I love my family. I love Scotch. But do you want to know what else I love?

The Millennium Falcon.

Go ahead and call me a Star Wars nerd. My skin is thick. I heartily accept the label. To make the point by way of example, if I can handle receiving a phone call the afternoon before Christmas Eve – a conversation by which the caller, while venting a personal struggle, proceeded to find the desired comfort by insulting me personally and rather brutally – if I can handle such deflating disparagement before the night of nights, then trust me, I can handle being named a Star Wars drip.

I took my son to see Star Wars Episode VII, and he being like his father, smiled brightly when the infamous ship that so many characters in the story have referred to as a piece of junk lifted off, was perilously pursued by First Order Tie Fighters, and was once again found as the champion.

I guess I appreciate the Falcon in sort of a vicarious way. She’s always taking crap. She’s always getting flown into and pummeled by asteroids, shackled by tractor beams, swallowed by massive space worms, blasted by Star Destroyers and Tie Fighters, and sabotaged by Sith Lord lackeys – and still she’s got a special set of innards which makes her the most reliable, most endearing, and most victorious ship in that galaxy far, far away. Like the Falcon, time and time again a pastor will almost certainly find himself in tight spots, being beaten nearly to death by various forces (verbal, mental, and the like). He knows that the perpetrators will suffer very little if any consequence, and that once they realize he survived, they’ll be after him again with fuller squadrons. Still, with careful piloting, he’ll make it through to another day.

I suppose I am sharing this with you because, well, it came to mind as I started to type, but also as it taps ever-so-slightly against the High West Double Rye’s hull.

I shan’t ever fly the Millennium Falcon, but there remains a vague comparison between us that makes me smile. The High West Double Rye shan’t ever be Scotch, and yet I should say that it has a similar set of innards which at least allows for a reaching comparison in charm.

I was a little disappointed at first when I popped the stopper. Not only did the wooden knob top snap off with much of the cork still embedded, but when I finally set it free and was able to give the whiskey beyond it a nosing, it smelled liked ketchup – that’s it, just ketchup – and Hunts not Heinz. Hunts is a little sweeter in my humble opinion.

With that, I expected the first sip to be underdeveloped and almost certainly sub-par, and yet I was nicely startled by a semi-sweet, well balanced, near-warm, and amply ryed dram.

There was a bit of a spicy basil frisson in the finish which momentarily distracted from the rye, but having a medium to long varnish left plenty of time and room for its scales to come into balance and deliver an even conclusion.

Sure, I’ll admit that I entertained the possibility of giving this Bourbon a place in the cabinet with the rest of my Scotch collection. For a moment, that is.