Category: stare at the photo until the joke hits you

Whisky Wind-down, 24: Snow Day

A bottle of Resurgens Rye and a glass of same sit on a snow-covered table in front of a brick wall.

Today’s dram: Atlanta Spirit Works, Resurgens Rye

Today’s tasting notes: I first tried this at a party last year, and I’m pretty grateful to the person who brought it, both because I went to the party in need of a subject for a Whisky Wind-down post and also because it was my introduction into Atlanta Spirit Works, which has since become a favorite of mine.

I still love the aroma on this. It’s like the best warm loaf of bread right out of the oven. The flavor has bite, but maybe not as much as you’d expect on a rye whisky. It’s in beautiful balance with the mild sweetness and finishes oh so warmly. Just the thing for a cold night.

Today’s thoughts: Atlanta is renowned for its responses to snow storms. If by “renowned” you mean “mercilessly mocked” and by “responses” you mean “hahaha, we’ll come up with a plan two hours after it starts to stick.”

Now, in fairness, as Mayor Kasim Reed famously huffed at a news conference during Snowpocalypse 2014, the actual city of Atlanta makes up just a tiny portion of what most outsiders consider ATLANTA, which is roughly everything ITP (local colloquial for Inside the Perimeter, the area within I-285).

And while I give Reed marginal props for making that nitpicking point, it’s rendered moot when the larger issue is our leaders can’t decided whether to under- or over-react to any particular storm. 

I vastly prefer the over-reaction end of the cycle. It’s fine and well to be the city that gets mocked for taking a day off at the slightest suggestion of snow. I like that city. That’s a safe city to live in. It beats the hell out of being the city where government officials and business owners are so damned stubborn that they fail to take action until after the last minute, leaving people stuck in their cars for hours on end or stranded in powerless schools or worse, all-in on the off-chance that “productivity” might take a slight hit for calling a snow day too early. Fuck productivity. Nobody’s getting a damned thing done except anxiously staring out the window and refreshing their weather apps, anyway.

Today’s personal observation: I do go on about this, don’t I? Nonetheless, the site motto will remain as is … although “whisky ramblings and snow musings” does have a nice ring to it.

Today’s toast: To a warm dram on a cold night.

2016 Whisky Wind-down, 29: You Might Like It

A whisky tumbler with a double measure of The Glenlivet 12-Year-Old sits on a desk before a half-size bottle of same and a stuffed Yoda keeps watch. Background: Bookcases.

Today’s dram: The Glenlivet, 12-Year-Old

Today’s tasting notes: Do not fear to drink this. Perhaps maybe try this if you’ve never had Scotch whisky before. It is the definition of approachable — an easy-to-enjoy whisky exemplifying the basics of a style, in this case a single malt from the Scottish Highlands.* Smell it, and it will take you to a warm happy place. Sip it, and feel that warmth flow into you. Hold it in your mouth briefly, savor the heat and subtle sweetness. Swallow, and feel smoothness with just enough of an edge to let you know it is actually Scotch whisky.

Today’s thoughts: Growing up I was a picky eater. That is a true statement, but it also rather understates both the past and present. When I was a kid, I hated eating almost everything. Ever heard a parent lament that their kid will only eat chicken nuggets and ketchup? Yeah, I hated those, too. Especially the ketchup. Bleh. And I still hate it. I hate nearly all condiments, in fact. And yes, hate is the right word. It’s not a word I ever really go for, but I will allow myself to be an absolutist and use that word in regard to those things. Ketchup? Hate. Mustard? Hate. Mayonnaise? Hatehatehate!

Send me food with any of that on it and tell me to just scrape it off? Fuck you. Scrape your face off.

My younger sister told me at Thanksgiving that her two-year-old son can’t stand mayonnaise, and she thinks he might be allergic because he throws up when he encounters it. When she said that, I wanted to run to him and hug him and tell him, “You are not alone! Uncle Jon also knows this pain!”

But he’s two years old, so I didn’t.

I will as soon as he gets a handle on this language thing, though.

What I will try not to say to him are things like “Try it, you might like it” and “Your tastes will change.”

How I loathed those phrases, which were thrown at me so often in my youth.

And yet … I now grudgingly admit they hold glimmers of truth.

I mean, I did finally learn to like pizza, a burger in a bun rather than separate, potatoes, pecan pie …

Oh, and whisky.

Contrary to appearances, I was never against trying things. I just wanted people to listen after I tried a thing and said, “No, this isn’t for me.” Usually, the gag reflex got the point across, but people are surprisingly persistent when you tell them you can’t stand a thing they love.

Here is where I nominate my mother for sainthood, because wow did I ever make her life difficult, what with the not eating most of what she ever put in front of me, which necessitated an awful lot of cooking something extra just for me, and so much special ordering at restaurants, and entirely too many patient conversations explaining my eating habits to other people, and … god, how is she not completely mad?

She is made of steel, that is why.

But under her steel beats the softest heart in the world, and she never let me go hungry or forced me to be miserable just because I was picky.

I am going to go call her as soon as I post this.

Today’s note on meeting the expectations of others: Fuck ’em. Yeah, me included, for telling you to try Scotch whisky. Don’t want to? Don’t. Grinning and bearing is overrated. Graciously decline where possible, threaten to stab as needed, repeat as necessary. And always, always, to thine own taste buds be true.

Today’s toast: To picky eaters everywhere: May the person who takes your order always listen carefully and get it right!


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* — Speyside. I know. But if you know enough about Scotch whisky to know Glenlivet’s sub-region, then that paragraph really isn’t for you, now is it?