Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 9

Review – The GlenAllachie, Batch 2, Cask Strength, 10 Years Old, 54.8%

[image error]It’s 5:00 AM. Vacation is over. We leave to return to Michigan in a few hours.

When we arrived here in Florida a little less than two weeks ago, I had a terribly painful knot in a muscle to the left of my spine near the shoulder, the kind that can steal the wind from your lungs for a moment just by turning one’s head. It lasted for about three or four days before finally loosening its grip.

It came back to me last night. This morning it is in full bloom.

Jen insists it’s stress related. I used to argue this, but not anymore. I felt it grab me when I started sharing with her all that I’d be walking back into the very moment I stepped from the plane. I suppose a huge part of the problem is that I Ieft too many things undone. For example, I always have a sermon to preach the Sunday I return from vacation, and I usually get it written a few days before departing to my happy place. But not this time. Like so many other things, I didn’t get to it.

This leads me to another point.

Before leaving this year, I committed myself more intently to the advice of well-meaning friends who said, “Get done what you can, and then go. Everything will still be here when you get back.”

True. But bear in mind that we live in a time that sees crises added to my “everything” on a daily basis. This year, just as in past years, within minutes of fastening my seatbelt for the ride to the airport, I’d already been pummeled by a handful of voicemails and private messages from a few of the usual suspects demanding my immediate attention. And sure, it’s easy enough to say you’ll get to them when you get back, but that doesn’t change the fact that they dropped the concern on you, and now it is perpetually hovering in the background in an unmanageable state—often getting worse as it festers.

“Get done what you can, and then go. Everything will still be here when you get back.”

No offense, but I did that, and now it feels like bad counsel. Again, it’s well-intentioned, but it’s the kind of send-off that’s easy to give because it costs the giver nothing. Had the person giving it been required to manage these details of my life while I was away, I can all but guarantee they would’ve made sure I’d finished the sermon, dealt with certain people, and completed particular projects still stacked on my desk before leaving. They’d have made sure I went into my vacation as close to zero-responsibility as possible.

Thinking on this, I once heard someone say in relation to stress that when we actually meet our devils, they’re never as we expected them to be. Whoever said that needs to be smacked with the mug he had the stupid phrase printed on for his office mates. That’s what it feels like just shaking hands with my devils.

And by the way, the mug needs to be filled with scalding hot coffee.

Of course, if he had the phrase printed on a whisky glass in hand—and the glass happens to be holding a portion from the second batch of The GlenAllachie 10-year-old Cask Strength edition—spare it and use your free hand. I guarantee you’ll regret spilling it, and you’ll likely end up with a second stress-knot on the other side of your spine.

This is an exceptionally calming dram, the kind you wish you had a holster on your belt for holding the bottle.

The nose is unarguably a draft of warmed butterscotch. I don’t care what anyone else says. It’s warmed butterscotch. And who finds it impossible to relax while sniffing warmed butterscotch? Your devils, that’s who. So keep it close.

The palate reveals that cinnamon has been added to the butterscotch. A few sips into the dram’s thickness and the butterscotch steps back into the forefront as most prominent, perhaps guarded by a few sentry sensations that are floral in nature.

The finish of this remarkable whisky just barely tips from medium to long, leaving traces of citrus and spicy malt as it goes.

Too bad I can’t get a doctor to actually prescribe as a stress-relieving measure the holstering of this delightful elixir to my belt. I would abide by that advice without question, taking it with me into the tasks of a typical day. I can tell you right now that my interactions with the more nefarious humans among us would be far different. A completely different pall of emotion would cover a scene in which someone is pulling out all the stops on his or her pastor as that same clergyman listens with a serene stare while leaning back slightly in his chair and holding a half-filled glass of liquor in his hand. With each casual sip taken during the rant, the person would almost certainly find his or herself a little off balance, wondering at the appropriateness of his demeanor.

Or perhaps it would be a moment for you to become more attuned to the appropriateness of your own.

The post Review – The GlenAllachie, Batch 2, Cask Strength, 10 Years Old, 54.8% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – The Balvenie, “The Sweet Toast of American Oak”, 12 Years Old, 43%

[image error]Because she knows that what I most enjoy about our time away on family vacation is the opportunity to sit unhindered each morning and write something, my wife has expressed concern that I might not always actually have stuff to write about, thereby returning home less refreshed.

But I’m an observer, and with that, there’s always something to describe. The bigger challenge is found in taking what one observes and relaying it intelligibly. Lucid writing is the real story of success, not the pinpointing of opportunities for writing. Those are everywhere.

From a different view, style plays a part in the writing’s lucidity. My former agent used to say that my style wasn’t digestible to the larger crowds. In her words, “You require your readers to know too many big words.” I never was very sure if I should be happy or sad about that bit of criticism. Although, from a marketing perspective, I understand what she meant. Success or ruin comes by one’s own natural proclivities, and I do tend to swim away from the better-selling fast food forms of dialogue.

But it was Rudyard Kipling who noted that words are the most powerful drug used by mankind. I can attest to the dizzying high a well-crafted sentence brings in comparison to the bottom-shelf beer-usage of everyday language.

[image error]For a great demonstration of this, watch an interview with Jordan Peterson. Like him or hate him, it’s hard to argue against the man having a firm grasp on human language. Not only does he see and understand the incredibly circuitous dimensions in complex issues, but he has an ability to communicate what he sees very precisely. In any interview with Peterson I’ve ever watched, there’s always an underlying element of humor. And not because either in the discussion are trying to be funny, but because of the stark differences between the sturdier frame of his classical capabilities and those of the flimsier post-modern interviewer. Add to this that so many seem more disposed toward capturing him than interviewing him, and in the end, they only wind up peacocking their lesser level of intelligence. Again, it’s not necessarily that their viewpoint is incorrect, but rather they have a third-string ability with language and can’t communicate their position as the first-string Peterson can his own.

Whoever has the lesser handle on language in a conversation will always be at a disadvantage. It’s one reason why if my wife Jennifer ever dies, I’m going to mandate that we only speak Shakespearean English in my house. Even the moments of contention would be incredibly enjoyable.

“Lord, what fools these mortals be,” my unbathed and eldest son might emerge from his messy bedroom to say of his younger sibling’s confidence.

“Ah, yes,” the sibling-daughter might reply, wielding her wit as a surgeon wields a scalpel. “Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting.”

You see what I mean. It would be a much more entertaining exchange than Josh telling Madeline to cool her jets and Madeline calling him a slob.

It’s the same with whisky. You can tell who has the truer handle on its workings and who doesn’t—the ones who don’t just make it to make it. The Balvenie is one distillery free from the flabbiness of imprecision, and their 12-year-old “The Sweet Toast of American Oak” edition is another of their proofs.

The nose of this whisky is exceptionally nutty, and not in the sense of demanding the defunding of police and then dialing 911 when rioters begin destroying your property, but rather it communicates caramel-coated almonds and vanilla soaked pecans. It also induces the sense of fruitcake, and not in the sense of someone checking to see if fire is hot by touching it, but rather with driftings of actual baked fruit and cake batter.

