by tashmcgill | Apr 26, 2016 | Tasting Notes
Edradour is one of those whiskies for me. From first taste of their Natural Cask Strength bottling, I fell in love with what was once the smallest distillery in Scotland, until it was outshrunk by Strathearn. That expression is an Oloroso-cask aged for about 13 years, leaving a sweet, creamy and delicious dram with caramel and dried fruit notes. Hits you with orange peel and Christmas cake.
Edradour also happens to be the oldest working farm distillery and there are some that say being a smaller distillery is actually an advantage. No matter how the economy turns or what challenges you face, you can adapt and move with the market quickly. That certainly seems to be the case for Edradour. She has passed from owner to owner with a fair amount of history and intrigue, but now is shepherded by Andrew Symington, a Master of the Quaich. Edradour continues to make traditional ‘farm whisky’, in addition to some innovative and interesting malts.
One of which is this, the Ballechin 10 year old. Edradour is a typically unpeated malt, so interesting things always happen when you take something standard and mess around with it. The name ‘Ballechin’ is from another distillery from the same area as Edradour, Pitlochry in Perthshire. It’s nice to not lose these names entirely to history.
Colour: Light, pale gold.
Nose: Smoky. Edradour are not just waving the malt over the peat fire, they’ve given it some time and love. It moves to something green and herbal on the nose too.
Palate: Hello grain and smoke. Then it rounds out around the edges, the sweet sugars kick in. At one point, it was almost like tasting a tequila, the sense of agave sugars so present. Then a little sweet almond until the grain comes in. Chewy, like a good sourdough. Nutty and toasty and oaty.
Finish: Long, smoky grains. Like cracking barley between your teeth.
by tashmcgill | Apr 26, 2016 | Comedy
Every year around this time, my nights grow even longer and usually with less whisky involved. Why? Umm.. The NZ International Comedy Festival. Each year, I try and make it to as many shows as possible to let you know what’s funny or just plain ridiculous so you too, can enjoy the Festival.
And it’s already begun! Let me tell you briefly about the show I saw on Saturday: Brendon Green: Eggs and Ham. Look at that, you get a laugh for free just reading the name of the show. I’ve been watching Brendon’s comedy since he debuted at the Festival in 2012 and even slightly before that a time or two. His brand of intellectual but casually off-hand observational comedy will have your cheeks hurting, particularly if you don’t mind a bit of comedy at a funeral. He also brought back the guitar for a little musical interlude. Nicely done. Many laughs had and a nice way to meet the newest venue of the Festival, Montecristo Comedy (basement rooms next to Toto’s).
Here’s the keyword review: intelligent, funerals, not too clean but not too obscene, take your mates, you’ll appreciate the quick wit, cheeks will hurt, there’s a guitar, brand new show!
I’ve just been to see Stuart Bowden, in his show ‘She Was Probably Not A Robot‘ at the Herald Theatre. This theatre is one of my favourite venues in Auckland to see any kind of live performance because it’s so intimate and personal. It should suit a show that has been described as ‘a lo-fi, DIY, off-beat, sci-fi storytelling experience; a surreal, soulful comedy about a decomposing world and a cosmic visitor.’
The plot description of the one-man show goes on to say, “When the world ends in flood and fire, one man, asleep on his air-mattress, floats out of his bedroom window, through burning debris and out to sea to be the sole survivor and last hope for humanity.” Suffice to say, there is an air mattress in the show and it plays a vital role in the physical comedy of this show! I was with a couple of friends tonight, who kindly offered their words!
Sarah said: weird and interactive, and wonderful. Pretty hard to describe actually, a combination of many things that assault your senses, generally in a good way. Kind of heartwarming but also strange.
Arjun said: I liked how it was still very funny but it wasn’t traditional comedy. He was clearly a natural comedian. He didn’t descend into cheap gags and was genuinely there to entertain.
Here’s the keyword review: physical, intimate, human and heartfelt, laugh out loud but not in the usual fashion, air mattress, aerobic, energetic, dynamic, creative, magnetic.
