, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

As the saying goes, you win some and you lose some. I prefer to say that sometimes you land it and sometimes you end up in the dishwasher.

In Evelyn’s case, it was the former. She was doing something Evelyn-esque, most likely spinning around in circles or trying to do a cartwheel in a place where cartwheels might not be a good idea. Whatever it was, this time she got a little too close to the open dishwasher.

I turned just in time to see the tragedy’s conclusion—the little girl’s unbalanced planting of her calves against the edge of the dishwasher’s door, her hands sprawling outward in a helpless plunge, her tiny backside plopping into the stainless steel innards, her back scraping the front of the bottom basket, the entire machine breaking loose and tipping forward from the brackets that secure it to the bottom of the countertop, the resulting look of terror that her chronic disregard for her father’s instructions not to do what she was doing could very well end with that same on looking parent simply pushing her the rest of the way into the machine and closing the door.

I’ll admit that I thought about it. I only reconsidered because her mother was closer to her, and with haste, scooped her up and tended to her needs before I could break from my speechless gaze. There just wasn’t enough time for me to get to her, shove her the rest of the way in, actually get the detergent poured into the little latching basin, and close the door. I mean, being the multitasker that I am, I might as well make it so she doesn’t need a bath at bedtime, right? Let the now wobbling machine do the work.

Anyway, I retrieved some essential tools, my drill, and a Glencairn. I poured myself two fingers worth from a 1969 bottling of The President’s Choice 8-year-old Kentucky Bourbon from Brown-Forman Distillers which I’d received as a gift from my kindly friend, Kay. Dropping to my hands and knees in an attempt to examine and then fix the damage from the misadventure, with a sigh, I offered to myself in secret, Sometimes you land it. Sometimes you can’t get your kid into the dishwasher quickly enough. Eventually diagnosing the problem, but before beginning the labor, I reached for my dram, swirled its contents, sniffed, and then took a sip. My speechless gaze returned, although this time rendering with delight, Sometimes you land it, and then sometimes you really land it!

The whiskey was nothing short of superb.

The nose was that of rich cinnamon, summery raisins, and a square of Ghirardelli caramel-filled chocolate. A sip delivered a wood-spicy depth of the Ghirardelli, a batch of buttered pecans, and the faint impression of vanilla-soaked blueberries.

The finish was a medium rinse of the cinnamon and vanilla.

Once the dishwasher was fixed, I jumped online to see if I could learn more about some of the rarer editions from Brown-Forman Distillers and maybe even discover some of the particulars that went into this edition that was custom distilled and bottled for Haab’s Restaurant in Ypsilanti, Michigan. What I found was that it could very well be a variant interpretation of Old Forester.

But I don’t like Old Forester. In fact, if I recall correctly from my review of Old Forester, I determined it was probably a favorite of Satan because it tasted like cigarettes and rye toast and, for some reason, reminded me of a house in my neighborhood that I’m pretty sure is haunted.

My only guess is that if this is indeed an historical rendition of Old Forester, it was selected and bottled during a time when Brown-Forman Distillers was more interested in precision whiskey-making as opposed to mass production and wide distribution.

Knowing that this near half-century edition of The President’s Choice Bourbon is an acquired rarity in limited supply, I’ll be holding it very close, and I’ll be taking it very slowly. I certainly won’t be keeping it anywhere out in the open where it can be destroyed by a whirling and twirling little girl who sometimes lands it, but sometimes ends up in the dishwasher.