The palate of this gem is one of jellied sweets presented on spicy oak planks. A sip or two more and its reach becomes a broader gathering of cinnamon and apricots. These carry over into a relatively shorter finish—which is its only lagging character. There’s so much to enjoy in the whisky, you wish it would stay and chat for a little while longer.

And so with that, we might so slovenly say to this newfound friend, “TTFN dude. It was cool meeting you.”

Or we could make an effort to deliver a more meaningful goodbye, one that communicates a depth of real gladness for the friendship. As you return the cork to its keep and make a place for the bottle on the shelf, perhaps you might offer, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” But of course speaking in this way would tease the fact that even the casual expressions of a stuffed bear named “Pooh” in a children’s story from 1925 dwell far beyond the boundaries of the current world’s colloquial abilities.[image error]

The post Review – The Balvenie, “The Sweet Toast of American Oak”, 12 Years Old, 43% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Talisker, 18 Years Old, 45.8%

[image error]“The crime occurred at around four o’clock this morning,” the CNN reporter said. I reached to adjust the volume of the satellite radio’s newscast.

“As you can see from the video,” she continued, “the homeless man was sleeping when the suspects lit and tossed the fireworks on him.” The tinny crackling of flames followed by explosions can be heard in the background. The howls of the gleeful participants can be heard, too.

“The victim suffered severe burns to his back,” the reporter added, “and the police chief has vowed to get to the bottom of this incident.”

Sickening. But still, it gets worse.

“This surely seems to point to a very serious problem in the city,” the newsroom anchor offered.

“It sure does, Kate,” the reporter replied. “New York has long been struggling with fireworks, and this is just one more example of just how dangerous they can be.”

I nearly drove into the ditch.

First of all, did I just hear the brainiacs at CNN say that fireworks were the sinister element in this incident? I mean, did I miss a crucial portion of the reporting when I reached for my turn signal?

Secondly, as kids, my friends and I set off fireworks all the time. We strapped bottle rockets to the backs of Barbie dolls, and put M-60s into trashcans and blew the lids off. We even tied packs of firecrackers to remote control cars and laughed as we took turns steering them up and down the driveway. Never once in all our years did we ever even think of doing what these criminals in the video did. Not once.

The fireworks are not the problem. The people are.

On the other hand, the more important question in all of this might be: Why do we still consider any of these network news hacks to be competent sources for journalism? They watched the video, analyzed it, and then came to the conclusion that the problem with the situation was not the lawless thugs assaulting one of the most vulnerable among us, but rather the inanimate objects that require human thought and manipulation to function. How can these news-knobs be trusted to observe and report on things of national and international import, things like politics and foreign affairs? Considering the current state of things, are we really going to trust them to tell us what we need to know in the midst of a pandemic, or to help lead us through racial inequality to better days? Hell, I barely trust them to know what day it is, and in the end, I’m fully expecting them to blame this whole fireworks thing on President Trump. They always figure out how to bring it back around to him.

They’re a joke.

[image error]Besides all of this, the whole situation has me thinking we’ve passed a point of no return when it comes to the need for instilling a little fear into the hearts of would-be deviants. I’m starting to think what we really need is for law enforcement officials to hire a few alien sewer clowns with red balloons. Or perhaps we could benefit from someone like the Marvel character… well… okay, maybe I’d better not say. I wouldn’t want anyone pointing to The Angels’ Portion, saying they got the idea from the Reverend. I’ll just leave this with you, instead. The character’s name I’m thinking of starts with “F” and ends with “rank Castle.”

[image error]Assuming these clues might not be all that helpful, just know I’m wondering if someone like him could help.

Take a look around. The criminals are by no means afraid. They’ve grown so bold that they’re seizing entire sections of cities. They’re grossly defacing public property without consequence. They’re perpetrating ungodly crimes against innocent citizens without fear of police interference, even being devilishly cruel to a sleeping homeless man.

We need these thugs to be afraid. But it may be as we’re discovering ourselves in a never before seen era of lawlessness, the only way to instill this fear is by way of an equal and opposite response from beyond our system of justice—a response that excludes the protection of police, lawyers, and judges, thereby delivering the same measure of helplessness the law-abiding citizens experience in the moment of atrocity.

Yeah, I know. “Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: ‘It is mine to avenge; I will repay,’ says the Lord.”

But Saint Paul wrote those words knowing that God also chooses his own measures for accomplishing such things. Who’s to say a guy in a skull-painted vest couldn’t be his man?

Okay, too far?

Well, whatever. I guess like so many others, I’m tired of seeing the villains take more of the field. So with that, let’s just get to the whisky. It sounds like we need it right now.

As a matter of fact, when it comes to enduring the ungodliness of this world, I’m not ashamed to say a top tier dram serves as a fine accompaniment to the hope I have in Christ for better days beyond this mortal coil. In particular, the Talisker 18 is a divinely acceptable accessory.

The nose of this dram isn’t as brutish as you might expect. Instead, it’s really rather gentle, sending along wafts of salty pineapple, burnt sugar, and barrel spice.

The palate steps it up a notch, tapping at the tongue with rich red berries smothered in buttery tar. There’s a smoky halo encircling the whole experience.

The finish is pleasantly long, being incredibly generous as it maintains the red berries and smoke. The burnt sugar comes along nearest to its end.

Yes, this is definitely a dram worth having in hand while listening to the news or reading the day’s headlines. Unless you’re driving, of course, as I was today when I first heard the story about the attack on the homeless man. In that case, do what you can to steer clear of the ditch and save the calming dram for home.

And for the love of all that’s holy, whatever you do, don’t drive with fireworks in the car. Consider yourself warned by the experts at CNN.

The post Review – Talisker, 18 Years Old, 45.8% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Tamdhu, Batch Strength, Batch 003, (No Age Stated), 58.3%

[image error]

Do you want to hear something really funny?

As a Lutheran Christian pastor, a few months back I was invited to lead the Invocation—the opening prayer—before the Michigan State Senate. It was somewhat of a last minute request, but since I can write stuff pretty quickly and easily, I was happy to help.

After submitting the prayer’s manuscript for the record, it was returned to me censored, having been marked up as essentially too Christian. In other words, I didn’t allow room in my prayer for accommodating the doctrines of all the other systems of belief that would be present in the Senate chamber. In one particular phone conversation, I was told the prayer wasn’t really supposed to be a prayer in the formal sense, anyway, but rather more of an opportunity to encourage the Senators, giving them praise for the good work they’ve done and are doing.

Um. What?

First of all, why call it a prayer, then? Even better, just call in a motivational speaker and call it a team-building exercise. Second, I don’t think the Senate is actually finding much success in their work. For the one, the Christian Church is experiencing unprecedented levels of persecution in Michigan. In this regard, I think they’re failing the populace miserably, which is why I’d much rather bring them together to ask for God’s help than to encourage them to continue pursuing such folly. Thirdly, I’m one who, like Charles de Gaulle, believes politics is far too serious a matter to be left to politicians, and so when given the opportunity to influence the course of public policy, I’m going to stick to my principles and lend my voice. I suppose lastly, isn’t it getting pretty close to the peak of disingenuousness to ask a Christian pastor to pray in a way that would imply the Atheists in the room could be right? I mean, how would that even happen with any seriousness?