I thought Stuart Bowden’s show was everything I could hope for from a Fringe show – a little bit weird and a little bit lovely. Both shows are playing this week so get out there and have some laughs!
Meanwhile, you can check out everything the Comedy Festival has to offer and book tickets via the website. My advice is get in early, book two shows per night and allow an hour between to march over Auckland. Most shows are doing short runs, with the big names sometimes only doing one or two. So be quick and get in now!
by tashmcgill | Apr 20, 2016 | Culture & Ideas
I live according to a few basic guidelines. It’s a way of navigating through life, which is as complex as it is beautiful. More than mottos, these are principles that help guide my decision-making and my responses to what happens around me.
What’s for you will not pass you by.
I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. (Henley)
There’s a lesson in everything.
There is something gold and loveable in everyone, even if you have to dig.
Actions speak louder than words, but if you speak let your words be true.
Don’t waste energy or thought on what can’t be changed.
Don’t waste energy or time on negativity.
Assume positive intent always.
Hurt and disappointment are the result of unmet expectations.
You have everything and everyone you need to solve the current problem.
Everything is working together for good.
They are a good way to live, but not perfect. Sometimes you learn a principle no longer works because you outgrew it or your circumstance changed; sometimes it ceases in relevance. Sometimes you add new ones, as you grow and face new challenges.
In 2015, I had a principle: true hair, true feelings. I’d been a redhead (again) for a year or so, but the more time wore on, the more the Ginger had a personality of her own. She helped me try a lot of new things, but I wasn’t entirely myself. I became brunette again, and concentrated on understanding what it is I really felt, really wanted, really desired. Confession: I miss the Ginger.
So here’s another confession: I didn’t just outgrow one of my biggest principles, I was dead wrong about it. There, I said it. I’ve been walking around with a false belief for almost my entire life.
You have to give people your trust first to let them prove it.
So very wrong and now you know I was, too. The map of how I got to that belief is not a story for here, but I have always thought the best way to discover if someone is trustworthy was to trust them first and see if they earn more trust. I always thought it was too much of a tough ask to earn trust from a blank canvas starting point. Call it a fatal weakness of my optimistic outlook, but I have hoped for the best in people. Hoped for the best in workmates, in friends, in people I admire and in relationships too. I was hoping they were trustworthy and hoping I wouldn’t be wrong about it.
I’m an idiot.
I have always taken a certain amount of pride in being to face any circumstance with ease. In business I’m adaptable, a fast and sure-footed decision-maker and as an empath, I can navigate the complexities of many social situations, putting people at ease with a little friendly conversation and banter. (When other people are at the center of my attention.)
I can make easy conversation with a stranger at a bar. I can walk into a variety of situations without fear. I have broken curfew in Haiti to buy rum from a gas station, the only woman within miles. I have used my kickboxing training to wrestle my way free from a late-night carpark attack. (I have the scars to prove it. Concealer is a miraculous thing, when you need it.)
But I have other scars too, ones that require a different kind of cover-up. The ones left behind from getting it wrong when it comes to trust, mistakenly vulnerable with those things I value most.
Sometimes you choose to trust someone and if they let you down, it doesn’t matter at all. There’s no high stakes and no skin in the game. Other times, you choose to trust but you’re not only trusting another person, you are also trusting yourself. Trusting your own intuition, your ability to judge the character of others but also to make your own wise choices and avoid poor assumptions. You trust yourself to hold yourself safely together while giving parts of yourself away at the same time. You have to trust yourself to be vulnerable, but to do so wisely and in safe places.
You can trust yourself until you make a mistake, until your intuition fails you. Until you realise maybe you can’t be trusted to choose wisely who to be vulnerable with. You become very afraid.
Within me the battle goes on; a child-like girl who opens her vulnerable heart to the world over and over against the terrified one who holds herself back at every turn. Most of the time, the child-like girl hopes and the fearful girl hides.
