Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 7

Review – Redneck Riviera, Small Batch, 40%

Warning notices are typically added to products to protect both the corporations that create them and the consumers that enjoy them. But if you consider warning labels closely, you may sense the unique stories of intersection between the two, stories that likely culminated in a courtroom.

Perhaps one of the most famous incidents involves the the warning label which reads “Caution: Contents may be hot.” This one has adorned McDonald’s coffee cups since 1994, when a woman sued the fast-food chain after she spilled a cup of drive-through coffee heated to 180 degrees while attempting to add creamer. The coffee burned her so badly, it required skin grafts to her legs and groin to repair the damage. McDonald’s, already aware of 700 other cases, some involving children, offered the woman $800 to settle out of court. A jury gave her $2.9 million and required McDonald’s add the warning label to its cups.

Many may laugh when they see the label on McDonald’s coffee cups, figuring, “Duh, of course it’s hot.” But in this case, hundreds of average citizens doing what average citizens would be expected to do with average products resulted in serious medical trouble. I’d say in this regard, the warning label makes sense, especially since you have teenagers making and serving the coffee—humanoids who can barely be trusted with their own self-care practices of regular showers and brushing teeth.

It’s true, however, that following the seemingly lucrative nature of the McDonald’s case, frivolity began reigning in courtrooms across America. As more and more lawsuits were leveled, corporations became fearful mapmakers, drawing ridiculous boundaries for safe use of their products, ultimately revealing both how far people will go to get rich, but also just how ignorant we’ve become as a society.

Vidal Sassoon had to put a label on its hairdryers warning consumers not to use the device while sleeping. People with egg allergies were preserved from danger by an egg carton’s label which read, “Warning: this product may contain eggs.” Tide detergent pods have a label warning against eating them. I’m guessing Apple became fearful of the same thing and started warning against eating its iPod shuffle devices. GlaxoSmithKline currently puts “Caution: This product may cause drowsiness” on all of its sleep aid medications. The next time you’re in a Walmart or Target, take a quick trip over to the aisle with the clothing irons. Count how many of the various models have warning labels that instruct the iron’s customer not to use the device while wearing the clothing to be ironed. Speaking of clothing, go to a store that sells clothes washers and spend some time reading the labels on the machines. You’ll learn that the shirt upon which you discovered a ketchup stain while wearing and ironing it at the same time should be taken off before you put it into the washer. Maytag, Samsung, LG, and others clearly do not want consumers putting people into their machines.

While at Disney Springs in Orlando, Florida, I discovered an interesting warning against particular uses for Disney’s Magicbands.

By way of explanation, a Magicband is a wristwatch-like device Disney sells to be worn on the arm that can be loaded with a variety of passes to its various parks. In other words, patrons wearing Magicbands can simply touch the band to a sensor and proceed into the park. Easy enough, right? So then, what do you suppose happened that would require Disney to attach a warning label that reads, “Not for internal or subdermal use”?

Whatever grotesque possibility you imagined, just know you probably weren’t too far from the truth. And how do I know this? Because that’s the world we live in—a world filled with people more than willing to set aside better judgment to follow a malfunctioning human will.

Apart from the warnings against consuming alcohol while pregnant, or before operating a vehicle or heavy equipment, I’m just glad I’ve not discovered any unreasonable warnings on whiskey bottles. However, knowing mankind’s potential, I’ll admit to being a bit surprised by this. When consumed by idiots, booze has for more than a millennia proven its ability to cull human herds. It’ll bring bravery when caution is more essential. It’ll stir willingness when hesitation is better. It’ll sacrifice long-term preservation for short-term glory. It’ll convince a man in a batting cage he was born with a steel skull, and it’ll give wings to a wingless man as he prepares to jump from one rooftop to another.

Well, whatever. I guess I’m just glad the collegium of whiskey makers has never been so frightened by the idiots in our world, and thus, has never felt the need to warn consumers with labels that read something like, “Warning: Do not attempt to re-insert the bottle’s cork using one’s butt cheeks.” Time will tell, though. Indeed, there’s a limitless well of opportunities to be discovered with bottom-shelf whiskies, which are the ones most often at the scene of youthful tragedies being shared and re-shared on YouTube.

A twenty-dollar bottle of whiskey, I’m guessing that John Rich’s Redneck Riviera has seen it’s share of booze-induced misfortunes.

With its artificially over-sweetened, but incredibly bare, nose, my guess is that this whiskey was never created with the expectation that enjoyability would lead toward profitability, but rather by its affordability, it would create enjoyable contexts resulting in memorable stories—accounts that sound something like:

“Hey, man, remember that time we got drunk and drove that tractor into the lake?”

“Yeah, man, I remember. That was awesome. I know Tommy drowned under the front wheels, but hey, that was so much fun. What were we drinking that night?”

“Redneck Riviera, dude. We drank the whole bottle.”

“We should totally go get a bottle right now.”

“Yeah, man, and drink to Tommy!”

“Yeah, man! To Tommy!”

A sip from this whiskey reveals it’s not as smooth as the label would have you believe. Instead, it’s a sugary mess of… well… I can’t even say for sure. It just tastes like something to be endured until one’s senses are dull enough that it can’t be tasted anymore, figuring that no matter the ensuing damage, there are bound to be laughs. It reminds me of summer camp days playing bloody knuckles with my friends. Two challengers would punch each other’s knuckles until one or the other backed down. It usually resulted in laughs and a measure of numbness working together to mask painfully bleeding fingers.

The whiskey’s medium finish is itself a tragedy. Like the palate, the syrupy burn is something that must be survived. Water does not help. Only time. Although, I did not try licking the oil stains in my driveway as a countermeasure. That’s a solution worth considering.

To be fair, people have different tastes resulting in eventual favorites. This whiskey may be a favorite for some, and in that regard, I would never slight an individual’s genuine preference. Remember, this is only my read of the spirit, and when I finish writing this, I’ll be sure to take a trip through the blogosphere to visit with other’s opinions. Nevertheless, consider the warning labels I’ve added circumstantially to this particular edition, being sure to remember there’s usually a real-world reason lurking beneath such concerns.