“Heavenly Father, hear our prayers this day—that is, if You exist. But hey, if You don’t, no worries. This is all for show, anyway. Great job, folks! Keep up the good work! Oh yeah, and amen!”

Anyway, I was given the opportunity to rewrite the prayer, which I did try to do somewhat. But with each resubmission, the results were the same. In the end, I just couldn’t stomach the changes being demanded, and with that, I felt the need to bow out.

To make a long story short, after doing what I could to reach out to the folks in charge, I eventually voiced my concerns in protest by way of social media. A facet of my complaint involved writing a more satirical prayer, one that I felt communicated a more genuine spirit of what the Michigan Senate was asking me to do. Within days my concerns gained fairly significant traction throughout the state. By the following weekend, I’d received a phone call and apology from the Senate Majority Leader, and I was invited back as his personal guest to offer the prayer as it was originally written.

This still hasn’t happened. I’m going to assume this is true because the COVID-19 crisis landed on the country right around the same time this was all being sorted out.

Hmm. That’s peculiar.

Galatians 6:7.

Still, I haven’t gotten to the humor in all of this.

I’m guessing most of my readers know I’m no stranger to the political scene in Michigan. For the most part, people around here know this. What’s funny is that over the past few weeks, as we’ve drawn nearer to a rather significant primary election, I’ve received the usual requests from various candidates and their managers to consider writing public endorsements for them. All of these candidates typically claim the title “conservative.” Most even wear the badge “Christian.”

But beware. Even villains know how to smile.

Indeed, this year there’ve been some who not all that long ago worked pretty hard to prevent me from offering that prayer before the Senate, saying behind closed doors it was far too partisan a thing to do. One candidate in particular was exceptionally vicious in her efforts, using her power behind the scenes to malign and shelve me.

Nothing ever really came of it, though. I think this is true because to the wiser among us, a comparison was made. I’d taken a principled stand on something we both claimed, and yet she’d proven herself unprincipled and mean-spirited when it came time to do the same. This became apparent to folks who didn’t know this of her before. Beyond that, I think she also miscalculated my lazy concern for her efforts. She already has the reputation of going after anyone who gets in her way, and I suppose this tendency has been fostered by so many who’ve responded by simply submitting to the intimidation. But I’m a pastor. I get crapped on all the time. Jesus said this would happen, and I can deal with that. What I can’t do is sacrifice the Church’s integrity or break from faithfulness to the Lord who established it. When a politician drops a load on me, the level of bother is no different in this regard. In fact, it’s even less of a concern when it’s from the kind of person who’ll praise others only if they praise her first.

In my humble opinion, this has all been an exercise in seeing that for many in positions of authority, honor will always be a luxury, while for the rest of us, it’s something we must actually bear and employ lest the trenches that actually matter be overrun.

The citizens are the ones holding the line against the darkness, not the politicians.

Needless to say, I won’t be endorsing certain candidates. They’re obviously in it for the glory. Of course if they called me to chat, and we somehow were able to work through these concerns in a way that revealed my ponderings to be in error, I’d be glad for the discussion. Admittedly, a whisky summit sounds nice. Undeniably, such things are never beyond the borders of my willingness. I’ll even bring the booze—something crisp, and most certainly peace-inducing.

In fact, I know just the edition for the occasion: Batch 003 from the Tamdhu “Batch Strength” series.

There are a couple of reasons why this whisky comes to mind in this instance. The first would be the basics of its vibrant contours. With a rich nose of vanilla-soaked blackberries, to share this whisky with a foe would communicate a genuine desire for peace. No one but God would share such treasures with an opponent knowing full well the person may continue to despise him.

To travel together past the scent to a generous sip from the bottle’s spicy plumcot innards steers even deeper into this truth.

The finish—a lengthy draw of malty citrus and spice—would, at a minimum, seal the deal on cordiality.

The other reason for sharing this particular dram is less about establishing amity and more about strategy. With a cask strength ABV of 58.3%, a few generous pours would see to my lightweight opponents being well-numbed during the negotiation. Translating this into politispeak, they’d be more likely to yield to my terms than I would be to theirs.

“Be as sneaky as snakes and as gentle as doves,” the good Lord said—who, for the record, I fully believe exists, and as the ancient Creeds declare, is far more than just the cuddly, sheep-toting Shepherd we like to envision, but also the Pantocrator—the One who will at the last apply His standards in judgment, not ours.

When you really believe this… well, you know the whole “sticks and stones” thing.[image error]

The post Review – Tamdhu, Batch Strength, Batch 003, (No Age Stated), 58.3% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Willet, Pot Still “Reserve”, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 47%

[image error]There’s a board game we play while on vacation. In a fateful Jumanji-like rendezvous, we discovered it hiding among a stack of games in the master closet of the rental home we frequent each year.

The game is called “Frustration.” Its tagline reads: “The slam-tastic chasing game that drives you mad!” Personally, I think a more appropriate tagline would be: “The rage-filled chasing game that puts its winner’s life in danger as it drives all others at the table to discover the inner ‘serial killer’ hiding in their emotional darkness.”

Hasbro, the game’s producer, also provides humanity with the better-known “Monopoly,” which you probably already know as the boxed contest that has been obliterating relationships across the world since 1935. But while Hasbro sells Monopoly in the United States, Frustration is only sold overseas. I think I may know why.

For the most part, Americans understand and accept the ideal that anyone willing to plan and work hard can overcome any circumstance and ultimately achieve success. Monopoly makes sense to Americans because it exists within the boundaries of this premise. The game’s ability to send even the best marriages into divorce court is only due to a combination of the ruthless strategies employed by most who play it and the fact that the game can go on for hours, seeing the losers simmer in sadness. Even so, no matter how the dice land or what the Community Chest card instructs, Monopoly still allows for the employment of strategy. With some smart dealings, even the most misfortunate player can suddenly be found on easier streets.

Frustration isn’t this way. It’s completely apart from a player’s ability to make his or her own way toward victory. My guess is that Hasbro performed a study regarding the marketability of the game in the United States and the results came back bloodstained.

I don’t want to waste your time trying to explain the rules to you, even though there really aren’t very many. Just know that there’s no strategy involved in Frustration. It all relies on smacking a little lever that jars a singular die in a plastic bubble at the game’s center. Whatever number the die displays, you move that number of spaces. The first person to get all four of their game pieces around the circular board to their safe zone wins the game.

One thing, though. A player can’t put a game piece into motion until he or she gets a six on the die. After that, the game piece is in play until the end of the game. That is, unless another player rolls and his or her piece lands on an opponent’s piece. In that case, the opponent must remove the piece from the board and start over. Remember, you can’t bring that piece back into the game until you get a six on the center die.