The result is I become a little bit vulnerable with everyone, but I don’t know how to move past fear of being truly vulnerable with those I know I can trust. There are, of course, exceptions – my childhood best friend, my trainer and those that have proven themselves over time.
I must choose to trust others again, but I must also learn to trust. Trust has a shape and a form, a sound and a fingerprint created over time. And this, the hardest thing to learn: trust doesn’t look like hope – hope is an altogether different thing. Hope is the belief that everything will work out in the end, but trust is the platform for vulnerability, the vital connection that helps us get there. Hope sustains us, but vulnerability strengthens us to have real connection.
I have confused hope and trust over and over again, because I am so drawn to hope. But trust is built and proven over time, earned in a series of small actions and intimacies that demonstrate what is safe and good and kind. Best summed up by Charles Feltman, who wrote The Thin Book of Trust, trust is “choosing to risk making something you value vulnerable to another person’s actions.”
Brené Brown says that without trust there can be no meaningful connection between people. And people are the most important thing in my world, connection the only thing I long for. So in learning to trust myself again, I can trust others, which leads to true vulnerability and connection. Simple!
And this, the hardest thing to learn: trust doesn’t look like hope – hope is an altogether different thing.
Trust looks like unpacking those scars and reversing them. Trust looks like paying attention to the small things, making the calls and knocking on the door. Asking the questions and answering them too. Following through on the gritty conversations, letting your actions speak louder than words, but your words also being true. Trust is not accidental or insecure. Trust is persistent and optimistic.
Do you know what hasn’t changed? I still go looking for the gold in everyone. I still tend towards trusting more than distrusting. I am still an optimistic idealist and there is a lesson in everything, even the most painful mistakes I’ve made. What’s for me will not pass me by, whether by the fates or the winds I choose to sail by. I find myself in the waiting space, because trust takes time. It will take time to trust myself again, now I realise where to begin and I will keep digging up the gold within.
Hopeful, optimistic and willing to trust beyond fear.
by tashmcgill | Apr 18, 2016 | Tasting Notes
There aren’t many whiskies that send me scurrying into research mode, but this Dailuaine did. Was is the pineapple nose that teased me with Piña Colada notes or just the sumptuous flavour profile that was so different? I’m not sure, but I can tell you this much – I went back for a second dram in the same sitting, which is nearly unheard of.
Dailuaine Distillery is in the Spey valley in, yes, Speyside. One of dozens of distilleries that have produced malts for years but that remain relatively under the radar of the average whisky drinker. I confess, I’d never heard of Dailuaine prior to tasting this morsel. But, her history is actually peppered with lots of names we do know – Aberlour, Talisker and now, principally, Diageo. Dailuaine provides some core backbone services to the whole Diageo line, including producing the bulk of it’s single malt for Johnnie Walker blends. But enough of that for now, let’s focus on Cask #10742. One of 773 bottles from a big ol’ Sherry Butt, this whisky is one of the most interesting I’ve tasted for a long, long time.
Nose: Like I said – almost like a Piña Colada. There’s sweetness of pineapple, but a smooth, well-balanced roundness that left me thinking of coconut cream and buttered rum. Then this light citrus note, almost lime-y. At this stage, it’s hard to believe I’m nosing a whisky.
Palate: Let’s get more interesting: sliding from creamy pineapple and citrus to big cherry flavours, vanilla icecream and toasty biscuits. Later, I read the formal tasting notes which suggest disgestives are the note, but coconut is still screaming at me so I’m going with Krispie biscuits. There’s an almost coffee-bean quality to the emerging finish.
Finish: The oaty, coffee bean dryness starts to emerge and now it’s tasting like a more traditional sherry finish. Fruit is back, dry and sweet and round almond and nut flavours hang around. It’s a medium dry finish that left me wanting more. So I did.
