This blended malt noses like a rich, delicious blondie with vanilla ice cream melting around it like a Poolmaster 19” life buoy. Or perhaps I am shrunk to the size of a bee and set about the task of burgling marigold pollen. Besotted, I’m floating on a curled maple leaf down a river of crab apple cider. Nymphs lift me from a shaded eddy, walking me across a meadow, and place me in a butterfly wing hammock for my nap. They draw longly, contentedly, from delicate pipes and blanket me in the softest smoke.
The mouth is really special. Crushed up lead from a graphene pencil made by ethical scientists. “I can write all day with this!” I exclaim, and they nod without trying to give anything away, but I think to myself: they know, they just know. This dram’s got sizzle, but not like suburban strip mall fajitas. On the contrary, I’m frying up bacon in a small barn waiting for the cross-country skiers to return so that I can start the crème Anglaise omelettes. Grass notes, some salt, and the shadow of molasses as it jetes in the barn door.
The finish is elven tap shoes worn by the elvish counterpart to Gregory Hines. Low chimes echo through the vale. Now mothers step outside to see a fissure in the sky. Whole wheat English muffins fall from heavens, and clover honey rains upon them, striking only the craggy sides. Dromedary leather, made into a series of a cow bridles, hung from hooks as the scoosh, scoosh, scoosh of cross-country skiers reaches my ear.