Doesn’t sound that bad, you say? Oh, that’s precious. I dare you to play any one of my smack-talking children.

Mind you, there’s no aiming smack at me in Monopoly. I employ a strategy for victory that wins every single time, no matter the precariousness of my situation at any given moment in the game. Seriously. My kids have been pestering me for years to teach them how I do it. But there’s no strategy in Frustration. You swat at the lever before you like a mindless imbecile, and you take whatever it gives in return. The thing is, I can smack that stupid lever a thousand times, never once getting a six, never once seeing any of my game pieces actually brought into play on the board. I can do this watching my opponent get six after six, moving each of his or her pieces all the way around the board to their safe zone. And it’s not like the loser’s fuse gets lit over the course of two hours, as is true with Monopoly. In that game it takes a few hours before you actually feel like murdering everyone at the table. Frustration can light and launch this emotion in about two minutes—which (when you’re getting pummeled) is often the amount of time it actually takes to play the game in full.

Frustration is truly the next level of evolution in relationship-destroying board games. Personally, I can’t play it without a whiskey in my hand. I say this not only because whiskey is a calming beverage, but because it’s a lot harder to strangle someone with just one hand—unless of course the whiskey you’re holding isn’t that great. A bad whiskey is too easily tossed aside for the sake of getting a good grip on your opponent’s throat.

[image error]My advice: Play the game with a good whiskey in hand. It’ll keep you out of the news. In particular, may I recommend the Pot Still Reserve from Willet? Indeed, it’s a dram you’d be less likely to drop to the floor in order to take up a chase.

With a nose of sweet lemons and carmeled corn, the whiskey is easy to keep close, being a soothing breath of tranquility in moments of distress. A sip is most certainly the same. With heavily peppered vanilla and citrus zest delivered at the forefront, one is more than pleasantly distracted from the incessant tapping at a lever that is forever six-less.

At 47% ABV, the finish is much longer than the tortuous game you are enduring with your offspring. And this is a good thing, because when none of your pieces have made it to the board and the last of your opponent’s pieces is in its safe zone, the Willet’s finish is there to restrain your darker passions with spicy blood oranges and oak char.

Deliciously pacifying—enough to bring about a fertile pause for remembering that one moment in time needn’t change the course of your life or relationships forever. It may even bring you to say right in the middle of board game annihilation, “So, who’s up for another match?”

The post Review – Willet, Pot Still “Reserve”, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 47% appeared first on angelsportion.

Willet, Pot Still “Reserve”, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 47%

[image error]There’s a board game we play while on vacation. In a fateful Jumanji-like rendezvous, we discovered it hiding among a stack of games in the master closet of the rental home we frequent each year.

The game is called “Frustration.” Its tagline reads: “The slam-tastic chasing game that drives you mad!” Personally, I think a more appropriate tagline would be: “The rage-filled chasing game that puts its winner’s life in danger as it drives all others at the table to discover the inner ‘serial killer’ hiding in their emotional darkness.”

Hasbro, the game’s producer, also provides humanity with the better-known “Monopoly,” which you probably already know as the boxed contest that has been obliterating relationships across the world since 1935. But while Hasbro sells Monopoly in the United States, Frustration is only sold overseas. I think I may know why.

For the most part, Americans understand and accept the ideal that anyone willing to plan and work hard can overcome any circumstance and ultimately achieve success. Monopoly makes sense to Americans because it exists within the boundaries of this premise. The game’s ability to send even the best marriages into divorce court is only due to a combination of the ruthless strategies employed by most who play it and the fact that the game can go on for hours, seeing the losers simmer in sadness. Even so, no matter how the dice land or what the Community Chest card instructs, Monopoly still allows for the employment of strategy. With some smart dealings, even the most misfortunate player can suddenly be found on easier streets.

Frustration isn’t this way. It’s completely apart from a player’s ability to make his or her own way toward victory. My guess is that Hasbro performed a study regarding the marketability of the game in the United States and the results came back bloodstained.

I don’t want to waste your time trying to explain the rules to you, even though there really aren’t very many. Just know that there’s no strategy involved in Frustration. It all relies on smacking a little lever that jars a singular die in a plastic bubble at the game’s center. Whatever number the die displays, you move that number of spaces. The first person to get all four of their game pieces around the circular board to their safe zone wins the game.

One thing, though. A player can’t put a game piece into motion until he or she gets a six on the die. After that, the game piece is in play until the end of the game. That is, unless another player rolls and his or her piece lands on an opponent’s piece. In that case, the opponent must remove the piece from the board and start over. Remember, you can’t bring that piece back into the game until you get a six on the center die.

Doesn’t sound that bad, you say? Oh, that’s precious. I dare you to play any one of my smack-talking children.

Mind you, there’s no aiming smack at me in Monopoly. I employ a strategy for victory that wins every single time, no matter the precariousness of my situation at any given moment in the game. Seriously. My kids have been pestering me for years to teach them how I do it. But there’s no strategy in Frustration. You swat at the lever before you like a mindless imbecile, and you take whatever it gives in return. The thing is, I can smack that stupid lever a thousand times, never once getting a six, never once seeing any of my game pieces actually brought into play on the board. I can do this watching my opponent get six after six, moving each of his or her pieces all the way around the board to their safe zone. And it’s not like the loser’s fuse gets lit over the course of two hours, as is true with Monopoly. In that game it takes a few hours before you actually feel like murdering everyone at the table. Frustration can light and launch this emotion in about two minutes—which (when you’re getting pummeled) is often the amount of time it actually takes to play the game in full.

Frustration is truly the next level of evolution in relationship-destroying board games. Personally, I can’t play it without a whiskey in my hand. I say this not only because whiskey is a calming beverage, but because it’s a lot harder to strangle someone with just one hand—unless of course the whiskey you’re holding isn’t that great. A bad whiskey is too easily tossed aside for the sake of getting a good grip on your opponent’s throat.

[image error]My advice: Play the game with a good whiskey in hand. It’ll keep you out of the news. In particular, may I recommend the Pot Still Reserve from Willet? Indeed, it’s a dram you’d be less likely to drop to the floor in order to take up a chase.

With a nose of sweet lemons and carmeled corn, the whiskey is easy to keep close, being a soothing breath of tranquility in moments of distress. A sip is most certainly the same. With heavily peppered vanilla and citrus zest delivered at the forefront, one is more than pleasantly distracted from the incessant tapping at a lever that is forever six-less.

At 47% ABV, the finish is much longer than the tortuous game you are enduring with your offspring. And this is a good thing, because when none of your pieces have made it to the board and the last of your opponent’s pieces is in its safe zone, the Willet’s finish is there to restrain your darker passions with spicy blood oranges and oak char.

Deliciously pacifying—enough to bring about a fertile pause for remembering that one moment in time needn’t change the course of your life or relationships forever. It may even bring you to say right in the middle of board game annihilation, “So, who’s up for another match?”