The post Review – Redneck Riviera, Small Batch, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Lagavulin, 12 Years Old, Limited Release, 2018 Edition, 57.8%

“How was traffic?” I asked, giving Vader the typical handshake and shoulder bump that men do.

“Terrible,” he growled, pulling his chair from the table to sit. “I-4 just seems to get worse every year.”

“Did anyone get Force-tossed into a ditch?”

“Just one,” he replied. “Well, two if you count the guy at the gas station pumping gas with his truck’s passenger door wide open. He left inches for me to pull into the only open stall. I put him on top of the Wendy’s about a quarter-mile down US-27.”

“Nice,” I said, having long since learned to appreciate my cosmic friend’s creativity.

Reaching to him with the menu, he waved it away. “I already know what I want,” he said. “The Bar Harbor Lobster Bake.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “That’ll pair well with what I brought this year.”

“Which is?” the Sith Lord pried.

“Something from one of your favorite distilleries,” I said, lifting the bottle from the bag at my feet. “The 2018 release of the Lagavulin 12-year-old.”

“You do the honors,” I said, handing him the bottle.

“Great pick,” he buzzed, gleefully, wasting little time to open the bottle. “By the way,” he added, pouring a set of two-fingered drams, “when I called a couple of weeks ago, Jen told me you had a bit of a rough year.”

“It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary,” I said, taking a sip. “Every day is a bit like the chorus from the song ‘East Bound and Down’.”

“I don’t know that song,” Vader said, dryly, and took a sip.

“You’ve never seen the movie ‘Smokey and the Bandit’?”

“No. Should I have?”

“You can’t be an American if you haven’t seen that film.”

“I’m not an American,” he said, decisively. “I’m a Tatooinian. Besides, after Edith left me, I don’t watch too many movies. I get up, go to work at the gator farm, maybe listen to an audio book, come home, and then float around the pool listening to more of the book until I get tired enough for bed. I don’t suppose I can get ‘Smokey and the Bandit’ as an audio book?”

“Probably not,” I said, already beginning to teeter between frustration and sadness—frustration because talking with my technologically mechanized friend from deep space sometimes feels like talking to someone from the 19th century, and sadness because it seems he’s just drifting along through space without Edith. “My point,” I continued, “is there’s a line in the theme song that says, ‘We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there.’ That’s how I feel most days.”

“Mine’s just the opposite,” he said, taking another sip. “I have a short way to go and a long time to get there. And in case you were wondering, that’s just how I like it.”

“Well, I’m glad for you, then,” I said, affirming Vader’s contentment. “The Thoma family worries about you being alone down here.”

A moment passed.

“You know, we have a spare room in our basement if you ever decide you need a change of scenery.”

“Thanks, but no,” he replied. “I’m fine. Besides, I could make you the same offer. What made life so challenging this past year? Is it the congregation? Or maybe those idiot kids across the street in your neighborhood? Remember, I can Force-choke from a distance, too. I just need a picture and an address.”

Realizing we’d both completely consumed the whiskies before us, another set of drams was poured.

“For the most part, the congregation’s fine,” I said. “Of course, there’s always one or two folks who seem intent on making it their life’s goal to give me a headache. But, again, for the most part, I can handle it. And as much as I’d appreciate learning that the fireworks-worshipping delinquents across the street dropped mysteriously to the ground near the firepit in their backyard, I’m okay there, too. The cops visit those dolts so often, I’m sure their time as free citizens is growing shorter by the minute.”

Another moment passed.

“Believe it or not,” I continued, “a large part of my grief comes from other Lutheran pastors.”

“Really?!”

“Yes, really,” I said. “Apart from a handful of direct run-ins here and there, I exist in a perpetual state of frustration with clergy pretentiousness.”

“Explain.”

“Well, I know it’s not a recent example, but maybe it comes to mind because I first heard about it on vacation in 2018—and because we’re right now enjoying a whisky from 2018. Anyway, I remember watching a video of Chris Pratt receiving the MTV Generation award, and during his speech to a crowd of teenage kids, he said some pretty great things relative to faith, even going so far as to speak of finding contentment through a liberating grace won by someone else’s blood.”

“Yeah, so what’s your point?”

“He was obviously referring to Jesus,” I said, “and for the most part, I’m guessing the listeners knew it. CNN sure did. They wrote a hit piece within hours. But on the other hand, so many other news outlets that would normally piss on the tiniest flame of Christianity in Hollywood seemed mesmerized, some even saying that perhaps Chris was onto something.”

“I still don’t get your point.”

“My point is that while I was impressed with Chris Pratt’s boldness—and what was, in many ways, a brilliantly delivered speech to a very important audience—some of my clergy friends smelled blood in the water. Seriously, after sharing a link to the speech on social media, I remember being inundated with follow up comments from fellow pastors saying things like, ‘What good is there in saying God loves you but not saying the name of Jesus!’ and “Chris Pratt should be marked and avoided for saying so enigmatically that it was by grace that someone shed his blood for our souls without saying who that someone was!’”

I took another sip.

“For crying out loud,” I gurgled. “Give the man a break. He was giving a speech at an MTV award show. He wasn’t teaching a class on doctrine or preaching a sermon in a pulpit.”

“It sounds like you hang around with stupid people,” Vader said.

“They’re not stupid,” I said, “just pretentious. They’re the kind of guys—the highbrow exegetes—who can somehow see so much deeper into Saint Paul’s words than Saint Paul himself even knew. And they want to make sure others know it.”

“I don’t even know what an exegete is,” Vader said, “but I know you have a hard time keeping your mouth shut in those situations.”

“Usually, I ignore it and continue on with life on my island,” I replied, giving my longtime friend a partial grin. “I rarely comment on my own social media posts. But as I said, there are the occasional unavoidable run-ins followed by a critical email expecting debate in my inbox, or a voicemail hoping for the same. Both seem to be happening more and more these days. Personally, I prefer the phone calls.”

