Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 8

Review – The Balvenie, The Week of Peat, 14 Years Old, 48.3%

Sunday mornings are usually pretty routine for my family.

I leave for the church around 5:30am. Everyone else in the house continues sleeping. They awaken, prepare, and arrive at the church at 9:15am. I greet them in my office as I’m vesting. We hug one another. I kiss my wife. She kisses me. The service begins at 9:30am and concludes around 10:45am. I greet them again at the doors of the narthex as the congregation is exiting. Some leave for the day. Others remain for the bible study, being sure to pillage the snack table before it begins. I return to my office to remove my vestments, often discovering that a kindly soul has prepared a small plate of goodies for me. If not, I make my way back to the snack table to gather whatever stray morsels I can find. I fill my coffee mug and the study begins. A few minutes after noon, we conclude. I meet my family back in my office. I share my schedule of afternoon appointments. They depart. I arrive home later in the day.

The two Sundays we are away on vacation, this routine is modified.

I awaken at or around 5:30am. Everyone else in the house continues sleeping. They awaken, we all begin preparing, and then we depart together for worship. We arrive and are greeted as visitors. We choose a pew hoping we haven’t unwittingly confiscated a devout Lutheran’s territory. Because there is no printed order of service, the children begin wagering their vacation spending money on which liturgy will be employed from the Lutheran Service Book. The youngest wins five dollars from each of the others when Divine Service Setting Three is announced. She wins five dollars from me since my money was on Setting Two. My wife leans to tell me how it just doesn’t feel right that I’m sitting with the family. She suggests I move to another seat somewhere else in the facility. The service begins. Even the children betray their uneasiness by leaning forward to look at me, as if wondering, “Who’s that guy sitting next to my mother?” Nevertheless, the service ensues. At first, I whisper the liturgist’s portions, earning an annoyed glance from my daughter. In time, the habit is restrained and I assume my role alongside the rest of the congregation. After an hour or so, all is concluded. We do not stay for study, but rather depart for home. When we arrive, lunch is served, and then even without waiting for our food to settle, we go swimming. My after-worship presence being an uncommon experience, my wife nobly resists the urge to encourage me to eat at a different table or to go swim in the neighbor’s pool. Marinating in the deep end beside her, nursing a macaroni-salad-induced cramp, I’m unobtrusively grateful as I’m tolerated by the pride.

The thing about routines is that most people desire them even when they think they don’t. My presence in the pew beside my family is proof. I suppose another thing about routines is that most people may never realize they’re in one until it’s thoroughly exploded by an outsider. In certain circumstances, the disruption is indeed necessary for the good of those involved. Consider an act of intervention for a drug addict. Or my family in worship.

Okay, so maybe those two are far apart by comparison. Still, I think you get the idea. As routine-disruption meets with whisky, I’d say it depends.

In my opinion, artificial flavoring is a sure way to negatively affect the whisky-making routine. Peanut butter, cinnamon, cherry, and tamale syrups are ungodly exploders that should be kept far from any and every barrel. But that’s not to say that all changes introduced to the process are bad. Some may be just what was needed for attuning one’s senses to betterment. Take, for example, The Balvenie “The Week of Peat” 14-year-old edition.

Typically, a crisply sweet Speyside—and one of my favorites—this Dufftown distillery rarely dances with peat. And yet in this circumstance, the partnership is proved. With a gentler nose of peated vanilla, a sip carries the imbiber into an easy stream of honey-baked tangerines. Another swirl and nosing reveals charred malt. Second sip offers the same, adding to it a spoonful of peated applesauce.

The finish—a seemingly effortless balance of everything the nose and palate already introduced—helps secure this edition as one of The Balvenie’s better efforts.

I suppose I’ll conclude by adding one more routine-disrupting possibility to the category of “good.”

Typically, I buy my own whiskies. On occasion a distillery will send me a whisky to review. As of late, my eldest son, Joshua, has begun surprising me with whisky on special occasions, this 14-year-old edition from The Balvenie arriving on my birthday. At first, the gift of whisky is a bit jarring to a father. It awakens him to the undoing of certain expectations between parent and child. However, it also causes him to realize and then admit out loud to his wife, “Why did we have only four children when ten would have been just as joyful?”