The post Willet, Pot Still “Reserve”, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, (No Age Stated), 47% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Tenjaku, Blended Japanese Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]For the record, I’m not so willing to lace up my jackboots to march in stride with the masses believing that a wiser, more advanced society is one that is completely blind to the differences between its citizens.

Of course, I’m by no means saying that the unjust treatment of any group is acceptable. In other words, bigotry in any form is bad. Read that again just to be sure you got it. Beyond that previous sentence, what I am saying is that it is, at a minimum, intellectually shallow to live as though the very unique differences that exist between groups of people and the individuals who comprise them don’t matter—that everyone is to be considered equal in every way.

But the current mood in society appears to be one that involves forcing the ideal of absolute equality down the throats of everyone. There seems to be a mass leveling of everyone and everything. In other words, there aren’t people of different nationalities anymore, only humans. There are no genders, only humans. There are no legal or illegal citizens, only humans. There aren’t different levels of success or achievement, only humans. And the list goes on and on. It all sounds so noble in the heat of a noisy protest. It all reads quite virtuously beside a hashtag. It all feels deeply principled when celebrities, corporations, sports leagues, and politicians join in the chanting. And yet, it only takes a splinter of common sense to know it’s an absurdly narrow way of observing people. I mean, you can’t demand that everyone be considered equal and then give preferential treatment to particular races applying for college. That’s reversed prejudice. It’s absurdly hypocritical. And after decades of doing it, it’s the kind of hypocritical absurdity that eventually gives birth to the kind of people who can’t see the foolishness of a six-block partition in Seattle cordoned off and guarded by people with guns who believe America should be gun-free and borderless.

It was Agnes Repplier, the early 20th century American essayist, who warned early radical liberals that if they became unable to see the absurdities being birthed among them, they would very much be in the way of civilization. I think she was right.

Digging a little deeper into forced equality, I used to visit Russia quite frequently. While there, I learned from residents who endured the soviet years that the functioning of Russian society wasn’t so much about employing Marxist doctrines as it was a devolution into making sure whoever didn’t starve to death could perform duties necessary for the basic functioning of the State. An example I can share is one regarding the father of a close friend. He was a renowned surgeon before the revolution. But afterward, they were in desperate need of transportation workers, and so he was assigned the post of bus driver. Unsurprisingly, a fellow doctor in his community who was by no means as skilled as he and yet was much closer to the Communist party leadership, was granted his former position in the local hospital. As a result, no small number of people died unnecessarily.

You might want to be a surgeon. You might even go to school to become one. But if you don’t have the natural intuition or adeptness, you’ll already be lacking in comparison to those who do. People with uniquely natural abilities in any field, no matter what that field may be, are of much greater benefit to a society than even the most educated hopefuls pursuing the same dream.

In another sense, this also applies to biology. A man may want to have a baby. Okay, I can understand even the strangest of human wants. But wants and Natural Law often know very little of one another. Thankfully one of the most important skills to be owned by any society can be found in its comedians. These are the ones willing to observe and communicate society’s absurdities to the rest of us. The gifted troupe known as Monty Python does this well in the film “The Life of Brian” as one male character responds to another male character’s desire to be a woman and have a baby. The surrounding discussion doesn’t necessarily nullify the man’s desires. In fact, everyone on screen begins talking about the man’s right to feel as he does. But by writing it into the script, the words of the resistant character serve to act as a curb to human desire when it’s aimed across the boundaries of Natural Law toward absurdity.

“Where’s (the baby) gonna gestate?” John Cleese’s character asks straightforwardly. “In a box?”

Why would Monty Python make into a laughable scene what for us has become a topic tearing at the fabric of our nation? Because in a very basic way, they understood that a functioning society needs women to be and do what is unique to women, and they need men to be and do what is unique to men, even if only to accept it in a biological sense. It isn’t sexist to believe this. It certainly isn’t bigoted to establish a society upon it. In fact, we stand in the way of civilization when we don’t. When we see everyone as totally equal in every single way, fewer babies will be conceived, and surgeons will be found driving buses instead of saving lives in the operating room.

In many ways, by affirming the differences between us, we help keep society from stalling.

I use to have a stalled view of whisky. I used to think that all whiskies were essentially the same, believing that any would do just as well for the bachelor party or the wedding. In fact, in those days, had you placed a bottle of The Balvenie beside a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, neither would have impressed me. I’d have been more than willing to clean the toilet with either. But then I met a kindly gent in a whisky shop in London who was willing to take time with my ignorance and to show me a better way. He began sharing miniscule sips from various editions throughout the shop, being sure to elaborate on the valuable uniqueness within each one. It was only after I’d become aware of these peculiarities, having tasted the differences and pondered what each brought to the world of whisky, that I truly fell in love with the beverage as a singular race.

Now, consider for a moment the Tenjaku Blended Whisky from Japan.

I would imagine that when most folks think of whisky producing nations, Japan isn’t the first that comes to mind. Admittedly, even as Japan holds a well-earned prestige in the whisky community, it isn’t the most abundant dram to be found on the shelves, which means if you walk into your local liquor store with Scotch or Bourbon on your mind—or worse, thinking that all whisky is just whisky and even these distinctions don’t matter—you’re likely to miss the Japanese stuff altogether. If so, you’d be missing out on a form of greatness that only Japan can bring to the table. Japanese distilleries have been harnessing and offering dimensions of flavor relatively unachievable to other regions. Some have tried to reproduce what the Japanese do naturally, fighting against the winds and waves of a regions natural laws. Nevertheless, the natural abilities of the Japanese distilleries continue to prove Edward Gibbon’s surmising that the “winds and the waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.”

The Tenjaku is an inexpensively delicious bit of proof that no one can do Japanese whisky like the Japanese. I say this reminding you of what I said earlier on in this piece, which is that it’s absurd to think it could be any other way. Behold, and see for yourself.

The nose of this blend bears a tad bit of smoke. Not much, but enough to let you know it’s there and streaming between ripened pears sun-warmed and nestled in a bamboo vessel. A sip is a swift stroke of malty caramel and gingered plums. A second sip confirms this.

The finish is longer than you’d expect, settling in past the swallow as Hokkaido milk bread basted with buttered raspberries.

Wonderfully unique and having no equals.

For an inexpensive whisky arriving from the Land of the Rising Sun, the Tenjaku is most certainly worth your time. My recommendation is that you sip and savor it while contemplating just how much longer your tolerance will hold out for the foolishness being exhibited in our land. As I already said at the beginning, for the record, I intend to keep my boots in the closet with this nonsense.

The post Review – Tenjaku, Blended Japanese Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Tenjaku, Blended Japanese Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

[image error]For the record, I’m not so willing to lace up my jackboots to march in stride with the masses believing that a wiser, more advanced society is one that is completely blind to the differences between its citizens.

Of course, I’m by no means saying that the unjust treatment of any group is acceptable. In other words, bigotry in any form is bad. Read that again just to be sure you got it. Beyond that previous sentence, what I am saying is that it is, at a minimum, intellectually shallow to live as though the very unique differences that exist between groups of people and the individuals who comprise them don’t matter—that everyone is to be considered equal in every way.

