Whisky Wind-down, 6: Rest Ye Weary Dead

A bottle of The Sexton single malt Irish whisky sits next to a glass filled with same, on a mantel with red holiday garland.

Today’s dram: The Sexton, single malt Irish whisky

Today’s tasting notes: Aroma is sweet and woodsy. Flavor is smooth and slightly sweet, with a warming bite in the finish.

It’s different. I don’t drink a lot of Irish single malts — they’re not terribly common, compared to Scottish single malts — but I enjoy one now and again, especially as they are a departure from standard Irish whisky. This one reminds me a bit of Highland Scottish whisky; probably I’m drawing that comparison from the sherry cask aging used here.

All in all, it’s enjoyable; I’ll probably keep this around for a cold night by the fire. Or, perhaps, I’ll fill a flask for company on a particular walk.

Today’s thoughts: The bottle lore on this one speaks of a graveyard by the River Bush, from which you can sometimes detect the aroma of distilling spirits.

It’s been awhile since I’ve walked a graveyard, but it was an old hobby of mine.

It’s an autumn sort of hobby, the sight of nature in decline serving to accentuate the stark stone reminders that mark our mutual finish line.

Works in winter, too, though. Then the cold breeze bites and the empty trees shiver, and everything says your time will come, too.

Many years I’ve sought such places in these final days of the year, when the festivities fast fade and the year’s last gasp is in the air.

It’s quite the melancholy week — a transitory time fit for reflecting upon the expiring year, all its good, all its ill.

It all starts again soon enough.

Today’s toast: To the dead: beyond the need for a dram, past all ambitions great or small, gone from the wheel.

Whisky Wind-down, 7: Holiday’s End

A bottle of Seagram's VO Gold sits next to a pair of glasses, in front of a Christmas tree.

Today’s dram: Seagram’s VO Gold, 8-Year-Old

Today’s tasting notes: It’s smooth Canadian whisky, a tad sweet, with just a touch of bite. Finishes clean and easy.

Today’s thoughts: For most of my adult life, whenever I’ve been home for the holidays, we end up at my dad’s home by late afternoon and stay there for dinner and dessert. And once the blizzard of grandchildren and presents has passed, and things quiet down, Dad usually asks if anyone feels like a Christmas drink. For as long as I can remember, for him, that means a couple of ounces of Seagram’s VO Gold, over ice, topped with Coca-Cola.

The older I get, the more I appreciate this ending to a long Christmas day. I’m even getting to like the VO Gold, minus the cola.

Today’s toast: To holiday traditions, holiday tipples, and holiday tipple traditions.

Whisky Wind-down, 8: Happy Place

A glass of Crown Royal rye whisky stands next to an empty mini-bottle on a yellow KitchenAid stand mixer.

Today’s dram: Crown Royal, rye

Today’s tasting notes: How do you make traditionally easy-going Canadian whisky bite back? Mix in rye.

This one is 90% rye, though, so maybe it’s actually the Canadian bit that’s smoothing an otherwise harsh rye?

At any rate, it’s a pseudo-sweet, biting-but-smooth dram, just right for a nightcap at the end of a long day.

Today’s thoughts: The long day was mostly in the kitchen, which is one of my favorite places, with two of my favorite people, Mom and The Empress of Whisky.

Between us, we produced two varieties of cupcakes, lemon chiffon pie, lemon syrup, a chicken and pasta dinner, and pizza dough for the traditional lunch tomorrow.

We also played games, told stories, went shopping, and assembled furniture.

All in all, great day.

Today’s toast: To the holiday hustle; it’s the good kind of tiring.

Whisky Wind-down, 9: Home Again

A bottle of Canadian Mist whisky sits next to a filled glass, next to a tiny tabletop Christmas tree. All of these items sit upon a kitchen counter.

Today’s dram: Canadian Mist, blended, aged 36 months

Today’s tasting notes: Look, it’s young Canadian whisky, so it doesn’t hold much. What’s there is warm, sweet, and pretty smooth. It goes down damned easy, actually.

Today’s thoughts: This is my favorite dram yet, and it has nothing to do with the whisky and everything to do with the setting and the company. This is from my mom’s liquor shelf, in the kitchen of her new home, to which we just toasted.

Today’s toast: To home, there really is no place like it for the holidays, no matter how new or old.

Whisky Wind-down, 16: Festive Midpoint Mistletoe

A bottle of cask-strength Maker's Mark bourbon, adorned with mistletoe, sit alongside a filled glass. In the background, a cat tree bears Christmas lights.

Today’s dram: Maker’s Mark, Cask Strength, Batch 15-04 (bottled at 110.4 proof)

Today’s educational preamble to the tasting notes: Bourbon, as you may recall, is whisky made from at least 51% corn, aged on new charred oak barrels, and … well that’s the essential information.

