What is the name for a waffle square? I don’t mean the boundary of the square that is formed by the cooked batter. I mean the three-dimensional space contained in that boundary, the space that is later filled by the syrup. There really should be a name for this, a word like quirrelle or fraeton. Until we have it, I’ll continue to drink this whiskey. It gives me the feeling I imagine that waffle has of being perfectly filled with delicious syrup—top to bottom and side to side, just a perfect syrupy plenum in what was before a nameless void.
This glass of Weller prompts me to wax philosophical about such things. First, there’s a spicy nose: cloved limes and pinecones in a holiday wreath. Votive candles pushed out into a pool of honey. Raspberries hiding in a honeysuckle bush. An ATM theft gone wrong in a really fiery way.
But it’s the mouth that seals it. I feel the gentle love bites from the 90 proof, but I also feel the patriotic stirring of amber waves of grain just standing up in all of their amberness to wave—to wave at me! Then there’s that feeling that occasioned my journey to the OED. It’s the feeling of syrup just filling up the golden brown, baked-batter edges and slowly leeching into the walls. All the waffle squares [or quirrelles] are perfectly filled and even. I’ve composed a 3D liquid sculptural masterpiece!
There’s soft spice on the finish, but spice nonetheless. Consider the heft of a small hatchet the shaft of which is made from really well-sanded maple. Or a goose-feather mattress topper on a memory foam mattress suffering from dementia. There is much smoothness and beauty. The smile of a mangy dog running off with a chicken bone. The perfect fitting madras shirt in the summer at dusk.
–Our thanks to Jobie Smith and Sazerac for the sample!