But the current mood in society appears to be one that involves forcing the ideal of absolute equality down the throats of everyone. There seems to be a mass leveling of everyone and everything. In other words, there aren’t people of different nationalities anymore, only humans. There are no genders, only humans. There are no legal or illegal citizens, only humans. There aren’t different levels of success or achievement, only humans. And the list goes on and on. It all sounds so noble in the heat of a noisy protest. It all reads quite virtuously beside a hashtag. It all feels deeply principled when celebrities, corporations, sports leagues, and politicians join in the chanting. And yet, it only takes a splinter of common sense to know it’s an absurdly narrow way of observing people. I mean, you can’t demand that everyone be considered equal and then give preferential treatment to particular races applying for college. That’s reversed prejudice. It’s absurdly hypocritical. And after decades of doing it, it’s the kind of hypocritical absurdity that eventually gives birth to the kind of people who can’t see the foolishness of a six-block partition in Seattle cordoned off and guarded by people with guns who believe America should be gun-free and borderless.

It was Agnes Repplier, the early 20th century American essayist, who warned early radical liberals that if they became unable to see the absurdities being birthed among them, they would very much be in the way of civilization. I think she was right.

Digging a little deeper into forced equality, I used to visit Russia quite frequently. While there, I learned from residents who endured the soviet years that the functioning of Russian society wasn’t so much about employing Marxist doctrines as it was a devolution into making sure whoever didn’t starve to death could perform duties necessary for the basic functioning of the State. An example I can share is one regarding the father of a close friend. He was a renowned surgeon before the revolution. But afterward, they were in desperate need of transportation workers, and so he was assigned the post of bus driver. Unsurprisingly, a fellow doctor in his community who was by no means as skilled as he and yet was much closer to the Communist party leadership, was granted his former position in the local hospital. As a result, no small number of people died unnecessarily.

You might want to be a surgeon. You might even go to school to become one. But if you don’t have the natural intuition or adeptness, you’ll already be lacking in comparison to those who do. People with uniquely natural abilities in any field, no matter what that field may be, are of much greater benefit to a society than even the most educated hopefuls pursuing the same dream.

In another sense, this also applies to biology. A man may want to have a baby. Okay, I can understand even the strangest of human wants. But wants and Natural Law often know very little of one another. Thankfully one of the most important skills to be owned by any society can be found in its comedians. These are the ones willing to observe and communicate society’s absurdities to the rest of us. The gifted troupe known as Monty Python does this well in the film “The Life of Brian” as one male character responds to another male character’s desire to be a woman and have a baby. The surrounding discussion doesn’t necessarily nullify the man’s desires. In fact, everyone on screen begins talking about the man’s right to feel as he does. But by writing it into the script, the words of the resistant character serve to act as a curb to human desire when it’s aimed across the boundaries of Natural Law toward absurdity.

“Where’s (the baby) gonna gestate?” John Cleese’s character asks straightforwardly. “In a box?”

Why would Monty Python make into a laughable scene what for us has become a topic tearing at the fabric of our nation? Because in a very basic way, they understood that a functioning society needs women to be and do what is unique to women, and they need men to be and do what is unique to men, even if only to accept it in a biological sense. It isn’t sexist to believe this. It certainly isn’t bigoted to establish a society upon it. In fact, we stand in the way of civilization when we don’t. When we see everyone as totally equal in every single way, fewer babies will be conceived, and surgeons will be found driving buses instead of saving lives in the operating room.

In many ways, by affirming the differences between us, we help keep society from stalling.

I use to have a stalled view of whisky. I used to think that all whiskies were essentially the same, believing that any would do just as well for the bachelor party or the wedding. In fact, in those days, had you placed a bottle of The Balvenie beside a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, neither would have impressed me. I’d have been more than willing to clean the toilet with either. But then I met a kindly gent in a whisky shop in London who was willing to take time with my ignorance and to show me a better way. He began sharing miniscule sips from various editions throughout the shop, being sure to elaborate on the valuable uniqueness within each one. It was only after I’d become aware of these peculiarities, having tasted the differences and pondered what each brought to the world of whisky, that I truly fell in love with the beverage as a singular race.

Now, consider for a moment the Tenjaku Blended Whisky from Japan.

I would imagine that when most folks think of whisky producing nations, Japan isn’t the first that comes to mind. Admittedly, even as Japan holds a well-earned prestige in the whisky community, it isn’t the most abundant dram to be found on the shelves, which means if you walk into your local liquor store with Scotch or Bourbon on your mind—or worse, thinking that all whisky is just whisky and even these distinctions don’t matter—you’re likely to miss the Japanese stuff altogether. If so, you’d be missing out on a form of greatness that only Japan can bring to the table. Japanese distilleries have been harnessing and offering dimensions of flavor relatively unachievable to other regions. Some have tried to reproduce what the Japanese do naturally, fighting against the winds and waves of a regions natural laws. Nevertheless, the natural abilities of the Japanese distilleries continue to prove Edward Gibbon’s surmising that the “winds and the waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators.”

The Tenjaku is an inexpensively delicious bit of proof that no one can do Japanese whisky like the Japanese. I say this reminding you of what I said earlier on in this piece, which is that it’s absurd to think it could be any other way. Behold, and see for yourself.

The nose of this blend bears a tad bit of smoke. Not much, but enough to let you know it’s there and streaming between ripened pears sun-warmed and nestled in a bamboo vessel. A sip is a swift stroke of malty caramel and gingered plums. A second sip confirms this.

The finish is longer than you’d expect, settling in past the swallow as Hokkaido milk bread basted with buttered raspberries.

Wonderfully unique and having no equals.

For an inexpensive whisky arriving from the Land of the Rising Sun, the Tenjaku is most certainly worth your time. My recommendation is that you sip and savor it while contemplating just how much longer your tolerance will hold out for the foolishness being exhibited in our land. As I already said at the beginning, for the record, I intend to keep my boots in the closet with this nonsense.

The post Tenjaku, Blended Japanese Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40% appeared first on angelsportion.

Review – Clergyman Blended Whiskey, 2020 “End of Quarantine” Edition, (No Age Stated), 41.5%

[image error]It’s a good sign you’re on vacation when you can call to the back of the van, “Hey, guys, what day is it?” and you get five different answers.

No one knows for sure.

I like that. And while I know what day it is, I still like to pose the question because it serves as a reminder that vacations only last so long, and living carefree enough to be unaware of the day’s name is a short-term pleasure that must be maximized. It won’t be long before the days will no longer tolerate such ignorance. Very soon they’ll be back at one’s door, and like the devil’s delivery men, they’ll come with a cargo of cares.

2020 has been a pretty rough year in this regard, wouldn’t you say? As a point of reference, I went into the year’s mindless pandemic, man-made massacre of the economy, and equally imbecilic rioting weighing 207.2 pounds. I’m 178.8 as I type this. Admittedly, some of this can be attributed to sit-ups, but the rest is thanks to top quality, 100% grade “A” disquietude.

