Ah, we’ve got a classic bourbon nose on this one. Is it the threshing floor on Mt. Olympus? No, it’s more complex and surprising. You’re in bed with Mrs. Redenbacher when, hearing the husband come home, you dive under the dirty laundry (mostly bowties) and beseech any deity that can intervene at this moment. As the threat fades (could he really be microwaving popcorn after such a long day at the office?) and you sneak out the window, you are aware of other flavors. Fiddle faddle balls sunk into a sundae from the 4 H Fair. Chestnut-colored marzipan ponies with yellow corn silk manes (look at them prancing and bucking!). Above all a pleasant lingering finish, like conversation about a good movie in a café before the rush of the world’s worries return. There is bosomy softness here, and this realization prompts you to look back. You see the window, now closed, through which your perfidy entered and your salvation exited. Verily, some god has smiled upon you this night. It’s time to go home.
On the scale of legends about whiskey I once believed to be true–
The Woodford Reserve is filling ice cube trays with bourbon and placing them in the freezer so that your drink will never become watered-down–I’m happy to say that I didn’t learn the truth about this the hard way. Moreover, we can all be happy that there exist Whisky Stones ™ for meeting just such an aim. But the Woodford Reserve surely has stones, but the good, respect-inducing kind, unlike the fellow who once convinced me he kept fully frozen bourbon cubes at the ready.
—Thanks to Svend and the good folks at Woodford Reserve for the sample!