Bushmills 10 Year Old Single Malt

I have had a remarkably productive weekend, for me.  Yesterday I worked my second job for 8 hours, which means that I read a Nabokov book. After that I went out and replaced my phone, which had been broken for several months, and had a nice dinner with family.  Then I came home and enjoyed some fine beverages and Netflix programming while setting up said phone.  Today I woke up at the crack of 11, went out for breakfast with the family, and cleaned my bedroom top to bottom.  I then drank some beer, made some banana bread, took a hot bath and beat the Indianapolis Colts 45 to 7.  Wait, was that not me?  Well without that it looks like I just kicked back, ate too much and took care of a few things.  Well bollocks, I’ve earned a reward for all that anyways.  My reward tonight?  See title.

Let’s flash back some four or so years—a young man is turning 21.  Said young man may, and this is not an admission of guilt (you can prove nothing,) have been known to have a premature fondness for the brown spirits.  At that time, this young nameless man was in the practice of keeping on hand a bottle of bourbon, a bottle of Irish and a bottle of cognac about, finance permitting.  So, come this young man’s 21st birthday, a generous benefactor / my father’s girlfriend, gave said young man a bottle of the title spirit—Bushmills 10 year Single Malt.  It was wondrous, eye opening even, for a fella who was used to your standard Irish blends.  That bottle was a revered treat, saved only to start a special night—one that more than likely involved listening to Bob Dylan and contributing nothing to society.  I…ehhhmmm…our anonymous subject, received a different kind of education alongside his college studies.  For some reason (read: college debt) this young man never bought another bottle of that sweet nectar, and yet has continued (I’m an omnipotent 3rd person narrator) to remember it fondly.

Well, that young man still has not bought another bottle of that sweet stuff—but my dad has.  And for the sake of that young man, so innocent and lost, let me steal a dram off my old man, and pour it out in his honor.  Right down my gullet.  Without further dudes, let me imbibe of this wee borrowed dram, and catch a couple notes.

New camera is gunna step up my photogue game

New camera is gunna step up my photogue game

From the nose I find some lovely light orange oil notes, with a very complementary dose of clove and some floating vanilla notes, to really tie the room together.  Once you sip of that golden sunshine, oh lawdy lawd—soft honey washes into miles of smooth vanilla floating on streams of chocolate milk which leave, yet linger and somehow leaves you feeling as though your palette is cleansed.  It’s lovely, almost…poetic…

In County Antrim did Sir Thomas Phillipps
a stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Bush, the sacred river, ran
Through stills measureless to man,
Down to sweet whiskey.

Just one dram, and you too can rip off Samuel Taylor Coleridge! Anyways, this is truly a beautifully subtle whiskey, and a perfect introduction into the world of Irish Single Malts—one that you will be likely to remember fondly, as did our young protagonist for he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.

 

Baker’s Bourbon, or Why We Fight

It’s Sunday night.  If you’re anything like me, and innumerable other poor insufferable bastards your mind is now spent pouring every moment of your weekend trying to remember where the time went, what did you do, have you really spent the last 11 hours on that couch?  Then there’s that other thought, that lingering dread, that grim cloud of despair that threatens your next 5 days—a combination of the known and unknown sufferings to come.  Or maybe you like your job, in which case, bully for you—self-fulfilled prick.  At some wicked hour you’re going to be awakened by some unnatural thought.  You will roll out of bed, stagger through your morning without being able to enjoy the beauty that is your breakfast and coffee.  You will drive (in the snow, in my case) to the office complex, the job site, the sweatshop.  You’ll bleed for 40 hours as the phones ring, the shitfans spray, the meetings drone and the whip cracks.  Why, dear god why?! Why do we dedicate so much of our lives to something that we find so dreadful, even possibly loathsome?  The short answer—we need shit.

I’m going to really try my best to avoid a rant (rampage) against crass consumerism here; for the sake of your already tormented minds and for the sake of space.  Also, it doesn’t contribute to my point.  The point is, that we work, because we need to make a living.  Maybe some of us legitimately hate our jobs, maybe some of us love them, me, I find it far more tolerable while doing it than warrants my present dread.  I do it though, admitted, because I need to.  I do it because every two weeks a bunch of numbers show up on this website saying I can pay people money that I owe them for that piece of paper I paid way too much for.  That website also says I can eat stuff, and drink some nice booze.  If you couldn’t tell I’m rather fond of booze.  Which brings me to my next point: sometimes there are, emphasis on sometimes, little unexpected perks that make your work go from something you bleed at for 40 hours per week, to a part of your life.  There are times when there’s a reward, be that intrinsic or otherwise, that make Sunday night’s dread perhaps seem a bit unfounded.  When you’re able to make a little impact in someone’s life, when there’s leftover pizza up for grabs in the breakroom, or when you go that extra mile for someone and they go out of their way to thank you.  These are nice moments. Small joys, surely, but without them the shitfan keeps humming endlessly.

