pool is an acceptable alternative to showering.brushing one’s teeth before lunch is a relatively adjustable goal.pretty much everything is importanter than proper grammar.chain restaurants you have back home suddenly become fantastical meal destinations.your current location’s list of invasive species includes iguanas and Burmese pythons.you walk into a clothing store with your family, and the clerk says almost immediately, “Welcome! What state are you guys visiting from?”you stop to take a picture of something interesting and hear another something hissing aggressively at you from a nearby bush.you can set the clocks according to when it storms.the clocks need to be reset daily because of the storms.

I’m sure there are other markers, such as the urge to write a whiskey review every morning before 7:00 AM for two straight weeks.

That’s not one? Well, it is for me. And this morning’s candidate—Starlight Distillery’s Carl T. Huber Small Batch finished in Oloroso Sherry Barrels—is one I received from an upstanding gent, Noah Hardy, the eldest son of my associate pastor and Bishop, Jamison Hardy.

This particular whiskey is a dark horse dram. Having never heard of Starlight Distillery, my expectations were thin. And yet, this edition keeps pace with other Bourbons, perhaps surpassing some of the better-known easy sippers.

With an explicit nose of warmed sherry and brown sugar, this delightful whiskey beckons its imbiber to take his time, remembering he’s on holiday—whether or not he is. It’s seductive in a restful way. The palate is the same, giving over mint, pecans, vanilla, and rubied tropical fruits. Again, the dram reminisces days in which lounging will always outweigh diligence, even when alligators are sunbathing only a stone’s throw away. The finish is a medium recollection of these things, particularly the nose’s sherry and sugar. A slight burn travels in its wake. But remember, a slight burn is not necessarily apart from a great vacation.

Indeed, the gifting of this whiskey was a kindly gesture. More importantly, it’s good. And since I’m writing this review based on notes I took before leaving for vacation (that is, the whiskey is not here with me in Florida), this particular possession might actually lure me home. Although, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen various Starlight Distillery editions here in sunny south Florida. The whiskey shops I’ve visited thus far certainly have a far better selection than Michigan, proving this state’s advantage. In truth, the only thing Michigan really has above Florida is its foliage doesn’t usually hiss at bystanders.

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Review – Loch Lomond, 12 Years Old, 46%

The eighth-grade teacher at the Christian school where I serve as the pastor is knowledgeable in music. And by music, I mean the good kind—the kind with bands like AC-DC in its list. Being a man of similar quality, I’ve been sure to catechize my children in the joys of these better things. As it would go, they know and sing along to songs that many of their peers have never heard before.

Near the end of this past school year, my daughter, Evelyn, came home with news that she’d won an impromptu contest during history on behalf of her sixth-grade class. As it would go, this particular teacher pitted the sixth grade against a combined seventh and eighth grade, challenging them by playing the first three seconds of a song. If they could name the tune, they won a point. If they could recall the band, too, they won a second point.

After the first few songs, it became clear to Evelyn’s teammates that if they were going to win, they’d better get out of her way. And they did.

Needless to say, it was a bloodbath. Evelyn knew every band and every song, often proving the three-second timer unnecessary. From Def Leppard to Motorhead to Van Halen, she nailed each tune and artist to the floor, all to the amazement of her classmates and teacher—and even more so to the agonizing embarrassment of her elder opponents. I’m guessing they’re being parented by men and women who’ve fallen short of the fullest measure of their duty.

“Did you struggle with any of the songs?” I asked.

“Only one,” she said. “It took me a second to remember who sang ‘She’s a Beauty.’ But then I remembered it was The Tubes.”

“That’s my girl,” I said, giving her a high-five.

It’s probably a good thing the teacher didn’t mix traditional Scottish folk songs into the challenge. All bets would’ve been off the table when Evelyn finished a three-second introduction by singing, “You’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye. Where me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”

Yeah, we’ll sing that in the car now and then. Admittedly, we had to start learning songs like “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond,” especially since AC-DC’s Angus Young breaks into lyric-less guitar solos based on such things. I mean, why only listen when you can sing along? Even better, why only sing to Loch Lomond when you can sip from its whisky, too, namely its 12-year-old Single Malt? Not Evelyn, of course, but me.

No sooner than the cork is loosed from this undervalued whisky does the one who discharged it learn he’s in for a real treat. The bottle scent is a compact tune of sweetness that opens into a chorus of sugared citrus and cookie dough. There may even be a few subtle notes of toasted coconut hovering along the way of the score.