“Are you usually able to work it out?” my Sith therapist asked, motioning to a waiter that didn’t see him.

“Well, let’s just say the last conversation I had, which was with a former seminary classmate intent on attacking my friendship with Dinesh D’Souza, ended somewhat abruptly when, after being unable to offer anything to the conversation without interruption, I confessed to him both calmly and plainly that he was being, well, kind of a vicious di—”

I interrupted myself.

“Interestingly,” I continued, “just the night before, I’d shared brats and beer with a couple of clergy pals, one of which was also a seminary classmate. He knew the gent pursuing me, and described his personality as—”

I interrupted myself, again.

“You know, Darth, how about we just review the whisky,” I suggested.

“Sounds good,” Vader said, agreeingly. “You’re on vacation. And while the venting is probably healthy, you don’t need to get worked up about life back home, just yet.”

We both sniffed.

“I’d say the nose is definitely giving over some peat-smoked fruit. Mango and passion fruit, maybe.”

“I’m getting peated plums. And maybe some tea.”

“Plums?” I poked. “You probably need to clean your breathing filter.”

Darth sighed. We sipped.

“There are salted bananas swimming around in here somewhere,” he buzzed.

“I’ll see your salted bananas,” I said, “and I’ll raise you a peel-singed lemon.”

“Nah,” he countered. “It’s lemon pepper.”

After another savor, I agreed.

“The finish is long,” I said. “A bit ashy, which is—”

“—Now I’m getting the burnt lemons you suggested before,” Vader interrupted. “And a little bit of butter. You were right. This is going to pair well with the lobster bake.”

The rest of our once-a-year reunion was spent talking about enjoyable things—such as bygone days of youth, throwing Emperors into generator shafts, and hiring bounty hunters to seek out and capture children. Being the friend that he is, I knew by these stories Darth was steering deliberately. For as cranky as he is to most in his immediate surroundings, he never fails to prove his desire that, as far as it depends on him, my time on vacation would be thoroughly enjoyed.

And of course, it was. I mean, what could be better than dinner at Red Lobster with your favorite villain and a bottle of the 2018 edition of the Lagavulin 12-year-old? In the meantime, to my pretentious colleagues: Don’t worry. I didn’t slip him any names or addresses. You’re free to continue impressing the rest of us with your brilliance for at least another year.

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Review – Chivas Brothers, Royal Salute, 21 Years Old, Blended Scotch Whisky, The Sapphire Flagon, 40%

Perhaps it’s just me, but when it comes to bringing a nation of citizens into genuine togetherness, it sure seems as though the once universally admired qualities of basic human kindness and tolerant acceptance of alternate opinions have been eclipsed by the power of viciousness and the fear of being canceled.

My proof? For starters, let’s compare lists.

You show me the list of major corporations that have avoided virtue-signaling, or have not in some way apologized for sins they never committed, and I’ll show you a much longer list of companies that have. And why is the list in my hand heavier than the one in yours?

Because by nature, people fear bullies. Bullies deal in tyranny. Tyranny takes power and then unifies its kingdom beneath the banner of cruelty.

Tyrants, while affirming and generous with those accepting of their rule, by necessity, must be cruel destroyers of those who do not. By this cruelty, bullies rule the playground, ultimately bringing friend and foe alike into an established framework that holds absolute control over their communal acceptability and personal livelihoods. It’s true it takes courage to step beyond the borders of this framework, ultimately refusing to give the bully one’s lunch money. But I think Publilius Syrus was right when he noted, “Cruelty is fed, not weakened, by tears.” In other words, it’s not just a person’s submission that feeds the bully’s addiction. History proves they are equally intoxicated by their opposition’s fears and slaked by their pain. In fact, this is their truest, most enjoyable method for climbing into the hearts and minds of others in order to steer them toward the moment of submission they desire.

Yes, a bully wants an ordered playground of people willing to give away their lunch money. But keep in mind there exists within the bully a shadowy hope that one or two on the swing set will refuse, providing him with the opportunity to take it away through means that cause humiliation and suffering.

I closed my Twitter account for these reasons. The platform had become a poisonous place—a playground governed by social justice bullies sending out brownshirts on patrol to parrot the latest standards for inclusion in the community while calling out for the vicious cancellation of anyone stepping out of line. Admittedly, it was difficult to depart at first, knowing I’d be leaving behind a sizeable network of friends of my work. Still, I knew if eventually challenged, I would never give away my lunch money. I’m more than happy to contribute alongside countless others with differing opinions, but I knew I would never allow myself to be forced into alignment with them, eventually affirming popular ideologies in clear contradiction to objectively true things. I knew I would never be found apologizing for historical events in which I did not participate.

This remains the overwhelming atmosphere of the playground that is Twitter. With that, I left for other jungle gyms.

Some would say I cancelled myself in this regard. Perhaps this is true. I prefer to think I left celebratorily in search of more enjoyable horizons. I say this remembering the whisky I lifted in toast just after pressing the “OK” button to confirm I was doing something that couldn’t be undone: the Chivas Brothers’ Royal Salute 21-year-old Sapphire Flagon edition.

Ironically, this particular whisky was gifted to me by someone I know to be diametrically opposed to my conservative leanings, making a sip and savor from its deep blue flagon a more than appropriate gesture of sorts. Not that I’m ungrateful to the giver, but feel free to decide what that “salute” looked like in relation to Twitter. Either way, rest assured the wariness that came with venturing into the unknown was settled by the dram’s comforting contours.

Having pressed “OK,” I lifted the dram to the words “Slàinte mhath” and then took to my nose a mild wash of citron, cinnamon, and pecans. A sip delivered similar pleasantries, namely, warmed white chocolate atop vanilla ice cream. Yes, vanilla ice cream. Like most whiskies, the Royal Salute bears a natural warmth. The white chocolate rests there. But it also has a nip of vanilla sweetness reminiscent of chillier concoctions. Ice cream comes to mind.