I’m living proof that stress affects the body in very real ways.

I know I’ve told you before that I love my job as a pastor. For the most part, I love all the people I serve.  Still, I’ll admit that sometimes a good day in the ministry isn’t much more than finding an extra packet of post-it notes in my desk drawer when the dispenser beside my phone is empty. That, my friends, is a successful day. Everything else is peppered with human carnage—scenarios that most folks wouldn’t even believe let alone understand, and for the most part, cannot be vented to anyone because of the pastoral binding to professional confidence.

Sometimes I think it would just be easier to be an octopus. I hear that when certain octopi become stressed, they eat themselves. Imagine what an unhappy or offended person with his finger in my chest would do if I suddenly started eating myself. Come to think of it, just in case I find myself overwhelmed by the urge to try this, I’m going to start keeping butter, virgin olive oil, red wine, and some mushrooms in my office refrigerator. I’m pretty sure I’d go well with a side of sautéed mushrooms.

It’s a thought, anyway.

In the meantime, I drink whisky as a means to endure.

Now, let the pietists among us take their usual moment to grumble while they assume they know what I mean.

Are you finished? Good.

And now before I explain myself for the thousandth time, I should also remind my critics not to kid themselves. With the levels of daily disdain being aimed at guys like me from both inside and outside of the Church, I’m pretty much ready for whatever you’re packing. Nothing I write or say in public is ever immune from attack. Why? Because I’m a white man. To make matters worse, I’m a conservative. To make things doubly worse, I’m a Christian. To throw things into a frenzy of worseness, I’m a pastor. This means I could write that I love the whole world and want to give everyone in it a million dollars, and someone would find a way to call me hateful. It’s just the way it all works these days. The inability of our current culture to choose a position from two opposing ideas and still allow for the other to exist at all no longer astounds me. And yet, the venomous hatred for guys like me remains proof that these virtue-signalers demanding tolerance really don’t even believe what they’re preaching. If they did, I’m sure the Books-A-Million in Davenport, Florida would have been just as likely to sell a voodoo doll of Obama as it was of Trump. But reality whispers in such scenarios, “Good luck with that, pal. This door only swings one way.”[image error]

Intolerance, hatred, and inequality are most certainly alive in America, but not necessarily in the ways you’re being told.

In the end, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve grown so used to being attacked for just being the person I am that I’ve formed a shell against most assaults, the least effective of the muggings coming from teetotaling pietists attempting to riddle me with guilt for being a clergyman writing about booze. Trust me. I’ve been at this gig for so long, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it all before. Pietist insults always ricochet. They never sonromnom… rogenom… yom… toomnom…

Sorry about that. I started to eat myself.

Anyway, as I began, a vacation is a time meant for leaving such stress-laden shores in search of better lands. It’s a time for discovering and dwelling in realms where the days have no names and life is far more substantive than the successes of a full dispenser of post-it notes or the backwardness of a perpetual exhaustion that has you saying each night at bedtime, “Well, at least no one actually tried to kill me today.”

For me, apart from reading, writing, or watching a movie, the enjoyment of whisky is a God-given, vacation-like respite that’s available right into the middle of life’s everyday dimness. With so many vibrant variations budding in its landscape, the whisky world brings with it opportunities for inspiration, creativity, newness of experience and thought—all of which I thoroughly enjoy handling through words in order to share with you.

As of late, I’ve discovered that making my own blends with whiskies from some of my favorite distilleries—actually creating editions that I’d pay top-dollar to buy and drink—has become another way to visit the distant uplands of personal relaxation.

Take for example the whisky I’m sharing with you now. It’s one of seven different editions I’ve produced under the label “CLERGYMAN BLENDED WHISKeY,” all of which have been absolutely splendid.

[image error]This one in particular—one I’ve named the “End of Quarantine Edition”—was the result of seventeen test batches across three months of experimentation, ultimately becoming the perfect combination for celebrating a formal ignoring of all of Governor Gretchen Whitmer’s executive orders. And indeed, it is a flawless grouping of The Benriach, Glengoyne, Oban, Highland Park, Aberfeldy, The Macallan, and Glendronach.

The nose of this dram is one of rich truffles—nutty and thickly sweet, and barely tinged by a hint of smoke. A deeper gathering of the scent tells stories of the fruits to come.

A sip gives itself over to an infinity of zests—fleshy fruits such as plums, apricots dotted with cinnamon, and malted raspberries warmed in the sun. Beyond these immediate sensations, there’s the sense of buttercream and salt, with just enough of a campfire’s plume to make it interesting. Even someone who despises the smokier whiskies will find room in their heart for this fusion.

The finish is one of the best I’ve ever experienced from a blended whisky. Seriously. I meant what I said when I told you I was making stuff I’d pay top dollar to consume. With a carefree stride, the sweeter elements described in the nose and palate dissipate for the most part, leaving behind a satisfyingly dark maltiness that beckons you to revisit the bottle and give it all another go.

I’ll surely be making this confection again, that is, once I deplete what I have available—which really isn’t very much. I only made eight 750 mL bottles, with an accompanying handful of 50cL editions. And because I like the stuff so much, I’ll probably get through all of it by the end of the summer.

By the way, I should be clear that this stuff is not for sale, which means you’ll likely never experience it unless a legally licensed distillery decides to help bring it to you—or you stop by my house to enjoy a shared dram. I offer this clarification, first, because I have to; and second, because of what I said above about people gunning for me. It’s true. They are. To cement this point for you, I share the following note I posted on Facebook not long after sharing pictures of this newly completed batch.

[image error]

I was kind, wouldn’t you say? And for the record, I’m by no means done with my whisky-blending efforts. Of course as I’ve already made very clear, I’m not selling the whisky. I never have sold it. Also, let it be known I’m neither challenging the Michigan Liquor Control Commission nor poking at my stalkers (who are really more like die-hard fans because they pay such close attention to me).

Okay, so maybe I am poking a little. How about just considering the words I’m sharing right now to be a gentlemanly encouragement to certain folks to put their two-faced pretentiousness into their bongs (which I know they probably have) and smoke it. And perhaps while marinating in the haze, they could figure out a better way to vent their so-obviously pent up stresses so that the rest of us can live in relative peace.

Actually, I vote they just eat themselves. Watching the rabid insanity of the cancel-culture as it devours some of its own champions, I’m fairly confident they could actually do it.

The post Review – Clergyman Blended Whiskey, 2020 “End of Quarantine” Edition, (No Age Stated), 41.5% appeared first on angelsportion.

Clergyman Blended Whiskey, 2020 “End of Quarantine” Edition, (No Age Stated), 41.5%

[image error]It’s a good sign you’re on vacation when you can call to the back of the van, “Hey, guys, what day is it?” and you get five different answers.

No one knows for sure.

I like that. And while I know what day it is, I still like to pose the question because it serves as a reminder that vacations only last so long, and living carefree enough to be unaware of the day’s name is a short-term pleasure that must be maximized. It won’t be long before the days will no longer tolerate such ignorance. Very soon they’ll be back at one’s door, and like the devil’s delivery men, they’ll come with a cargo of cares.