(It must be made in the States, and there’s some math about distillation alcohol percentages, as well as more math for barreling, bottling, and settling, but I majored in English to avoid a lot of complex numbers, so we’ll stick to the simple but nonetheless important ones.)

Let’s talk about that 51% corn requirement. That’s the minimum, but some distillers use much more in their mash bill.* Corn adds most of the sweetness in bourbon, so most mash bills use quite of bit of corn, plus malted barley, topped with a bit of rye.

A few,** however, diverge and use wheat in place of rye. These bourbons, of which Maker’s Mark is one, tend to have less pronounced spice or “bite” to them.

Apart from the mash bill, the major influence on what comes out of the barrel is how that barrel itself is treated over the years. Say, for example, you took two barrels filled from the same mash bill and aged them both for seven years. One, however, you left in place at the very top of the rickhouse, several stories up in the warmer air, while the other you left at ground level, subject to more cooler temperatures. Seven years later, these would be different bourbons with different flavor profiles.

A lot of distilleries do this, and they sell several different bourbons. The Jim Beam Distillery,*** for instance, produces a couple dozen varieties, aside from the namesake. Barrels from the top floors of their rickhouses might end up blended as Knob Creek; meanwhile, barrels from the ground floor end up as Basil Hayden’s.****

Meanwhile, down the road at Star Hill Farm, the folks who make Maker’s Mark bourbon don’t make two dozen brands. With a few variations, they make only Maker’s Mark. They use one mash bill, and all barrels start their life on the ninth floor of a rickhouse. After a year or so, when the master taster judges them ready, these young barrels are brought down to the eighth floor. And so on and so forth. By the time each barrel rolls out at ground level, it has had a pretty similar journey to its peers.

“Pretty similar” is an important distinction here. Within any particular run, there will be minor variations from barrel-to-barrel, but the overall vibe is such that, when blended, the final product is consistent from year-to-year. However, an especially interesting variation may catch the master distiller’s eye — er, palate — and end up flagged to be sold as part of a small batch variation, or, oh-to-be-the-lucky-one, a single-barrel bottling.

What else?

Oh, right. Bottling strength. For the most part, after blending the various barrels, the batch will be diluted to bourbon’s traditional 90 proof (or, perhaps, a slightly higher or lower proof to which a particular bourbon is made).

Now and then, the distillers will decide to honor us with a little something special, and they’ll sell a batch at cask strength, undiluted as it came off the wood: strong, pure, bourbon as nature intended.

Today I’m drinking one of those.

Today’s tasting notes: The aroma on this one is something else. It’s, as you might expect, a stronger version of the regular Maker’s Mark aroma — rich, sweet, inviting — and you start noticing it before even bringing the glass up to sip. It’s big, bold, beautiful, and, despite the high proof, there is little discernible alcohol burn on it. Even if you stick your nose right down and inhale deeply, it’s just a big, sweet, friendly aroma. Oh, I love it.

The flavor is an intense version of the regular stuff — warm, on the sweet side, and barely any burn, even at 110.4 proof.

Dangerously drinkable.

Today’s thoughts: I owe this bottle to attention to detail.

Over the years, my family has gradually become accustomed to my “hobby” of whisky tasting (and the associated writings that arise therefrom).

During last year’s Christmas shopping season, while he happened to be out at a nearby military base exchange store, my dad saw this. The words “cask strength” clicked in his mind in association with words I’d written, so he bought it and gifted it to me.

Good call, Dad.

I’ve been hanging onto it for a year now, waiting to include it in this year’s Whisky Wind-down. Sure, I could have opened it earlier, with the intention to save some for now, but … open bottles of bourbon have a tendency to disappear around The Empress of Whisky.

I’m not saying she would steal from her most loyal subject, but there is a troubling “evaporation rate” in her presence. Must be a body chemistry thing.

Today’s note on festive bourbon decorations: You probably noticed the mistletoe. That was a holiday greeting from the distillery. Why is Maker’s Mark sending me a holiday greeting? A few years ago, when we toured there, The Empress and I signed up to be part of the Maker’s Mark Ambassadors.

Aside from adding us to its Christmas card list, the distillery put our names on a barrel of bourbon that is currently winding its way down the racks in a rickhouse at Star Hill Farm. When it finishes, we’ll get a call to attend a bottling ceremony and the chance to purchase a unique bottle from that single barrel. Cool, eh?

Today’s toast: To the seasons, let them turn, turn, turn … white dog into bourbon.


* — “Mash bill” is distiller-talk for “recipe.” It’s expressed as percentages (by weight) of each type of grain that goes into the brew kettle. And, while you’re here, “rackhouse” is just a bastardized spelling/pronunciation of “rickhouse,” which is just what Kentuckyians call a warehouse full of racks for storing bourbon.