The Royal Salute’s finish is far too swift, having barely enough staying power to reveal its callback to the cinnamon in the nose.

In all, it’s a drinkable whisky. However, considering the playground previously described, I’d say it plays along to get along, being a pricier whisky with very little initiative for standing apart. I’m guessing like so many of the droning virtue-signalers out there, it knows that any unnecessary attention drawn by distinctive character is a sure way to get cancelled. It’s just safer to be, well, submissively agreeable and generally drinkable.

The post Review – Chivas Brothers, Royal Salute, 21 Years Old, Blended Scotch Whisky, The Sapphire Flagon, 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Bruichladdich, Octomore 08.2, 8 Years Old, 58.4%

For the record, the ocean is beautiful. But so are a great many things in this life that will kill you. I read about a remarkable creature—the buck moth caterpillar—that can, with one touch, render a human in shock leading to death.

Why will I not venture into the sea? Because there are far bigger things than caterpillars swimming around in its murky depths, many of which aren’t necessarily bearing dangerous traits as a means of protection from people like you and me, but because they’re actually swimming around looking for us—you know, to eat us.

Sharks are great motivators for staying dry. Most people might stay dry for fear of drowning. I say being eaten while drowning is an even better reason. And considering there are more than a thousand species of sharks, and within the category of each species there are innumerable members, I don’t care what the Discovery Channel says about my chances of being eaten. The oceans aren’t that big, and with conservationists who used to complain about the possibility of shark extinction now producing shows that investigate the increases in shark attacks on one side of Australia in comparison to the other, I think there are some very important statistics being kept from the masses.

Eugene O’Neill said that the sea hates a coward. I disagree. I don’t think it discriminates against cowards alone. Saltwater or freshwater, the sea hates everyone equally. Consider the Edmund Fitzgerald. I’m guessing all twenty-nine on board were considered brave by their peers. In contrast, I’d say Joseph Conrad landed closer to the target when he said, “The sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.” This is to say that like the lions of Africa sitting pridefully still for photos, the sea draws people by its seemingly disinterested majesty, only for some poor soul on the safari to learn it was hunting the whole time.

So, why am I sharing this? Because we’ll be visiting the ocean later today while on vacation. It’ll be at sunset—when sharks are known to hunt the most. Will I go into the water? Yes. But only knee-deep at the most. Am I a terrible example to my children when it comes to enjoying the gifts of God’s bountiful earth? Probably. But that’s only because I’ll have chummed the water with about twenty pounds of raw hamburger about a half mile down the beach where others are swimming to help insure me and my family won’t be on the deep-sea dwellers’ menu. Alas, enjoyment of God’s wonderful creation always involves a little bit of preparation—and sometimes a backup plan. I mean, is camping really camping without a supply list that includes a book of matches and a propane torch in case the matches just won’t work? Thus, my relatively short list of beach-faring necessities: sunscreen, swimsuits, sandals, water-filled milk jugs for washing the sand from our feet before getting into the car, and twenty pounds of raw hamburger. As a backup, I’m bringing along professional divers to patrol the water around us in case the hamburger doesn’t work as planned.

Plan C—or the backup plan for the backup plan—involves a readied ambulance and a bottle of whisky. The ambulance will be for, well, you know. The whisky will be there in case I’m the one on the gurney in the ambulance. I’ve long said I want to face death with a whisky in my hand. As our nearing visit with the ocean has me pondering such things, I’d say Bruichladdich’s 8-year-old Octomore 8.2 edition would be a fine escort to the pearly gates.

The nose of this well-peated whisky is substantial, being powerful enough to overtake all the likely waftings of blood, saltwater, and medicinal stenches from cocktails being applied by the paramedics. With a hint of concord grapes simmering in honey, the peat smoke drifts along carrying the sense of darker berries dirtied with ash.

A sip reveals the whisky’s cling, hinting by its hold on the glass that even amid the bustle of medical attention, few of its drops will be spilled. This is good, because every bit of the spiced chocolate, chicken fried steak, and a garnishing vegetable lurking beneath its weighted waves are to be desired.

By God’s grace, the finish will remain long after you’ve been carted from the ambulance to the operating table, fading only as the anesthesia begins dulling your senses and carrying you away. And yet, if God allows for you to wake, it’ll be there waiting on the other side, giving the delicious sensations of malt, peat, and thick black coffee.

I’d better stop right there, because I’m beginning to convince even myself that the worst of oceanic possibilities might not be all that bad with the right whisky in hand. Although, it’s hard to sip whisky when something has swum away with both your arms.

Have I told you how little I appreciate the ocean?

The post Review – Bruichladdich, Octomore 08.2, 8 Years Old, 58.4% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Glendullan Distillery, The Singleton, Luscious Nectar, 12 Years Old, 40%

If your pastor is unmarried, do what you can to help change his situation, even if it means a mail-order bride paid for with money borrowed from the church’s building fund. I promise you, a married pastor is a far more effective pastor. You need only to consider the following example.

I once learned the sinister motive of a Sunday morning visitor to my congregation. As is my practice, I reach out to all who come calling in such ways, preferably by phone, but if necessary, by email or letter. In this instance, the visitor left only her name and mailing address.

Frustratingly invigorated by her intent, I wasted little time addressing an envelope and scribing a letter to put inside. It went something like this…

Dear (so-and-so),

Thank you for visiting our church. It certainly was nice to meet you, and I hope we see you again, soon.

I should say your neighbor shared with me that you visited this past Sunday only to confirm for yourself and then prove to him how a traditionally conservative church such as ours is boringly irrelevant and far too ineffective in mission when compared to the trendier church you currently attend. Honestly, I’m not sure how you can measure such a thing by one visit. Nevertheless, hearing this made me sad, while at the same time it provided an opportunity for honest reflection.

