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I’ve been told I can’t grow a palm tree in Michigan, so guess what I’m determined to do. Indeed, I’m one to believe, as William Feather believed, saying, “Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go.”

Admittedly, I’ll try to grow the tree inside. I don’t even like Michigan winters, so why would I subject something so vibrantly joyful to what I already know is the earth’s tangible expression of sadness? Although, there appear to be some palm trees that can withstand winter weather. One such tree is the Trachycarpus fortunei, or the windmill palm. This particular upshoot of tropical awesomeness is known to withstand the earth’s snowy tantrums in places as far north as Seattle and Vancouver.

However, let’s be honest. Winter in Michigan is less like a tantrum and more of a complete mental breakdown requiring hospitalization. Snow doesn’t exist in Michigan. Michigan exists in snow. And this is guaranteed to be true for at least eight months of the year, some of those months drinking deeply from the icy well of ungodliness.

On second thought, I know a great spot in my home for this wonder of paradise’s adornments. I’ll grow it beside the “Predator” costume on display. Not only will it stir the sensation of being in the tropics, but it’ll also be a constant reminder to care for the tree, examining it to ensure I’m not being watched by something I can’t see. Where there’s one Yautja, there are often others nearby.

I know this venture sounds rather impossible, but having already sipped from impossible’s dram, I’m willing to try. I say this as several friends in the whiskey world who know my preferences warned me I should avoid the youthful Bradshaw Kentucky Straight Bourbon, and yet, here I sit, finding it rather enjoyable.

Certainly, the nose does begin somewhat stringently. That’s to be expected of a whiskey bottled at 51.9%. Give it a pour, swirl, and a minute or two. Upon return, one discovers sun-warmed cinnamon rolls resting on charred oak planks.

The palate reveals the same mid-summer glee, tossing around in its breezes an enjoyable heat made even better with a little bit of water. A dip in the pool reveals the rye, as well as the charred oak still cradling the rolls.

The finish—a thick resonance of blackberries and vanilla—is long, just as one would expect from this octane level. But an extended stay is the day’s order when summer has arrived. The more heat, the better. Now, if only there were a palm tree to sit beneath.