2020 has been a pretty rough year in this regard, wouldn’t you say? As a point of reference, I went into the year’s mindless pandemic, man-made massacre of the economy, and equally imbecilic rioting weighing 207.2 pounds. I’m 178.8 as I type this. Admittedly, some of this can be attributed to sit-ups, but the rest is thanks to top quality, 100% grade “A” disquietude.

I’m living proof that stress affects the body in very real ways.

I know I’ve told you before that I love my job as a pastor. For the most part, I love all the people I serve.  Still, I’ll admit that sometimes a good day in the ministry isn’t much more than finding an extra packet of post-it notes in my desk drawer when the dispenser beside my phone is empty. That, my friends, is a successful day. Everything else is peppered with human carnage—scenarios that most folks wouldn’t even believe let alone understand, and for the most part, cannot be vented to anyone because of the pastoral binding to professional confidence.

Sometimes I think it would just be easier to be an octopus. I hear that when certain octopi become stressed, they eat themselves. Imagine what an unhappy or offended person with his finger in my chest would do if I suddenly started eating myself. Come to think of it, just in case I find myself overwhelmed by the urge to try this, I’m going to start keeping butter, virgin olive oil, red wine, and some mushrooms in my office refrigerator. I’m pretty sure I’d go well with a side of sautéed mushrooms.

It’s a thought, anyway.

In the meantime, I drink whisky as a means to endure.

Now, let the pietists among us take their usual moment to grumble while they assume they know what I mean.

Are you finished? Good.

And now before I explain myself for the thousandth time, I should also remind my critics not to kid themselves. With the levels of daily disdain being aimed at guys like me from both inside and outside of the Church, I’m pretty much ready for whatever you’re packing. Nothing I write or say in public is ever immune from attack. Why? Because I’m a white man. To make matters worse, I’m a conservative. To make things doubly worse, I’m a Christian. To throw things into a frenzy of worseness, I’m a pastor. This means I could write that I love the whole world and want to give everyone in it a million dollars, and someone would find a way to call me hateful. It’s just the way it all works these days. The inability of our current culture to choose a position from two opposing ideas and still allow for the other to exist at all no longer astounds me. And yet, the venomous hatred for guys like me remains proof that these virtue-signalers demanding tolerance really don’t even believe what they’re preaching. If they did, I’m sure the Books-A-Million in Davenport, Florida would have been just as likely to sell a voodoo doll of Obama as it was of Trump. But reality whispers in such scenarios, “Good luck with that, pal. This door only swings one way.”[image error]

Intolerance, hatred, and inequality are most certainly alive in America, but not necessarily in the ways you’re being told.

In the end, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve grown so used to being attacked for just being the person I am that I’ve formed a shell against most assaults, the least effective of the muggings coming from teetotaling pietists attempting to riddle me with guilt for being a clergyman writing about booze. Trust me. I’ve been at this gig for so long, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it all before. Pietist insults always ricochet. They never sonromnom… rogenom… yom… toomnom…

Sorry about that. I started to eat myself.

Anyway, as I began, a vacation is a time meant for leaving such stress-laden shores in search of better lands. It’s a time for discovering and dwelling in realms where the days have no names and life is far more substantive than the successes of a full dispenser of post-it notes or the backwardness of a perpetual exhaustion that has you saying each night at bedtime, “Well, at least no one actually tried to kill me today.”

For me, apart from reading, writing, or watching a movie, the enjoyment of whisky is a God-given, vacation-like respite that’s available right into the middle of life’s everyday dimness. With so many vibrant variations budding in its landscape, the whisky world brings with it opportunities for inspiration, creativity, newness of experience and thought—all of which I thoroughly enjoy handling through words in order to share with you.

As of late, I’ve discovered that making my own blends with whiskies from some of my favorite distilleries—actually creating editions that I’d pay top-dollar to buy and drink—has become another way to visit the distant uplands of personal relaxation.

Take for example the whisky I’m sharing with you now. It’s one of seven different editions I’ve produced under the label “CLERGYMAN BLENDED WHISKeY,” all of which have been absolutely splendid.

[image error]This one in particular—one I’ve named the “End of Quarantine Edition”—was the result of seventeen test batches across three months of experimentation, ultimately becoming the perfect combination for celebrating a formal ignoring of all of Governor Gretchen Whitmer’s executive orders. And indeed, it is a flawless grouping of The Benriach, Glengoyne, Oban, Highland Park, Aberfeldy, The Macallan, and Glendronach.

The nose of this dram is one of rich truffles—nutty and thickly sweet, and barely tinged by a hint of smoke. A deeper gathering of the scent tells stories of the fruits to come.

A sip gives itself over to an infinity of zests—fleshy fruits such as plums, apricots dotted with cinnamon, and malted raspberries warmed in the sun. Beyond these immediate sensations, there’s the sense of buttercream and salt, with just enough of a campfire’s plume to make it interesting. Even someone who despises the smokier whiskies will find room in their heart for this fusion.

The finish is one of the best I’ve ever experienced from a blended whisky. Seriously. I meant what I said when I told you I was making stuff I’d pay top dollar to consume. With a carefree stride, the sweeter elements described in the nose and palate dissipate for the most part, leaving behind a satisfyingly dark maltiness that beckons you to revisit the bottle and give it all another go.

I’ll surely be making this confection again, that is, once I deplete what I have available—which really isn’t very much. I only made eight 750 mL bottles, with an accompanying handful of 50cL editions. And because I like the stuff so much, I’ll probably get through all of it by the end of the summer.

By the way, I should be clear that this stuff is not for sale, which means you’ll likely never experience it unless a legally licensed distillery decides to help bring it to you—or you stop by my house to enjoy a shared dram. I offer this clarification, first, because I have to; and second, because of what I said above about people gunning for me. It’s true. They are. To cement this point for you, I share the following note I posted on Facebook not long after sharing pictures of this newly completed batch.

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I was kind, wouldn’t you say? And for the record, I’m by no means done with my whisky-blending efforts. Of course as I’ve already made very clear, I’m not selling the whisky. I never have sold it. Also, let it be known I’m neither challenging the Michigan Liquor Control Commission nor poking at my stalkers (who are really more like die-hard fans because they pay such close attention to me).

Okay, so maybe I am poking a little. How about just considering the words I’m sharing right now to be a gentlemanly encouragement to certain folks to put their two-faced pretentiousness into their bongs (which I know they probably have) and smoke it. And perhaps while marinating in the haze, they could figure out a better way to vent their so-obviously pent up stresses so that the rest of us can live in relative peace.

Actually, I vote they just eat themselves. Watching the rabid insanity of the cancel-culture as it devours some of its own champions, I’m fairly confident they could actually do it.

The post Clergyman Blended Whiskey, 2020 “End of Quarantine” Edition, (No Age Stated), 41.5% appeared first on angelsportion.