I’m almost certain I’ll be back to the Jefferson to try this again before the bottle is gone. It’s simply so unique. When you taste something like that and realise that same distillery is producing the lion’s share of it’s malt for one of the world’s biggest blends, it just makes me curious as to what the master blend has going on at Johnnie Walker.
by tashmcgill | Apr 18, 2016 | Tasting Notes
Grandfathers are influential people; they can set you on a trajectory that could make or break a life depending on how you let them. I grew up with only one living grandfather; who could be both great fun and a difficult old bastard. But through a childhood that was confusing and at times lonely; he was consistent. He loved America and I did too. We spent nights at the speedway over summer, ankle deep in pit mud and the smell of brake oil and grease. Long weekends and school holidays were spent rambling through his house and workshop and I remember 5 o’clock sherry, the awful, cheap, puckering kind. In the lounge room of his house with half-completed wallpaper and an old boxset television, he would pour a glass of sherry from the sideboard . And then he’d look sideways at me, at all of twelve years old and say, ‘Want a little?’
I would smile from ear to ear and nod furiously, a wicked treat that somehow meant approval, acceptance into this adult world I so longed to be part of. This was a step up from half a scull of Lion Red on a summer’s day. Fine cut glass, I remember, deep amber rose liquor that was both syrupy and stringent on the tongue. I gazed at it and considered the weight of the vessel in my hand, my all-too-clumsy, We would sit there, side by side, Poppa in his lazy-boy and I, in mine, smile at each other and say, ‘Cheers’. I remember flying home from Christchurch, to attend and speak on behalf of my sisters and I at his funeral. He had passed while I was away from home. I thought long and hard about what to say, which memories to include and which ones to leave out.
Sherry with Poppa at 5 o’clock has always been mine til now, mine alone. But I sat with The GlenDronach in double sherry-casked glory and it came flooding back to me. That woody, dry, rich, fruit and nut undertone that I love so much in every sherry-cask I try. I remembered where I first tasted it, the unmistakeable imprint of sherry and oak on spirit.
The GlenDronach Distillery is one of the oldest in Scotland, established in 1826. Since then, it’s changed hands more than a few times – and some of those hands have been quite notable, ye olde Walter Scott and then Charles Grant (Jr.) of Glenfiddich among them. It’s even been mothballed in recent history but now rests safely in the hands of BenRiach, one of an increasingly smaller number of independently owned distillery companies, after passing through nearly everyone else. I like old things and old things with history are even better. GlenDronach was one of the last to continue using coal fires for heating, they run their own malting floor and the buildings are heritage-listed. Respect for tradition with a few to the future, because everything GlenDronach do is sherry cask aged.
So let’s talk tasting, shall we? The cask strength is everything we love – aged in a combination of sherry casks (Oloroso and Pedro Ximénez), non-chill filtered and released in batches. The Oloroso should produce dry, nutty and almost creamy notes around it’s core fruit characters, while the PX is going to bring sticky sweetness to the party. This is Batch 4, bottled at 54.7% abv. It looks like dark gleaming amber, or molten Kauri gum in the bottle.
Nose: Hello cinnamon, stewed apples, booze-soaked raisins. Ginger spices start to pop and zing around more typical sweet berry fruit, cherries and nuts. The nose is so big you could almost drown in it, or imagine yourself waking up to fresh baked cinnamon fruit toast.
Palate: Biscuity and sweet, with cinnamon and fruit in the middle. Slowly the spices start to come back to play – ginger and pepper get bigger and bigger, which is nice after the big sweet hit. It’s chewable, this whisky and the oak qualities present themselves almost tannic like. I added water to about 47% and felt pretty happy about that. Too much more and the whisky would have felt out of balance, the sweetness of the fruit to overpowering for the spice. This is where the interplay of Oloroso and PX is so lovely – the dryness of those Oloroso spices but the warm, round mouthfeel coming from the nuttiness of it.
Finish: It leads you perfectly into a finish that is soft and fruity, the lingering PX dessert wine quality without being too cloying. The ginger stays with you til the very end, with a hint of coffee bean character. I can imagine finishing a piece of gingerbread and a cup of coffee with the paper.
