For the pleasantly forward nose, the first immediately foreboded something forewarned but not foreseen: That upon huffing the complex spacetime dimensional aromas, a tingle rose from our foreribs, forequarters, forearms, and forepaws (metaphorical in all cases) straight past our sinuses to our foreheads and forebrains. Forsooth! we cried, Verily, our foresight forsook us, now we’re forsaken in a forbidden forest, finding our forecast to be: Foreclosure of experience. And with that, we foreswore our silliness, and found lollipops dropped into a nearly-finished crockpot chicken and tofu stew, mixed with extract of rye. Upstairs in the attic, pine needles glued to an ironwood chest proves resistant to cobwebs, insects, and depredations of grandchildren. Also upstairs, one finds a rockin’ chair—not a rocking chair—that’s holding a pewter stein containing Ella’s pussywillow collection. The nose holds steady, an unwavering and unsentimental paean to rigorous distillation, a plan leading to a predetermined outcome like a snowplow clearing a mountain pass. After the snow, Stephen found cherries.
The mouth is smooth and the body is nearly perfect. One wonders for a moment if it’s cloying, then debates if it’s thin, leading to the inevitable conclusion that it exactly straddles the nebulous middle ground of the Aristotelian golden mean. There was a heavy kick of spice and muscle and fight, like Jackie Chan’s stunt crew surrounding Keanu Reeve’s stunt crew in a cinnamon plantation in Sri Lanka. Triple trouble ensues, relieved by menthol-free cough drops.
The finish is also exquisitely balanced; heavy plums in heavy syrup are braced by sprinklings of morally suspect glycyrrhizic acid. The resinous afterglow of licking P. Diddy’s Bentley’s steering wheel. A ferret has curled up in a fetal position under my tongue and gone to sleep. I’m sleeping on my back only to be woken by kittens walking across my face, their clean and precise, not quite under control claws unlimbering and retracting a delicate ostinato.
On the scale of consequential golf ejaculations–
The Koval Single Barrel Four Grain Whiskey is Fore!–Watch out! It’s coming! A hole in one on a par four hole! *golf clapping builds to an apocalyptic roar*