Have I mentioned that I am often walking on a treadmill when I write these reviews? Recently we were given a second treadmill. It is beneficial to us for several reasons, one of which being that we both like to walk for an hour each night, my routine arising from the discovery that my bad back is greatly helped and her routine providing the opportunity for keeping fit while watching some of her favorite TV shows—ones I won’t sit and watch with her. I don’t watch much TV because, well, I think most of what’s on TV is pretty stupid. I only watch the news—and maybe the History Channel now and then. But Jen has her favorites, so she watches them while walking. We spent most of the evening apart with only one treadmill and the need to take turns using it. We already have very little time together, so a second treadmill means we can walk at the same time and finish at the same time. Jen gets to watch the TV shows I won’t watch with her, and I get to exercise my ailing frame.
For the sake of space, I arranged the treadmills to face one another. This means that just over the top of my computer screen, I can see my wife—stepping swiftly, headphones donned and being drawn so intimately into each show, animated all the while with expressions and gestures of surprise, fear, laughter, and the like. It can be pretty funny sometimes but also somewhat startling when she throws her hands up to her face and screams, “Oh, my gosh! Get out of there! Run!”
This scenario came to mind with the first sip of the Craigellachie 13-year-old edition. I purchased the whisky only because I’d not yet seen it offered in Michigan, and I’m always looking for a new Scotch whisky to review. I opened it with some friends on New Year’s Eve, and I’m guessing they must have been similarly startled when I nosed and sipped, almost immediately gurgling a disappointed, “Oh my!” It wasn’t good. And I wasn’t alone in my discernment. My compatriots experienced the same.
The nose gave over soured citrus—lemons—not wholly unpleasant, and yet by this, I knew I was in for something potentially piercing.
The palate was incredibly hostile to the back of the tongue, again very sour with an intimated sprinkling of salt. Salt and soured citrus don’t work well together here. They do in a margarita, but that involves an entirely different type of citrus.
The finish was way too long, leaving behind a linctus coating that I wanted to go away immediately. But rather than a glass of water, I chose to cleanse my palate with the first familiar and friendly whisky I could find—which happened to be the Glenmorangie La Santa. Ah, now that’s the right kind of citrus in a whisky.
I know there are other editions from Craigellachie, namely the 17, 19, and 23-year-olds. If I find them, I will, most certainly, give them a try and let the AngelsPortion.com crowd know the determination. Although, I should say that I am a bit hesitant to exhaust the “Squirrel Fund” on a whisky that has already delivered disappointment.
So with that, I’ll end right here. I will make faces at my wife while she watches her show.
*Lame show spoiler alert!
I got her attention, and she told me she was watching the final episode of “White Collar.” She said the main character had just died. She seems pretty distraught. I’d better be ready to cut the power to the treadmill before she launches into the cement wall behind her here in the basement. It might be funny if it were only drywall, but it isn’t.
Oh, my gosh! I gotta go!