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Even though the restrooms are right over there, rather than pause your conversation and carry your three-year-old to visit them, I say go ahead and aim the toddler into the juniper bushes beside you. Don’t mind any of the folks dining at the adjacent café tables. There’s absolutely no chance the day’s sturdier breeze will carry the spattering mist toward them.

And one more thing. You might want to let the child lie on the ground where he just did his business. Yes, the sugar ants are plenty. However, I’m guessing you’ll be able to continue chatting with the other adults relatively uninhibited while the child remains distracted, fondling his boy parts, french fries, and the newly wetted juniper branches.

If I were ever invited to discuss the topic of common sense with philosophers, the first argument I’d bring to the conversation is that the term itself is a misnomer. Common sense—or as the Oxford Dictionary defines it, “good sense and sound judgment in practical matters”—isn’t an instinctual human characteristic. Society continues to prove that it must be taught. If not, the truer human instincts of bad sense and unsound judgment will become the catechists. A child urinating in the bushes at a public café will likely teach his children to do the same, all good sense and sound judgment in such practical matters being foreign to his upbringing.

On the other hand, if a child begins demonstrating common sense apart from what he’s learned, I’d argue he bears the mark of original genius. Keep your eyes on him. If he starts a company, invest in it early. He’s likely to be another Elon Musk, having proven his innately exceptional thinking in the simplest circumstances.

Relative to whisky, certain distilleries communicate original genius in similar ways. Lagavulin is one of those distilleries. In particular, the 2015 edition of their annual 12-year-old Cask Strength series hints at extraordinary talents in practical whisky-making matters. In other words, choices were made that no one else had considered or taught.

Wafting a charred and salty ribeye dressed in fruit salsa composed mainly of mangos and tangerines, the 2015 edition teases its unlearned uniqueness. A sip of peppery malt and mildly sweet raspberries certifies it. Its finish—an ashen lick of most everything described already—begs for a seat at the philosophers’ table. It wants to be examined. It wants to be asked if it learned these exceptional qualities or just knew them.

While plenty of other distilleries continue to be little more than urine in the juniper bushes, Lagavulin regularly beckons one’s investment with so many of its drams. The 2015 12-year-old Cask Strength edition is certainly one. In fact, I can even say that if it were being carelessly poured by a senseless adult on a windy day, I would not mind being caught in its sticky drizzle.