Thinking back on what you experienced, indeed, it’s true that I preached rather straightforwardly from biblical texts appointed for the day instead of showing a few videos and telling off-the-cuff personal stories about myself and my favorite sports, perhaps hoping you’d be entertained enough to make some sort of spiritual connection. Admittedly, it certainly is harder to get to know me and my preferences—to become my follower—when I’m spending so much energy introducing you to someone else, namely, Jesus. In that same vein, I hope you weren’t too annoyed by the vestments I was wearing. I just haven’t reached a point in my ministry where I feel comfortable drawing attention to my fashion preferences while serving among the holy things of God. And I suppose it’s worth sharing that I don’t currently own a pair of skinny jeans or a flannel shirt. However, I do own an AC/DC t-shirt, and I sometimes wear it beneath my clerical. But, of course, no one can see it, and as a result, I’m likely being slighted by not drawing more attention to myself.

Since I’m coming clean, I feel the need to go a little further and apologize for a few more things.

Not only did I not say “I just wanna” at any moment during any of the prayers you heard spoken, with my arms uplifted at the altar, I also didn’t have my sleeves conveniently rolled back to reveal any forearm tattoos. But again, since I’m being honest, there are practical reasons for the whole sleeve and tattoo debacle. For one, the sleeves of the alb (which is the robe-like vestment I wear) don’t roll back too easily; and secondly, I don’t have any tattoos with which to impress you. Although, I have been thinking about getting the entirety of Ecclesiastes 5:1-3 printed on my back. Perhaps then I can just go shirtless.

Digging deeper into my shame, I’m embarrassed that all of the hymns we sang utilized more than the same three words. To make matters worse, they were the same stodgy hymns the Church has been singing across the globe for centuries. Yeah, I know, right? Who needs a religion born from the vernacular of those who came before us? Boring. For the record, the guitar in the corner of my office probably doesn’t even have any strings on it, so we’re pretty much stuck using the pipe organ. I just hope we didn’t add insult to injury doing what we did when we could have done something far more amusing utilizing brightly-beaming PowerPoint presentations that came bundled with the ten-week sermon series on being intentionally engaging in order to engage intentionally.

But hey, you have to at least admit that when on occasion as a congregation we choose blue instead of violet during Advent, the chasuble and stole I wear really bring out the blue in my eyes. I mean, I was voted “Sexiest Eyes” my senior year in high school. Together we can at least admit that we’re getting that one right, yes?

In conclusion, we should get coffee and visit together sometime. Maybe we could meet in the narthex of your church. I hear you have a phenomenal coffee shop there, one that chases the same vibe as the local Starbucks, but never gets it quite right. Again, I must apologize for our lack of trying in this regard. As you can see, we just don’t have what your church has when it comes to chasing after the world. Speaking of the narthex, the word itself comes from the Greek work narthekas, meaning “to purge.” The room’s centuries-old purpose is Christocentric. It’s meant for carrying Christians from the world around them into the holy spaces where God will focus our attention on Him and the gifts of forgiveness He brings. Passing through a church’s narthex is to be a time of calibration, a brief moment for setting the noisy world aside in preparation for listening and receiving from God alone. Again, to our own worldly detriment, we continue such pious traditions at the expense of what really could be a great space for midweek yoga classes—or as it meets more closely with Lutheranism, a biergarten.

Anyway, to wrap this up, perhaps we could meet at your church. Or wherever. I’m sure no matter where we go, the atmosphere would be comfortably similar. There’s much I’d like to share with you. Be sure to bring your Bible. I’ll bring mine, too. And I’ll bring my high school yearbook to prove the claim about my eyes.

Blessings,
Pastor Thoma+

So, what does any of this have to do with a married pastor’s effectiveness? Well, consider the likely recrafting of the same letter by my wife:

Dear (so-and-so),

Thanks for visiting our church. It was nice to meet you, and I hope we see you again, soon.

Blessings,
Pastor Thoma+

You do realize my version of the letter was a betrayal of my inner humorist, and that as a clergyman, I would never send a letter in need of such major surgery? I’m more of a “you do your thing and I’ll do mine” kind of guy, even when treated viciously for my preferences. I’ve learned how to let most things go. Still, I’m human, and with that, there have been times when, knowing my deeper frustrations, my wife has helped to steer me from opportunities in which my thoughts could’ve become words or actions leading to self-inflicted suffering. Thus, a married pastor is often a more effective pastor, if only to save him from unnecessary shame.

I think the same rule applies to certain whiskies. In other words, most whiskies, while they may be soundly enjoyable alone, some are bettered when other influences are introduced. The Singleton 12-year-old “Luscious Nectar” edition from Glendullan is one of those whiskies.

Having already poured the dram, I considered its dimensions while preparing dinner for my vacationing family. In the nose, I noticed malted caramel teetering at the edge of toffee. A sip revealed a mild fruitiness beneath a salt-buttered layer of the sweets from the nose. The whisky’s almost-medium finish took a turn toward lemons.

Once the whatever-you-feel-like-on-vacation feast of fish, tater tots, three-cheese ravioli, and Honey Nut Cheerios was ready, I poured another dram to sip during the meal. I discovered the whisky’s ability to walk in perfect stride with my choice of fish and tater tots, being a gentle garnishing of sorts for the pair. For the fish, its butter and citrus served well. For the tater tots, the salt-sweet nature had me dreaming of whisky-soaked tots as a doable pre-dinner appetizer.

On second thought, such a recipe might need to be edited by my wife before being set before others. My inner voice and its ends are often found far too close to ready means.

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Review – The Classic Cask, 23 Years Old, Blended Scotch Whisky, Rare Single Batch, Original Cask, 43%

Known or unknown, everyone has their element, their zone, their place.

Mine involves the warmth of late evening sunshine, a swimming pool, and a poured whisky. Apart from conversation with my family, and their occasional gleeful splashing, there is very little else I’d need at the end of any day’s laboring to keep the preceding hours from seeming futile.