** — Okay, more than a few, if you want to get into some of the newer permutations of bourbon. Since the only legal requirement is the 51% corn, you could go nuts and use any other grain for the rest. But your established bourbon-makers are content to focus on variations of the classic corn/barley/rye or corn/barley/wheat blends. Subtle changes in those ratios can make a big difference, before you even get to variations in wood char, aging times, aging conditions. Put simply, master bourbon makers don’t need to play with weird grains to set themselves apart.

*** — The distillery itself, as distinct from its parent company, Beam Suntory, which is the owner of many other brands including — surprise! — Maker’s Mark. I can’t say I’m a fan of corporate conglomerates in a general sense, but in the specific case of Beam Suntory, I have to give the company credit for allowing its disparate holdings to operate in whatever fashion has proved historically viable to their success, with little interference from the top.

**** — Disclaimer: These are brands owned by Beam Suntory and made at Jim Beam Distillery. The floor levels I describe are, however, just made-up examples. Knob Creek might actually be a mid-floor bourbon, while Basil Hayden’s is top. The process is otherwise as described.

Whisky Wind-down, 17: Void

Today’s dram: None.

Today’s tasting notes: None.

Today’s thoughts: Some days, it hurts to think. On those days, it may or may not hurt to drink. Sometimes, when you stare into the Abyss, it stares back. Other times, the Abyss would just like to know how you’re doing, catch up a bit, put lunch on the calendar.

Today’s bit of honesty: It isn’t always difficult. Just often. Too often. Even accomplishing the joyful things becomes difficult, in this theoretically most joyful month.

Today’s toast: To all who struggle; struggle on.

2016 Whisky Wind-down, 6: North, South, Shalom

Today’s dram: Highland Park, 12-Year-Old

Today’s tasting notes: This is a new one. At least, I don’t recall having tried it. It’s the product of another venerable whisky distillery, the northernmost in Scotland. 

There, on Orkney Island, they still malt their own barley before drying it over a fire fueled by peat with a heavy dose of heather. 

The marketing spiel says that heather gives the whisky a floral character. I can’t say I detect that by smell, but then I may be a touch stuffy at the moment. On the tongue, it is warm and smooth. It goes down easy, leaves a lingering pleasant warmth with maybe the faintest kiss, almost a memory, of smoke. 

Today’s thoughts: I grew up in the South. Rural southern Georgia, if specifics matter. There are things about Chrismas in the South that are different than Christmas elsewhere. 

We don’t expect snow, for starters. 

Sure, we dream of a white Christmas, but we know it’s just that — a dream. Actual white Christmases happen to other people. Northerners, mostly. 

My first Christmas in Maine was a bit of a revelation in that regard. Christmas there is like the Christmas I had only seen on greeting cards. Snowy landscape. Smoke curls from cute chimneys. And everywhere everyone was eager to stay indoors, playing cards and drinking something warm.

Also, they have this weird substance called “stuffing” which is used in place of dressing* at the holiday meal. I can’t say I completely understand the reasoning, but it is enjoyable enough. 

Also, wine. 

I realize I am at risk of generalzing too much, but wine was never a thing at my southern family’s dinner table. We had sweet tea. (They call it “the table wine of the South” and that really isn’t an exaggerattion.)

Something else I never encountered? Chanukah. It’s not that we don’t have Jews in rural, southern Georgia, but they are few and far between, and I was a young adult before I knew any personally. Today I am friends with a few, inlcuding my sister-in-law’s husband.** 

He’s a New Yorker by birth, but now he and his Maine-born wife are raising a Texas-born son in Alabama. That kid has culture out the wazoo, even before his aunt and uncle come calling.***

This is the third evening of Chanukah, and I have enjoyed the past two, so today shall I stand respectfully quiet as the family kindles their menorahh and my five-year-old nephew tries to keep up with the words of prayer and song that go along with the lighting of candles. 

Today’s note on passive-agressive holiday greetings: There really is a lot to celebrate. Be gracious, wherever you find yourself . 

Today’s toast: L’Chayim.


* — If you are not from the South, I will forgive you not knowing about dressing. I am not talking about the stuff that goes on salad. Think of southern dressing as a stuffing casserole and you will have close to the right image. I miss it and will very probably have to make my own before the year is out.

** — Is there a word for that relationship?  A proper word, I mean? Some people would refer to the two of us as brothers-in-law, but that is both confusing and technically incorrect. As Ann Landers put it, “You are no relation; you are just two men who married sisters.” But we are family. We need a word. 

*** — I am not the drunk uncle. Mostly. I try to restrict my uncling influcence to hats, beards, and Star Wars. Sometimes I consult on train layouts or LEGO arrangements. Also, I make pancakes.