I say this to my own detriment, knowing full well the spousal ire I’m tempting. My wife and I both know the Sunday morning routines in our family have always kept me in the chancel, pulpit, and sanctuary, all the while she was left alone to navigate the worship trenches with the Cheerio-munching versions of ourselves. This was rarely an easy thing for a person who was, in essence, functioning as a single parent of four. Although, this side of their maturity, I’ll admit my surprise at how easy her fury is deflected by the reminder that margaritas do eventually become just as accessible as whisky.

The post Review – The Balvenie, The Week of Peat, 14 Years Old, 48.3% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Journeyman Distillery, Featherbone, (No Age Stated), 45%

I mentioned not all that long ago that I’d never been hunting before, and being the “go big or go home” kind of guy that I am, I figured I’d book my first safari off-world. You’ll recall that I managed to bag a full grown Xenomorph charging at me from about two-hundred yards with my Famas. But of course, at a thousand rounds per minute, how could I miss, right? Well, what I didn’t tell you is that I also happened to cross paths with a Yautja—or as is more widely known—a Predator.

By the way, I later learned that this particular Yautja’s name was Frank. Apparently, he was named after an uncle on his mother’s side who lives on Hoth. The whole story seemed strangely familiar.

Unbeknownst to me and my guide Reggie (who, by the way, died when his chest unexpectedly exploded from what I assumed was drinking too much Ohishi Whisky), Frank was hunting in the same sector of LV-426. Needless to say, because Yautja are pretty territorial, things didn’t go well between us at first.

Thankfully, I managed to bag him, too. Well, I didn’t bag him, per se, but I did defeat him. Again, a thousand rounds per minute does wonders. I should add, as has been said of the Yautja, “Predators don’t just sit around making hats out of rib cages. They conquered space.” In other words, they’re warriors deserving of the respect the universe grants them. With that respect comes honor, and so during an after-battle confab over coffee, Frank asked what he could offer to serve as my trophy. I told him it would be really cool to take home and display his blade gauntlet. He said that the gauntlets were surgically attached to every Yautja. I asked if I could at least get a quick photo to take home. He agreed. But again, being a fearless and noble creature, no sooner than I snapped the photo did he pull out his six-bladed shuriken and lop his arm right off.

Let me tell you, Yautja bioluminescent bloodstains are permanent.

When I got home, I had the whole thing mounted as a Christmas gift for Jen, but she was more disgusted than impressed. I suppose I’ll just keep it on my bar.

When all was said and done, I certainly knew which whiskey I wanted to ingest while admiring my well-won trophy—the Featherbone Bourbon Whiskey from Journeyman Distillery, which is made right here in my home state of Michigan.

I’d been eyeballing this particular whiskey for a while, and since I’d just returned from an excursion that was most certainly journey-like, it seemed appropriate.

A grand mix of rye, malted barley, wheat, and corn, the nose of this dram is rich and otherworldly, giving over thick scents of vanilla-drenched almonds tagged with a dash of sea salt. The palate delivers the barley’s malt tinged with the sweet rye. A second sip calls up warmed oatmeal, cream, and brown sugar.

The medium finish is just delightful, leaving behind honeyed blackberries.

For the record, I did invite Frank to join me at home one day for a dram. He did say that he sometimes makes his way to earth, most often to Central America or Los Angeles. Although, I’m betting it could get a little awkward with his right arm as one of the prized centerpieces of my bar room décor.

Maybe I’ll just make plans to meet him at the local Red Lobster, instead.

The post Review – Journeyman Distillery, Featherbone, (No Age Stated), 45% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Journeyman Distillery, Featherbone, (No Age Stated), 45%

I mentioned not all that long ago that I’d never been hunting before, and being the “go big or go home” kind of guy that I am, I figured I’d book my first safari off-world. You’ll recall that I managed to bag a full grown Xenomorph charging at me from about two-hundred yards with my Famas. But of course, at a thousand rounds per minute, how could I miss, right? Well, what I didn’t tell you is that I also happened to cross paths with a Yautja—or as is more widely known—a Predator. By the way, I later learned that this particular Yautja’s name was Frank. Apparently, he was named after an uncle on his mother’s side who lives on Hoth.

The whole story seemed strangely familiar.