Indeed, this is often the feeling throughout the year. And while the vacation I’m currently enjoying provides rest from the seemingly unending bustle, it bears a terrible clarity, too, as it puts into perspective my reality.

My day begins in the dark and it ends in the dark, and too often by the time I finally arrive at the doorstep of rest’s potential, I find I’m only hours from beginning it all again. Weekends do not necessarily offer what I’m experiencing right now. Neither do holidays.

Will I die with regrets? Probably not. There’s far too much of what I do that proves both my love for it and that I’m meant to do it. But will I die exhausted? It is likely; that is, unless I’m eventually found resting in my zone. Once there, I can only hope that each day will be likened to this moment.

The air will smell as it does.
The water will lap quietly, being nudged by a gentle breeze.
The palm trees’ branches will sway as they do.
The sun will beam the last of its late day twinkling through an ambered glass in my hand.
And I will be resting.

Of course, some will read this and say, “Nothing is certain, dear clergyman.”

“Ah,” my simple reply must be, as I glide to another corner of the pool. “You speak only a half-truth, my friend. Death and the countless doors that open to it are certain.” And then, in order to bring my detractor to the edge of my zone, I’d continue, “If a man knew he would die tomorrow, he’d most certainly dream the night before. What would those dreams be? Only he could tell. For most in our world, I’d imagine them to be quite concentrated. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t matter. No matter his wishes or regrets, his time is done. No more tomorrows are coming. Imagine, now, a man who knows every tomorrow brings the possibility of his death. Such a man’s dreams do not remain in his mind, but rather are carried through to his waking moments to assist in the steering of his vessel.”

What do I mean?

The day before the Lord carries me to my eternal home, I know where I want to be, what I want to be doing, and with whom I want to be doing it. Is it certain? No. And yet it’s not a shapeless dream, but rather a materialized one, and together we have hold of the helm. Together, we are doing what we can to enjoy the current horizon, being sure to batten the hatches against the storms of regret as we pass from this sea to the next. All the while, our eyes remain fixed on the promise of a restful shore bearing exceptionally restful fruits.

I imagine that The Classic Cask’s 23-year-old Original Cask will be a fruit to be had in those days.

A gift from my District Bishop and friend, Jamison Hardy, this delightful dram prompts the soaring promises of the restful days I described, proving that as a pastor’s pastor, he knows how to care for his men in the trenches.

With a nose of baked chocolate mousse touched with honey, this exquisitely blended dram of single malts calls from the shore with an alluring song. Once there, it greets each visitor with an undulant embrace of native fruits—namely plums and black currants, both of which have been touched by the same honey from the nose.

Its medium finish is a mesmerizing glide back through the spectrum of delights introduced by the nose and palate, each one being a reminder of why one might take a chance at traveling to this shore in the first place.

In his poem “Dream Pedlary,” Thomas Lovell Beddoes once asked, “If there were dreams to sell, what would you buy?” I’ve shared how I’d spend my money. As a friend to my readers, I’d urge you to consider the question and do the same.

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Review – St. Augustine Distillery Co., Florida Straight Bourbon, 3 Years Old, 44%

It was Max Planck who said something about how many of the greatest breakthroughs in history have been achieved by those who, while pursuing something completely different, made their discoveries by accident.

For starters, did you know that Percy Spencer, the man who discovered the modern utilitarian use for microwaves, did so by accidentally walking in front of a magnetron that melted a chocolate bar in his pocket? Had he been a tad taller or shorter, something else might have been melted and we would never have known Orville Redenbacher’s brilliance.

Did you know that the man who invented Velcro simply recreated the grasping power of burrs he so frustratingly found stuck on his pant legs and dog after a walk through the woods? Had he taken another route, would any of us be wearing shoes after eighty?

Did you know there’s a little blue pill being sold around the world that was originally designed to reduce chest pain by constricting the heart’s coronary arteries, and yet resulted in something far more lucrative for the manufacturer—but also dangerous enough that if its effects last longer than four hours, its user should seek medical assistance? Had Pfizer not made this discovery, would flyover Americans like me have discovered other shows worth watching because we changed the channel after having repeatedly seen the same ridiculous commercial portraying a man and woman in separate bathtubs on the side of a hill holding hands while watching the sun set? I don’t think so.

Perhaps the best-known example of accidental discovery is penicillin. As the story goes, Alexander Fleming took a two-week holiday from his experiments with the influenza virus. When he returned to his lab refreshed, he discovered a mold growing on one of the experiments that had killed off the virus completely. Had Fleming not done this, would any of us know the truest value to be had by vacationing. I doubt it.

I happen to be on vacation right now. And while I’m not as sloven as guys like Spencer or Fleming, being one to carry chocolate bars in my pocket in a warm laboratory or leave things behind for two weeks that will almost certainly be moldy when I return, I’ll admit I do appreciate accidental discoveries. For example, never assume an anole you’ve caught near the swimming pool won’t bite you. They might look harmless, but even the smallest one’s nip is surprisingly uncomfortable. Also, don’t think that a washing machine filled with beach towels will take less than two hours to cycle. It won’t. I’ll add one should never expect to travel ten miles along I-4 through Orlando in less than seventy-five minutes during the month of July. It’s just not possible. I suppose lastly, and positively, while traversing the aisleways of the local Floridian liquor store in search of Scotch whiskies unavailable in Michigan, I’ve learned never to bypass the Bourbon section. It’s there I’m likely to stumble across delightful gems such as the St. Augustine Distillery Company’s Florida Straight Bourbon.

Oh, the joys of unintended discovery.

The nose of this whiskey bears milder fruit scents of white grapes and mangoes. These promises make their way up from the dram on leisurely drifts of wine-nipped vanilla. A sip gives a sour made tame by caramel and mild spice. The finish—unfortunately short, but still enjoyable—renders buttery cinnamon atop the white grapes from the nose.

Admittedly, and beyond these joys, I’ve accidentally discovered this whiskey is perfect for lifting one’s spirits while awaiting clean towels, calming one’s troubled soul following a drive that would have been far shorter had the family elected to walk, and for nursing one’s wounds following a vicious anole attack.

