A few weeks ago I came across a meme that I thought spoke a near holy truth. It was set against one of those classic images from the 50s, one in which a mother dressed in a crisply ironed house dress was smiling down upon her young daughter. The tagline read: “My daughter asked me what it’s like to have kids, so I interrupted her every eleven seconds until she cried.”

Bam. That one hit me like a tear-filled bus of interrupted children.

We experienced this unhallowed actuality tonight while attempting to watch a movie. Every few moments, one of our four would come down the stairs and ask us a question. Some of the questions related to promises Jen had made earlier in the evening – one in particular that sealed the fate of a pumpkin pie sitting on our kitchen counter and its sidekick can of whipped cream in the refrigerator.

Okay, I get those kinds of questions. I do. They wanted pie. But I guess what troubles me is that we tell them very clearly that they can have the pie when our movie is done, and so they come down the stairs every ten minutes or so asking if it’s time for pie; and because the movie isn’t one for little ones’ ears, Jen keeps pausing the movie.

But that’s not all. There are questions added here and there that nearly get my children tossed out a window.

Again, I understand the childhood impatience of wanting a pledged before-bed goodie, but what is it that stirs in the littlest of souls the need to come trotting down the stairs and ask a question like “Do you think it would be better to have twelve fingers instead of ten?” just after we told them to leave us alone until the movie is over? Can’t such a philosophic-biological question wait until the end credits?

I suppose each of the interruptions did give me an opportunity to consider another whisky sample sent to me by my friend, Nathan – the Laphroaig Cairdeas Portwood edition.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth movie intermission that I finally got up and poured myself a dram of this delightful little distraction.

I say delightful because unlike the sister edition — the Amontillado edition — the nose of this whisky is a bit more defined. The Amontillado is a muddle of smoke and soured salt, but this is a rather keen tangling of smoked raisins.

During another unwanted intermission, I took a moment to concentrate while savoring. The palate is a little like its sister in that the salt arrives on a plume. But then there are grapes. Because of the sweetness, I’d say concord, but I suppose really sweet reds might be an option.

The finish borders on long. This is true because it was still with me when I returned from chasing my six-year-old up the stairs and to her room. And I’ll add that throughout the chase, little meditation was needed. The wood spice was quite conspicuous.

You ask, “Did you like the movie?” Well, asking me that is kind of like asking me if I liked riding in your Porsche when during the entire ride you started and stopped it every ten feet. Yeah, I guess it was okay. The Laphroaig Cairdeas Portwood was certainly a worthy fill in for the gaps.