Unbeknownst to me and my guide Reggie (who, by the way, died when his chest unexpectedly exploded from what I assumed was drinking too much Ohishi Whisky), Frank was hunting in the same sector of LV-426. Needless to say, because Yautja are pretty territorial, things didn’t go well between us at first.

Thankfully, I managed to bag him, too. Well, I didn’t bag him, per se, but I did defeat him. Again, a thousand rounds per minute does wonders. I should add, as has been said of the Yautja, “Predators don’t just sit around making hats out of rib cages. They conquered space.” In other words, they’re warriors deserving of the respect the universe grants them. With that respect comes honor, and so during an after-battle confab over coffee, Frank asked what he could offer to serve as my trophy. I told him it would be really cool to take home and display his blade gauntlet. He said that the gauntlets were surgically attached to every Yautja. I asked if I could at least get a quick photo to take home. He agreed. But again, being a fearless and noble creature, no sooner than I snapped the photo did he pull out his six-bladed shuriken and lop his arm right off.

Let me tell you, Yautja bioluminescent bloodstains are permanent.

When I got home, I had the whole thing mounted as a Christmas gift for Jen, but she was more disgusted than impressed. I suppose I’ll just keep it on my bar.

When all was said and done, I certainly knew which whiskey I wanted to ingest while admiring my well-won trophy—the Featherbone Bourbon Whiskey from Journeyman Distillery, which is made right here in my home state of Michigan.

I’d been eyeballing this particular whiskey for a while, and since I’d just returned from an excursion that was most certainly journey-like, it seemed appropriate.

A grand mix of rye, malted barley, wheat, and corn, the nose of this dram is rich and otherworldly, giving over thick scents of vanilla-drenched almonds tagged with a dash of sea salt. The palate delivers the barley’s malt tinged with the sweet rye. A second sip calls up warmed oatmeal, cream, and brown sugar.

The medium finish is just delightful, leaving behind honeyed blackberries.

I’m of the mind to invite Frank to join me at home for a dram. He did say that he sometimes makes his way to earth, most often to Central America or Los Angeles. Although, I’m betting it could get a little awkward with his right arm as the centerpiece of my bar room décor.

Maybe I’ll meet him at the local Red Lobster, instead.

The post Review – Journeyman Distillery, Featherbone, (No Age Stated), 45% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Ohishi Whisky, (No Age Statement), 42.9%

I’ve never been hunting before. And anyone even remotely acquainted with me will know I’m a “go big or go home” kind of guy. Being such a human being, I thought if I’m really going to do this, I’m going to venture off-world to bag something worth my while.

Let the images here tell the story of both my adventures and my successes.

For the record, it was not a close encounter by any means. I bagged this cranky crawly from about two-hundred yards. He was agile and fast, but not agile and fast enough. And now he makes a great adornment to my southern-most bar room wall.

I should probably mention that my pilot and guide, Reggie, came home with something stuck to his face. It latched onto him while he wandered off to… well… you know. Eventually the frisky little bugger fell off and died. We just threw the carcass away. Reggie appears to be okay, although he complained of stomach cramps on the ride home. I think it was just the celebratory dram we shared after the hunt, which for the record, was the Ohishi Japanese Whisky.

An over-priced concoction of malted and unmalted rice, the Ohishi’s nose is easily alcoholic—sharp and medicinal. Although, the deeper the inhalation, the sweeter it gets. But by deeper I mean literally taking it into one’s lungs like a long cigarette draw. I doubt too many folks will do that with their whisky. Well, on the other hand, maybe they will. I mean, I just did. But I’m weird that way.

Anyway, the palate is sugary at first, but then it falls into a warm sour. I suppose one way to describe it would be to say it’s a little like a sweet mustard with an emphasis on the sweet. Someone put some brown sugar into the mix.

The first time around, the finish is light. A second go-round and the finish has more time to coat the tongue, eventually communicating a warmed jelly—perhaps plums.

Normally I’m a fan of Japanese whiskies. This one, not so much. I would’ve brought along a nice Glenmorangie or a decent Ardbeg, but we couldn’t get anything through the Space Force checkpoints. With that, we had to choose from the available selection in the duty free shop on LV-426. The Ohishi was there in abundance. I’m guessing I know why they may be shipping it off world. There doesn’t seem to be much of a market for it among the earthlings.

