“We’re having breakfast for dinner tonight,” Jen said with her back to me at the stove. She had an earbud in one ear and was listening to something on her phone. The kids threaded between us with table settings. Glancing over her shoulder, “You can have eggs and sausage, or you can have those.” She used her elbow to point to the toaster and a box of thawing waffles.

“Eggs sound good,” I said, pulling my chair from the table and taking a seat. A plate and a fork was already in place.

“Okay,” she affirmed, moving to the toaster. “How many waffles do you want?”

“No, that’s alright,” I replied. “I think I’ll have some eggs tonight.”

“Okay,” she said, pulling a package of the waffles from the box. I watched the bag become fogged from the warmth of the stove as she opened it. She took out four waffles, dropped them into the toaster slots, and lowered the lever until it clicked into place.

“Honey,” I said with a warmth to match the cooking arena, “do you want me to make my own eggs?”

“No,” she answered resolutely. “I’ve got this.”

The kids started to giggle.

“Is the table set?” she called to the little ones. All responded in the affirmative. “Then bring your plates over so I can serve this stuff up.” They each filed to her with a plate in hand. “Bring Daddy’s plate, too. And, Harrison, you get the syrup from the pantry for his waffles.”

Harrison turned to look at me. I looked at him. We remained locked in a stare even as he made his way to the darkened pantry and emerged once again with a bottle of Aunt Jemima.

Handing the bottle of syrup to his bustling mother just as she was retrieving a portion of melted butter from the microwave for pouring onto the waffles, Harrison gently urged, “Isn’t Daddy having eggs?”

“That’s what I made him,” she said. Just then, the waffles popped up from the toaster. She put them on the plate in Harrison’s hands and then poured a little bit of the melted butter into a good number of the tiny squares. “Here, give him his waffles.” Looking to me, she added, “I put some butter on them. You can do your own syrup.”

Harrison turned to face his father. The other children stepped aside, their eyes wide and pairing with the butter-soaked waffles. They gave momentary glances to the young boy charged with delivering them to a man who didn’t want them.

At the end of his carefully reverent pace, Harrison set the waffles in front me and said, “Daddy, here are your eggs.”

“Thank you, Harry,” I said, patting the boy’s shoulder. “And those are some fine looking eggs. Now, can you do something else for me?”

“Sure.”

“Fetch my phone, dear boy.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to call an ambulance for your mother. I think she may be stroking out.”

The children started to laugh, all of them looking to their mother.

“What’s so funny?!” Jen said, pulling the earbud from her ear and turning.

“Daddy kept saying he wanted eggs,” Evelyn said tittering, “but you made him waffles.”

“No, he didn’t,” she insisted. “He said he wanted four waffles!”

“Harrison,” I interrupted, “get my phone, please. Joshua, get started on cleaning up the kitchen once everyone’s done with dinner. Evelyn, get your mother’s coat for her. It’s chilly outside tonight. Madeline, before we go, I’ll trade you for your eggs.”

Now, I tell this story not necessarily to reveal a mother of four’s occasional insanity, but rather to highlight one of those times when you were expecting one thing but got something else.

The Yellowstone Select Kentucky Straight Bourbon is a whiskey as such. Although, I should say that my expectations were reversed in this particular instance. A relatively unknown whiskey to me, I wasn’t necessarily expecting much, and yet what I received was pure joy. In fact, I dare say that this may be one of the best bourbons you’ll find. I am certainly willing to say that I count it as a favorite among the very few I would consider most worthy.

The nose of this delightful dram is one of cherry coke and a crisp tag of wood spice. The palate is a warmed crème brûlée topped with dark cherries, a mild dosage of white pepper and allspice, and a splinter of rye-kissed oak. Yes, it is. Don’t doubt me.

The finish allows a medium moment for gathering all of the sweeter notes and well-tempering them by the spices. In one sense, I suppose the only unfortunate thing about this whisky is that, like all other whiskies, it has to have a finish. A finish signals a sip’s end. And I don’t want it to end.

Just as I don’t want waffles. I want eggs.