Schenley golden wedding
Ive met my meal. I met it after sinking 3 ounces of hot lead that’s travelled at 1,500 feet per second and landed in my meals heart. I met my meal by ripping out its inner organs and digestive track, and leaving them in the snow for animals to gorge on. I met my meal by tearing its hide off in a garage, barely warmed by a space heater and country music. Ive stalked, shot and orphaned my meal’s remaining family. I used to hunt animals for food, as a way to feed and support my family. If you think that sounds ‘inhumane’ you should rethink EVER shopping for meat in a supermarket, or butcher, or restaurant, again. Trust me, my story is much more pleasant.
Each winter my father would drive us down to our property in rural north Pennsylvania. It was November/December and it would be cold. It was deer season of course, and I had to spend hours upon hours sitting still in one spot. It had to be cold. I deserved it. I was going to take life.
I would be woken up at 4:30 in the morning. I would choke down some dry toast and juice, then get bundled up in 5 layers of clothing, before I would load a high power rifle with seven rounds and I would hike up a steep hill side, in the dark. After huffing and puffing my way up, I would sit quietly for the next five or six hours and endure temperatures as low as -30. Surrounded by hundreds of others just like me, I would listen to gunshots rip through the valley we sat in. very close and very far were the shots(and people do get shot accidently during hunting season), but there was never five minutes where I didn’t hear a shot. Did I mention I was 12?
A few years later, I was in the same situation and I struck it lucky: I bagged my kill first thing in the morning, first day of the season. No more fighting hypothermia, dehydration and mal nutrition while waiting to be killed by a ricochet bullet. For the next couple days, I sat in a warm cabin, and read hunting and fishing magazines. A year later, I would feign post traumatic stress disorder, and not have to hunt anymore. Yet I digress.
My grandfather shot a deer as well, and we spent an afternoon in the cabin, alone. I watched him pour his first rye and water for the day.
‘you should have a drink, to celebrate.’ He told me. But, what would I pour in front of my grandfather to impress him and solidify his pride in me? I searched the counter. Black velvet, Canadian club, golden wedding. I snatched up the golden wedding bottle, not knowing what it was, other than an old looking bottle of whisky. I sat with my grandfather, gulping down a couple glasses of whisky, in a hunting cabinet while I listened to shots ring out all over the valley. It was a great memory for me to talk and involve myself with my grandfather, a man I regarded as a hero, on his level. Schenley golden wedding took us from grandfather to son and put us in the man to man category.
Legendary man, legendary whisky.
Cheap plastic 40 oz. bottle, screaming ‘old school’ with a medallion on the top of the bottle, and its classic fonts labeling the whisky. typically in more recent bottling, there is a little bride and groom on the bottom part of a shield shaped label.
Creamy, buttery yet subtle nose. Clean wood, corn bourbon qualities. A touch of spirit on the nose with some subtle grain.
Oak and a little rye spice. The palate is very light and delicate. This doesn’t taste very mature. A little crisp spirit and honeyed cereal grains. Slightly drying with suggestion of dry corn husk and possible mint leaf gummies. a good load of caramel.
This bottle changes time after time, just like where it is made. although this was originally an American brand this is currently crafted in valleyfield, quebec, under the watch of constellation brands as of this day in 2014. With the mergers and buyouts, who knows who will end up with this legend of a bottle anytime soon.
price comparable to quality. good.