The post Review – Ohishi Whisky, (No Age Statement), 42.9% appeared first on angelsportion.

Interview with Lakefront Lifestyle Magazine

Enjoy!

 

 

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Review – Bib & Tucker, 6 Years Old, Small Batch Bourbon Whiskey, 46%

I have a few free pro-tips I’ve learned firsthand today that I feel obliged to share with you.

The first is to steer around dead birds while mowing the yard. Never succumb to that split-second temptation to let your mulching mower return them to the earth. Not only does the explosion of feathers and bone make for a real mess, but the cleanup is a challenge, especially when the carcass is relatively fresh. Everything sticks to the rake.

The next is an encouragement not to attempt to pull-start a power washer with a bicycle directly behind you—that is, unless you’re the kind of weirdo who enjoys watching a Schwinn go flying across the driveway accompanied by the sound of a grown man’s screams.

Another of my suggestions is to be sure you never set a 20-inch box fan on the counter beside you at the bathroom sink in order to cool off after a shower. You might not think to turn it off before deciding to brush your teeth. As result, the after-brushing slobber meant for the drain below may instead be carried by the fan’s breeze in a spray against the wall.

The last of the pro-tips is another reminder to turn off that same fan before you spray the cleaner meant for removing the toothpaste and spit running down the wall. Skipping this important step will see to the need for another shower to remove the toxic chemicals from your face and torso.

A final pro-tip…

After the bird carcass explosion cleanup, consider forfeiting the rest of the day’s projects. Detonating a bird’s mortal remains was a bad way to begin, and it foretells other impending tragedies. Instead, hose off the rake and put it away. Go inside, wash your hands, and then pour yourself a glass of Bib & Tucker Small Batch Bourbon. Make your way to the deck, take off your shirt, close your eyes, and get a little sun.

The nose of the Bib & Tucker will reward this decision with a breeze of barley and cherried toffee. The palate will follow with a sweeter bit of cinnamon-dusted rye followed by a wash of blackberries and creme.

The short finish is a near-weightless assembly of all that the nose and palate provided, and in my opinion, form a dram easily enjoyed with an ice cube, a clear sky, and the bright-beaming summer sun.

Having tried this, two more pro-tips come to mind that I think I should share.

First, be sure to keep your whiskey covered at all times on the deck. Secondly, be sure to look before wiping at the sploosh that hit your chest while you sat eyes closed and sunning. It might not have been a drop of sweat, but rather a suspicious bit of payback from a swooping robin who’s angry there’ll be no funeral for his recently exploded brother.

The post Review – Bib & Tucker, 6 Years Old, Small Batch Bourbon Whiskey, 46% appeared first on angelsportion.

Interview with Lakefront Lifestyle Magazine

Enjoy!

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Meeting the Mask Mandate and Making Folks Smile

My wonderful daughter, Madeline, teamed up with me for a stroll through the local Target and Walmart stores. We had a great time bringing a few smiles here and there in the midst of what is truly a gloomy time in our nation and state. It was a lot of fun. And thanks to my son, Harrison, for catching all the action on camera… and for helping others with their cameras.

For pictures of my time out and about as Star Lord from Guardians of the Galaxy, click here.

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The post Meeting the Mask Mandate and Making Folks Smile appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Bib & Tucker, 6 Years Old, Small Batch Bourbon Whiskey, 46%

[image error]I have a few free pro-tips I’ve learned firsthand today that I feel obliged to share with you.

The first is to steer around dead birds while mowing the yard. Never succumb to that split-second temptation to let your mulching mower return them to the earth. Not only does the explosion of feathers and bone make for a real mess, but the cleanup is a challenge, especially when the carcass is relatively fresh. Everything sticks to the rake.

The next is an encouragement not to attempt to pull-start a power washer with a bicycle directly behind you—that is, unless you’re the kind of weirdo who enjoys watching a Schwinn go flying across the driveway accompanied by the sound of a grown man’s screams.

Another of my suggestions is to be sure you never set a 20-inch box fan on the counter beside you at the bathroom sink in order to cool off after a shower. You might not think to turn it off before deciding to brush your teeth. As result, the after-brushing slobber meant for the drain below may instead be carried by the fan’s breeze in a spray against the wall.