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Review – Ardbeg, Traigh Bhan, 19 Years Old, 46.2%

What do you think it means when, with your head barely above the water, your wife’s eyes grow wide with excitement and her mouth suddenly gleams brightly with glee as you suggest she try to hit you in the face with a rubber pool ball? I suppose I should wonder why this proposition would ever even come to mind.

It’s likely these instances occur for the same reasons one might be found hoping for a zombie apocalypse. I don’t say this assuming anyone would desire such a world-consuming end to humanity. It’s more microcosmic than that. It’s more closely related to the need for an individual to open the emotional pressure valve on occasion—a moment to step over what are, for the most part, uncrossable boundaries in order to deal with other humans in ways that might not be appropriate in most contexts but are perfectly acceptable in a few others.

I’ll let you decide what I mean by that.

As this meets with our vacation-time swimming pool activities, I’m cognizant of the fact that for the other fifty weeks of the droning year, there are times in the life of a pastor’s wife when she would absolutely love to hit him in the face with whatever object is most readily available. To keep that from ever being a frying pan, hymnal, mobile phone, or small child, right here and now in the swimming pool is the time to release the pressure behind the valve.

With that, I make the promise to her that I won’t move. I’ll sit completely still. She can throw it as hard as she wants. My only rewards will be her joy and the testing of my nerve. Hers will be both the opportunity, and if successful, the resonating “whap” of a stinging connection.

She wasted little time taking the ball into hand.

You should know my face still hurts. I suppose one thing that bothers me is that much of my calculation was merely a wagering that she couldn’t throw with such precision. Twenty-four years into our marriage, you’d think I would know by now that she could. Also, I’m somewhat bothered that she kept asking to do it again. When I eventually arose from the pool to nurse the red image of Olaf burned into my face by the Frozen-themed ball, I’d already found myself concerned for my wife’s love. Could it be genuine, or is it only for moments like this?

One thing is for sure, when the time was right, she stepped up and made it happen. The same thing can be said for Ardbeg’s “Traigh Bahn” 19-year-old edition.

It may not matter all that much to others, but at first glance, the age of the whisky made me wonder, “Why not wait until it’s 20 years old? Why not bottle it at 12, or 15, or even 18, which is one year sooner, and in the end, really quite common?” Yes, I know there are 19-year-old whiskies out there, but where I live in Michigan, it’s rare to see them on the shelves of the local retailers.

But again, while strange, 19 years into the effort, the time was right, and Ardbeg seized it, making it count.

The nose of this delightful dram shared with me by my friend and newfound whisky accomplice, Alden Erdman, is one of smoke, namely, burnt walnuts. It digs deeper into its prototypical smoky Ardbeg style to discover sugared ash and a hint of something akin to chocolate.

The palate suggests peat-smoked citrus and barbecued sweet-and-sour chicken. With a little water, there’s a sense the chicken was seasoned with sea salt.

The finish is long… and it burns… like my face after my wife hits it with a wet rubber ball from twenty feet away and at what I’m guessing was at least 40 miles per hour. But unlike this tortuous therapy session, the peppering and smoke carried along in its wake are enjoyable, leaving the imbiber longing for more. Although, re-reading what I just wrote, I suppose the finish is a little more like the aforementioned pool exchange than I’m willing to admit. Again, even after my bride peppered my face and wafted away the smoke of her accuracy, she longed for more.

Next year, no matter what the neighbors think, I plan to swim while wearing my stormtrooper helmet. Not only will it look cool, but it’ll serve to maintain my marriage.

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Review – Rabbit Hole, Cavehill, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, 47.5%

The dinnertime topic was pets.

The oldest of the four offspring, Joshua, pleaded the enjoyment of owning a duck. By order of seniority, the next in line, Madeline, spoke in full agreement with her elder brother.

“I’ve read they’re pretty messy,” I said, “because they poop pretty much all the time and everywhere they go.”

“That’s why duck owners keep them in diapers,” Joshua replied, swiftly.

Harrison interrupted the discussion, reminding all of us that he and his mother are deathly allergic to almost every animal on the planet. But mid-complaint, he turned toward the feasibility of a hairless cat.

“Have you ever actually seen a hairless cat?!” Madeline asked. “They’re the ugliest things in the world.”

“I’ve seen ’em,” Harrison said, “and I think they look pretty cool, like they’re mad all the time.”

“That’s because they’re bald and ugly,” Evelyn, the youngest of the four, interrupted. “I’d be mad all the time, too, if I was bald and ugly. But I’m not. Which is why I’m so happy. And why I smile a lot.”

Admittedly, the knowledge that my youngest daughter’s inner joy appears to arise from the fact that she isn’t bald and ugly was new to me. So was her choice in pets.

Evelyn proceeded to negotiate the possibility of adopting a baby rhinoceros. It was during that moment of absurdity that the lady of the house spoke, bringing the entire conversation to a swift halt.

“Speaking of baby goats,” Jennifer said, hurriedly pushing her chair from the table and moving to the kitchen, “I forgot to take the tater tots out of the oven.”

Firstly, no one mentioned goats. Secondly, what do goats and tater tots have in common that one might prompt thoughts of the other? None of the children knew. Having asked Jennifer, she couldn’t put her finger on it, either. My guess is that she was thinking of an animal she’d prefer for a pet when it suddenly occurred to her that the words “goat” and “tater tots” share three of the same letters. And lest you think that the alphabet is all that binds them, you should know that goats eat just about anything. When mashed, tater tots can be shaped into just about anything. One of those things is a goat. This alone is an eerie similarity. Lastly, like goats, tater tots like to climb, and they’re also very territorial. Anyone who has ever owned a goat will affirm this truth. Anyone who has ever wrestled a tray of tater tots into the oven will assuredly do the same.

