It’s not that I can’t come up with the necessary narratives that are signature to my efforts, or that I am in some way losing interest in the whole endeavor. I could write all day every day and never run out of words. It’s all but a disease. And what a difference it would make if I could get paid to do it. Nevertheless, the reason for the slowdown is that I need to be more mindful of two things in particular.
The first is that I need to do a better job of pacing my whisky purchases. Remember, rarely do I review anything that I did not purchase with my own hard earned dollars. Every now and then I receive a sample, mainly from various friends—rarely from a distillery. And so with that, I need to be mindful of my funds.
Second, unless I start receiving samples more often (or get paid for my reviews so that I can pad the whisky coffers), I fear that when it comes to Scotch, in particular, I am very near the end of all that’s reasonably available in Michigan. And with the prices rising and many of the already top-dollar whiskies skyrocketing into the $1,000+ stratosphere, I need to pull back on my output. I know that I still have plenty of other regional whiskies that I can review, but as most of my readers know, I just don’t get the same enjoyment from Bourbons and such. Scotch is truly my thing. And why should I do any of this if it can’t be enjoyable?
Take, for example, the Lost Distillery’s Auchnagie edition. I’ve been swirling, smelling, and sipping so many Bourbons lately that a brief interlude with a dividend like this is like leaving a ruckus hotel swimming pool overrun by a bus full of travel-team athletes after a tournament for an untouched freshwater tributary kept just warm enough by an underground volcanic flow. It’s clean. It’s calm. It’s easy.
The nose suggests that while you soak in the natural spring, a footman is nearby with warmed English muffins lightly painted with salted butter and barely a touch of marmalade.
In the mouth, the Auchnagie is another visit by an altogether different caretaker, this time bringing along a campfire-warmed marshmallow and the salty—nay, oily—flesh from a perfectly grilled, and very fatty, ribeye.
The finish is a very brief visit from the first steward who returns with bread in hand but also offering a less-than-spectacular sip of decarbonated cola. Ah, no matter. Just look around you. In all, the experience is divine.
I want to stay here.
Maybe I just need to start a GoFundMe page.