Consider a hiker on a two-week excursion who packs a wax-wrapped Altoids tin holding a sage, river reed, and marshmallow poultice for blisters. Such is the nose, though it also has notes of crystallized lemon essence, liquefied quartz, and peppermint gum after you’ve been chewing it a bit in the hopes of making out with the 2nd chair clarinetist.
The mouth has such lightness. I imagine it would exactly match the spectrograph of Casper the Friendly Ghost. It is all meadows and dales, especially if these were dotted with bubblegum and marshmallows. Its lightness, however, belies toughness, as if you spun bulletproof vestments from cotton candy and spider webs. And then sat down to enjoy Cheerios poured into a saucer of moonshine.
The finish doesn’t develop so much as it bubbles with volcanic indecision. Call it Buridan’s lavaflow. It disappears and reappears like a suppressed memory. If Van Gogh had a pastel impressionism phase, this would be his drink of choice. There would be powdery swirls of green clouds hovering over an indistinct landscape, as if a pirate’s child used an absinthe bottle for a telescope.
On the scale of Casper the Friendly Ghost’s Companions–
The Koval Oat Whiskey is Wendy the Good Little Witch–Neither as obscure as Nightmare the Ghost Horse, nor as irreverent as Hot Stuff the Little Devil, this Koval expression aims to do what is right.