The palate learns the whisky’s more resounding melody, becoming a hard-driving but thoroughly enjoyable tune of seared toffee, warmed almonds, vanilla cake, and sweet cream. Its finish is a medium fade of the nose’s citrus beats, one that moves its sipper to replay the track.

Perhaps one day, I’ll repeat this pleasant track with my masterful daughter, Evelyn. Until then, here’s to you, young lassie! Indeed, I bid you accept a proud father’s commendation, knowing that you are blessed among many and shall be a glorious adornment to every company you keep—just like the Loch Lomond 12-year-old Single Malt.

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Review – Wyoming Whiskey, Small Batch Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 44%

A nine-foot shark brutally attacked a young girl in shallow water about 180 miles from where I and my family, on the very same day, had decided to visit the sea. It took one of her legs. It returned for more, disproving the “sharks are not maneaters” theories many shark enthusiasts enjoy perpetuating. Thankfully, the young girl’s brother, a firefighter and EMT by trade, came to her rescue, ultimately fighting it off and engaging in critical first aid.

One might think that 180 miles would be quite the distance between that shark and the particular contingent of succulent human beings I call my family. And yet, if you were to consider the 995,000 total miles of the world’s coastlines as a dartboard, the beach where this young girl’s life was forever changed is well within the bullseye. What’s more, when you consider how far sharks can travel in a single day, that shark was by all means within range of giving anyone on our beach a try.

Okay, so perhaps I’m overreacting a bit. The thing is, I hate sharks. I make no bones about it here at The Angels’ Portion. I’m honest about it, so I don’t go into the ocean. While so many are concerned about the environmental cruciality of sharks, I’m cognizant of conversion by conviction. In other words, a person who ends up in a shark’s mouth is likely to enlist in my crusade, even if only in their last breath.

“Sure, they’re great for the environment,” the person might be thinking as one limb after the other is taken. “But in this moment of moments, I sure wish someone would’ve culled this particular species just a little bit more.”

Having heard the news of the attack, my wife asked the children and me at dinner what each of us would do if a shark ever attacked us. Madeline said she’d go for its eyes. Evelyn agreed because it’s a great move. Harrison said he’d go for the nose, having watched enough shark documentaries to know its nose to be the most sensitive part. I think I’d just let the shark have me. The fact that it had managed to attack me even though I was a hundred feet from shore proves a determination worthy of reward. I appreciate determination. Now, had I actually been in the water—and because a day at the beach is best enjoyed through preparation—I would put the samurai sword I was carrying through its skull. Next, after it released me, I’d drop the hand grenade (something I’d also have been carrying) into its mouth and swim away using whatever appendages still functioned accordingly. Finally, I’d climb from the water to watch the explosion, smiling as the cocktail of shark guts and sand churned in the shallow seawater.

In short, when going to the beach, remember these four simple rules of thumb:

One, wear sunscreen. Two, sharks don’t function well on land. Three, sharks usually only eat wet things. Four, if you get into the water, bring weapons.

By the way, Wyoming doesn’t have sharks. Maybe that’s some sort of subconscious reason behind my appreciation of the Wyoming Whiskey’s Small Batch Bourbon.

With a nose of cinnamoned apples and vanilla, this Small Batch edition draws one inland to drier climates, where a stampede is more likely than an underwater feeding frenzy. Its palate is just as enticing, reaching out with freshly baked bread barely touched with a pepper almost immediately neutralized with butter and raspberry jam.

Unfortunately, the finish is too short, teasing the inland whiskey imbiber with hints of cinnamon and oak that barely have a chance to arrive.

Parenthetically, I can already hear my wife’s voice relative to stampedes and feeding frenzies. She has a favorite meme when it comes to the odds of being attacked by a shark. It may even speak an element of truth. Still, who vacations in a cow pasture, lathering up the children and then setting them loose to wander around within a herd of cattle? Nobody. People who work with cows are the ones behind these deathly statistics. It’s like comparing fatalities caused by robots to deaths caused by sharks when most robot-related deaths occur in automated manufacturing plants where robotics are most employed.

In the meantime, I’ve never heard of predatory, man-eating cows, and I’m pretty sure Skynet has not yet become self-aware. When these things occur, I’ll be the first to warn against 4-H clubs and elementary school robotics competitions. Until then, I’m going to sit right here on the beach sharpening my samurai sword, drinking my whiskey, and despising sharks.

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