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I think the four smaller versions of my wife and I are more so aware of our culture’s absurdity than I may have suspected. I say this because while they appear to understand the insanity, they have managed to focus its irrational energy in ways that will benefit them during opportune moments.

For example, are you familiar with the game “Slug Bug”? Perhaps it has other names in other countries, but no matter where you go, I’m guessing it’s played the same. Essentially, when someone sees a Volkswagen Beetle, that same person is to call out its color and then give the person beside him or her a moderate thump to the arm. We parked beside an olive green Fiat in a gas station parking lot when one of the younger children mistakenly calls out “Slug bug, green one!” and punches the nearest sibling in the arm. In a fury, that same sibling protests that the car isn’t a slug bug, but is, in fact, a Fiat.

“Well,” the offender replies, “it identifies as a slug bug.”

A little further down the road and at home, I’ve just dropped a handful of potato chips onto a plate to eat as a snack. A nearby observer, the youngest in the pack, turns to her mother to ask if she, too, might have some potato chips.

“No, you may not,” the mother says. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

“But Daddy’s having some,” the little girl responds in a whine.

“Well,” the gentlest parent offers in return, “when you’re a forty-five-year-old man, you can have potato chips whenever you want.”

“Okay,” the little girl says, reaching for the bag on the kitchen counter. “I’m going to have some chips, then.”

“Your mother just told you no, you little fiend,” I say with a crumbling mouthful of salt and vinegar goodness.

“I’ve decided that I identify as a forty-five-year-old man,” the eight-year-old grins, shoving her hand into the bag.

“Don’t even try it!” I return, swatting at her forearm. “I’ll stuff you into that bag. And when no one can find you, I’ll tell folks you self-identified as a potato chip and may want to look in the cabinet.”

Since we’re talking about self-identities, I have no idea of the age of the whisky in the Tamdhu Batch Strength No. 002 edition. But for a NAS dram, it sure has the complexity of something relatively experienced—something well past the 18-year-old mark—and I sure do like it.

With a nose of grains, light fruits, and butter pecans, this is a heavyweight with some charm.

The palate is proof of its tender charisma. Even as a batch strength Scotch tagged at 58.5% ABV, this whisky is careful and caressing. In fact, you might feel the urge to put a little water into it, but don’t. This whisky successfully self-identifies at a lower ABV. The alcohol is never an issue. And water, while it might open up something else for you, in my experience seemed to thin the enjoyment. This whisky is just fine by itself, giving over a warmed mix of tangerines and blueberries sprinkled with a grit of pecans and brown sugar.

The nuttiness stays until the very end, leaving on a medium to long trail of pecan pie.

Okay, for the sake of Child Protective Services stumbling across this review of the Tamdhu and somehow coming to the conclusion that I’m an abusive father, I’ll first offer the disclaimer that I would never put one of my children into a bag of potato chips. Such a bag would be far too small, anyway. I’m more likely to put them into a sleeping bag and swing them around until they throw up on themselves from laughing too hard. I mean, what father hasn’t done that, right?

Disclaimer #2: I haven’t. Not ever. But don’t ask the kids if I’ve done it. Remember, they’ve got some messed up self-identification issues already. Their realities aren’t to be trusted in a court of law.