The last of the pro-tips is another reminder to turn off that same fan before you spray the cleaner meant for removing the toothpaste and spit running down the wall. Skipping this important step will see to the need for another shower to remove the toxic chemicals from your face and torso.

A final pro-tip…

After the bird carcass explosion cleanup, consider forfeiting the rest of the day’s projects. Detonating a bird’s mortal remains was a bad way to begin, and it foretells other impending tragedies. Instead, hose off the rake and put it away. Go inside, wash your hands, and then pour yourself a glass of Bib & Tucker Small Batch Bourbon. Make your way to the deck, take off your shirt, close your eyes, and get a little sun.

The nose of the Bib & Tucker will reward this decision with a breeze of barley and cherried toffee. The palate will follow with a sweeter bit of cinnamon-dusted rye followed by a wash of blackberries and creme.

The short finish is a near-weightless assembly of all that the nose and palate provided, and in my opinion, form a dram easily enjoyed with an ice cube, a clear sky, and the bright-beaming summer sun.

Having tried this, two more pro-tips come to mind that I think I should share.

First, be sure to keep your whiskey covered at all times on the deck. Secondly, be sure to look before wiping at the sploosh that hit your chest while you sat eyes closed and sunning. It might not have been a drop of sweat, but rather a suspicious bit of payback from a swooping robin who’s angry there’ll be no funeral for his recently exploded brother.

The post Review – Bib & Tucker, 6 Years Old, Small Batch Bourbon Whiskey, 46% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Mortlach, 16 Years Old, Distiller’s Dram, 43.4%

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“Don’t worry, Momma,” our ten-year-old daughter with type 1 diabetes sing-songs, turning the menu’s pages in search of the beverages. “I won’t get chocolate milk this time.” But before my wife’s gleeful glance toward me can reach full bloom, the little girl continues, “I’m going to get strawberry lemonade, instead.”

Now to put this moment into perspective, if you can bear with me for a minute or two, there are a few things you should probably know.

To begin, when people encounter the word “diabetes,” it’s likely they don’t realize there are two different kinds: type 1 and type 2. Our daughter, Evelyn, has type 1.

Between the types, type 2 is the most common, and in many cases, is nothing more than the unfortunate result of poor eating and exercise habits. It’s the type that comedians like Jim Gaffigan are referring to when, whether they realize it or not, they jest about being overweight from eating too many doughnuts. Typically, a type 2 diabetic is someone whose body can’t produce enough insulin to keep up with food intake. The good news for a type 2 diabetic is that the condition is more than manageable through proper dieting and exercise, and for many, is often reversible. Although for some type 2 diabetics, after unalterable damage due to long-term disregard or lack of care, their bodies actually become insulin resistant and completely medication dependent.

By the way, since I’ve mentioned insulin twice already, I should probably tell you what it is.

Insulin is the hormone produced by the pancreas that makes it possible for cells to receive and use glucose (blood sugar), which the body uses for fuel. It’s also one of the most potent chemicals on the planet. A milliliter too much and you can end up in a coma and die. A milliliter too little and your glucose level will rise too high, possibly causing damage to internal organs. In a healthy person, the pancreas handles all of this with perfect precision. It truly is a spectacular process.

A type 1 diabetic is someone whose pancreas has stopped producing insulin altogether because the organ’s beta cells responsible for the work were killed off by the body’s white blood cells. Unlike type 2 diabetes, type 1 is not a result of the person’s eating or exercise habits, which makes all the more interesting our response to people who learn of our daughter’s condition and say with surprise, “But she doesn’t eat sweets and she’s not overweight.”

No one knows for sure the cause of type 1 diabetes. We just know it’s deadly, there is no cure, and a type 1 diabetic must receive insulin artificially through injections for the rest of their lives.

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Our daughter had just turned seven when she was diagnosed. I suppose if you want to know more about her story (and the disease itself), feel free to pick up a copy of the book Type One Confessional: God, a Pastor, and a Girl with Type 1 Diabetes. I wrote the book about a year after her diagnosis. It is a coming-to-terms with the situation, and personally, I consider it to be one of the best volumes I’ve ever written.