Where am I going with all this?  Did the title not give it away? One of those small joys happened for me over the holidays, when my team at work went out for a nice dinner and exchange of gifts.  Many of the gifts were alcoholic (ahh, numbing the stress), my boss kindly bought me a bottle of Baker’s bourbon.  Working with people that you enjoy the company of is quite nice in and of itself.  When they give you good bourbon?  Small joy.  To the point, what of the bourbon?

Baker’s bourbon is a Beam brand project, one of their premier line, running at 107 proof after spending 7 years on oak absorbing, let me tell you, some lovely flavors.  Perhaps that’s an understatement.  You see, the first whiff of Baker’s is warm, round, almost thick and chewy, if your nostrils can detect that.  There are luscious notes of caramel, honey, and an almost cedar like woodiness with some dark and rich spice notes.  I’m pretty sure this would for some manly cologne.  Ah, and to taste this.  Rich chewy molasses cookies are the predominant flavor with a bit of allspice, a touch of dark fruit and a hint of vanilla—the best way I can describe this is simply lustrous. The finish reveals that vanilla that had but hiding just beneath the surface and sinks softly down warming, melting away the tension, the fear that goddamn grim menace of tomorrow.

What it is all for?  It’s for those small joys, that leftover pizza, for those people who make work tolerable, and that special bottle every other Friday that lets you stop the droning, stop the bleeding—lets you reap your just rewards.

Happy New Year and a Touch of Tullamore Dew

“Let grasses grow and waters flow
In a free and easy way,
But give me enough of the rare old stuff
That’s made near Galway Bay,
Come gangers all from Donegal,
Sligo and Leitrim too,
Oh, we’ll give the slip and we’ll take a sip
Of the rare old Mountain Dew”

Well, it’s not actually made near Galway Bay, rather Country Cork—but that’s aside from the point. It’s not made in Tullamore either… But we’ll forgive that as tonight’s review is one of the classic, ubiquitous Irish Whiskies, Tullamore Dew.  On the political scale of things Tullamore Dew is known as a classic Catholic whiskey, proper Republican as it were, but let us not linger on the conflicts that divide us, but rather the ties that bind.  These, my friends, are whiskey and song—and these happen to be two of Ireland’s finest exports. Why do I raise the subject?  You didn’t think I would get to it, did you: New Year’s.  Yes, I’m a tad late.  As they say I got proper knackered on the eve of the New Year, and I didn’t write you all.  Don’t pretend you care.  Well, if any holiday is about liquor and song it’s New Year’s Eve with its champagne and “Auld Lang Syne.” Well I had a bit of that meself, the sing along to the old Scotch tune.  I’ll be honest and say I drank far more than whiskey—beer, Akavitt, champagne, whiskey, more whiskey, a sidecar…some water.  I spent the evening with my dad and his buddies and my sister, they sang karaoke, I hacked my phlegmatic lungs in for a song or two, but as 2015 rolled in I found myself atuned to the likes of the Pogues and the Clancy Brothers, and the juice of the barley.  Perhaps the booze inside me was resonating as that frequency.  Right, well, happy New Year and Merry Christmas your arse, I pray god it’s our last. That’s a lyric, I don’t mean that. Maybe I do, anyways here’s the review, which is probably why you’re reading.

Nose:  A light wisp of alcohol, some light green apple notes and an ever so slight hint of vanilla.

Palette:  Very light, with an almost chardonnay like buttery note, faint vanilla and some grain notes

Finish: Like a light buttered white bread with slight hint of lingering citrus…I think?

So what do I have to say about Tullamore Dew?  Well it ain’t no Rare Auld Mountain Dew, it’s on every liquor store shelf for about $20.  And at that price it’s brawling with the other big names of the Irish as a daily drinker, as your shot and a pint, as a quick tipple.  It’s not exceptional, but I highly doubt it’s supposed to be.  It’s a competitive easy drinker, a singer’s lubricant, and another kind drink to bring us all together in the New Year…until the goddamn meddling tee-totalers start more wars and silence the singers, bleeding bastards.  To sum up this mediocre review:

“And all I’ve done for want of wit, to memory now I cannot recall.
So fill me to the parting glass. Goodnight and joy be with you all.”

Mandolins, menorahs and my dear departed Irish Nana.  Seemed appropriate.

Mandolins, menorahs and my dear departed Irish Nana. Seemed appropriate.