The point? I need for her words to make sense, and until they do, I will remain tortuously trapped in a rabbit hole. Alas, you know the unconcealed link to the whiskey I might very well prefer while seeking the answer. In particular, the Rabbit Hole “Cavehill” Kentucky Straight Bourbon edition would make a fine companion.

With the cork in hand, my plight’s subterranean pathways become thick, almost humidified, by the scent of freshly baked pleasantries, namely, newly glazed doughnuts and buttered cornbread. A sip is a spoonful of cinnamoned oatmeal and tangerine zest. The finish—a mid-medium flash in the darkness, beaming hints of malt, spiced oak, and the crunch of burnt bread crumbs.

Speaking of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—which, of course, I didn’t—I’m reminded of one particular exchange in Carroll’s delightful book that compares with my current predicament. It begins with the Mad Hatter asking the question, “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?” The tea party of ridiculously wandering conversation continues, until finally:

“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
“No, I give it up,” Alice replied. “What’s the answer?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter.

I’ll leave you with that—and an encouragement to take the Rabbit Hole “Cavehill” edition with you in your quest.

A kindly hint for the journey: While countless have tried to answer the question, I suspect the answer likely has more to do with the people behind the story, namely Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, the Anglican minister beneath the pen name “Lewis Carroll,” and Alice Liddell, the young girl who stirred the story and the daughter of his dear friend, Henry Liddell. Bear in mind as it is with many writers, inspiration often arises from real people, occasions, and locations. In this case, take note that the first draft of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was rendered while the author was staying at the Liddell’s Ravensworth Estate in northern England, which is a place that likely had a writing desk.

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Review – Luca Mariano, Kentucky Straight Rye Whiskey, 4 Years Old, Small Batch, 41.5%

It’s not often one turns the corner of the bread aisle in search of hotdog buns at the local supermarket only to be met by the sound of screams that soon become requests for photos. Although, when it does happen, it is rather unforgettable.

I should probably admit this happens to me more than you’d expect—not necessarily while searching for bread items, but also while searching for a caulk at Home Depot and seeking out windshield washer fluid at the local auto parts store. The screams and photos don’t happen because I’m in any way celebritous. I’m certainly not one to be mistaken for Brad Pitt. I should be clear that they’re also not a result of me suddenly brandishing a weapon or lunging to assault another fellow.

I’m guessing it probably happens because I go shopping dressed like this…

I manage a collection of sorts, and with the dawn of mask mandates in 2020, life began proving itself dull.

I’m one to observe and examine people. But all I could see were eyes. Yes, there is the saying that eyes hold stories. But it’s the face that sets the stage to tell them. Is the person happy? Sad? I don’t know. I just can’t tell. Perhaps worse, how is this character on life’s stage to be distinguished from the next? Here we are together in aisle five, and yet I could swear this same person is also standing this very moment in aisle two, and in the deli, and at the checkout, and in the parking lot. Everyone looks the same—droning automatons all telling the same emotionless tale. Indeed, after a few days, conformity’s indistinguishable gray proved itself dull and draining. With that, I found a use for my collection.

Do you need an oven-roasted chicken from the deli? Give me a few minutes to get masked up and I’ll fetch it for you.

Do you need some apple juice? Again, allow me a few minutes to change and I’ll track some down.

Are we low on toilet paper? I’ll be right back. I think I’m going to pick up some new shoes at Target while I’m out.

Did I hear you say you’re feeling like liver, fava beans, and Chianti for dinner tonight? Prep the oven. I’ll only be a moment, and I have the perfect face covering lest my governor, Gretchen WHitler (eh-hem, I mean, Whitmer), become cranky.

How about I scare up some ice cream sandwiches as a special treat for the kids tonight?

Maybe not? Um. Yeah, you’re probably right about this one.

In the end, no matter which character ventured out into my somnolent community, the dreariness was almost always overcome by smiles, laughter, and a genuine re-engagement with real humanness. It served my heart well, and I’m absolutely sure it did the same for others. In fact, even only recently I was shopping alongside my daughter, Madeline, who most often goes with me when I don a costume, when the clerk behind the counter of our local grocer recognized her in relation to the strange characters she’s often beside.

“Hey,” the lady said. “I know you. I usually see you with some guy dressed as Darth Vader and a Predator and stuff.” Turning to me, she pried, “Are you the guy wearing—?”

“—You got me,” I interrupted. “My secret’s out.”

She assured me she’d maintain the mystery while at the same time she shared just how refreshing it has been for the employees and customers when otherworldly characters stop by for a visit. This flies in the face of one of my critics who suggested that I take the mask mandates more seriously, implying that a Lutheran pastor ought to be more mindful of his public behavior. Well, whatever. If my public devotion to whiskey hasn’t revealed the nature of my boundaries, then I’d expect dressing like Hannibal Lecter and hovering above the porterhouse steaks at the local grocery store will only serve to bind your undies even more.

Good.

As the local grocery clerk has taught us all, in the ever-droning world of “usual,” when a person chances upon something spectacular—and in their own back yard, so to speak—the gladness is even more so amplified. This rule applies to whiskey, as well, and it proved true in my second go-round with the Luca Mariano Small Batch Kentucky Straight Rye edition that arrived at my home in the hand of my friend, Adam, who also happens to be a dear and faithful member of my congregation.

By the way, you probably noticed I said, “second go-round.” This is true because my first encounter with the whiskey wasn’t that great. But having given it a fair an unadulterated second try, the only thing I can think is that whatever I’d been eating the first time around must not have been completely cleared from my palate. I remember the whiskey being a bit sour. And yet, a happenstance revisiting with the whiskey in another context confirmed for me my mistake and the dram’s exceptional character.

With a nose of dark fruits—blackberries, in particular—there’s an astonishing sense of a forthcoming fullness. A sip confirms this. Rich with chocolate creams and oily barrel spices, the whiskey’s handler is led into a medium finish of peppered vanilla.

It’s really quite nice, and I think anyone who happens upon it would be well-served. It’s even better when shared with a friend, no matter what world that friend is from.

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