But anyway…

As all of this meets the introduction to this little story, you also need to be mindful of the myth that people with diabetes can’t eat sweets. Like anyone else, our daughter can eat anything she wants—sweets, a salad, or even a dead raccoon on the highway. In fact, we like to joke that as long as whatever she’s eating isn’t sprinkled with rat poison, she can probably have it. We just need to know the total number of carbohydrates in whatever she’s eating. Carbohydrates are what the body converts into glucose. Everything a person eats contains varying amounts of carbs. For instance, a cup of milk has about twelve carbs. Knowing that number, we can calculate using a ratio particular to her and sort out the proper insulin dosage.

In essence, among a gazillion other things involved with the disease, every single time she consumes something, mathematics are part of the process.

When it comes to doing this math, another thing to keep in mind is that some foods, no matter the carbohydrate count, are a little easier to work with than others. I won’t go into all the details, but just know that carbs from certain types of food affect the human body differently than others. For example, carbs in breakfast cereal will typically send our daughter’s glucose levels skyrocketing into the stratosphere about ten minutes after she starts eating. Because of this, we need to calculate and give her insulin ten minutes before she starts eating in order to get the timing right and keep her steady. Pizza, on the other hand, its carbs won’t sometimes kick in for an hour or more, so we need to let her start eating and then keep a close eye on her glucose level. When we see it beginning to spike, we need to get a dose into her right away to keep her from blasting off.

Now, imagine doing this with every single intake of food all day every day. It can be a bit overwhelming, even when you actually know both the carbohydrate totals and the effects of the food she’s eating. It’s a completely different story when you’re sitting in a restaurant and you don’t know the details of the food and you have even less of a clue as to the carbohydrate count. Now you’re trying to calculate without absolute values. I call it doing math in the dark. Add to this excitement the knowledge from your last visit to the same restaurant while on vacation that the establishment’s version of chocolate milk is like a bomb being set off in her system. Turning the dial up another notch, knowing that sweetened drinks are typically a thousand times worse than chocolate milk, for our daughter to think she’s comforting her parental mathematicians by sharing her plan to choose a tall glass of strawberry lemonade instead of chocolate milk is like saying she’s going to eat a brick of C-4 instead of a stick of dynamite.

“Okay,” my wife replies, her emerging grin becoming the inadequate smile a bomb technician might give while trying to determine if she should clip the red or blue wire to disarm a device’s detonator.

I scoot my chair back from the table just enough to allow myself to leave the scene. I assure my wife I’m not selfishly retreating to a minimal safe distance, but rather heading to the bar for something special for the two of us. My thought is that once the bomb arrives and we’ve both weighed in on its design and capability, we’ll begin the disarming process together, followed by a time of sipping concoctions meant for calming our nerves.

At the bar, I get her a margarita with a well-salted rim. Pleasantly surprised by the better-than-usual whisky selections just over the shoulder of the bartender, I settle on a two-finger dram of the Mortlach 16-year-old edition.

Returning to the table, the various drink orders have already been taken. A strawberry lemonade is on its way. I swirl, sip, and wait. As I do, I examine the Mortlach 16. I observe in the nose a minimal harness of three wires—sherry, cinnamon, and chocolate. The sherry is most certainly the lead wire, serving as the principle conduit to the other two sensations.

Following the central wire to the palate, there’s the discovery of a cinnamon apple core connected to a dark berry detonator. There are a few additional connectors in the mix—namely almond cherries—but they seem less important to the dram’s design.

The medium finish isn’t as exhilarating as one might expect. Its pop is relatively mild, letting loose a nominal burst of the sherry and something sour—maybe grapefruit.

Mid sip, the waitress returns with the drink orders and begins gathering our meal preferences. As she makes her way around the table, “How about the chicken strips and fries?” I ask of Evelyn, who’s already full-gulp with her strawberry lemonade. I make this suggestion knowing it’ll be an easier meal to anticipate.

“I don’t want the chicken strips,” she replies. “I’m going to get the ‘Thick-N-Creamy Mac and Cheese.’”

“Sounds good, honey,” I say, sliding my chair away from the table once again and rising to my feet. Dropping near to my wife’s ear, I whisper, “I’m going to get my EODS* from the car. While I’m out there, do you want me to get yours, too?”

———–

* Explosive Ordinance Disposal Suit

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