The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood

The making of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood Scotch is less a straight line and more a long, patient waltz between wood and time. It begins at The Balvenie Distillery in the Dufftown area of Speyside, Scotland, where the rhythm is set early and never rushed.

The process begins with malted barley, mashed, fermented, and distilled in copper stills into a bright, eager spirit. That spirit is then laid to rest for many years in traditional oak casks, where it gathers honeyed warmth, soft vanilla, and a gentle structure. In time, the signature turn arrives: the whisky is transferred, or “finished,” in casks that once held rich ruby port from Portugal, drawing in notes of dried fruit, spice, and a quiet, wine-dark sweetness. After 21 years of this slow exchange between spirit and seasoned wood, the result is a Scotch that feels composed, balanced, and just a touch indulgent.

The taste of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood is smooth and layered, with honey and oak giving way to a soft, earthy sweetness that lingers without overstaying its welcome.

Many would describe this Scotch in a much simpler, unsubtle manner: expensive! For my birthday, a group of Desiree’s Filipina friends, whom I affectionately call my “sister wives,” chipped in and purchased me a bottle of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood.

Let me assure you, this is a big deal. Thank you, girls!

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sapphire Bucket

One look inside my garage will tell you I’m a fan of 5-gallon buckets. On my last count, I had 17 of them in some form of use. Still, none of them quite compare to the “sapphire bucket” I received as a birthday gift.

This one-of-a-kind, customized bucket was fashioned by fellow rockhound Tad St. Clair. It serves as a complete kit for gleaning sapphires from pay gravel gathered from deposits along the Missouri River near my house, a simple idea turned elegant.

The kit includes a clear glass plate that rests on the rim of the bucket, a battery-powered LED light glowing up from within, and a small plastic container with tweezers and compartments for the safekeeping of any promising finds. Gravel is spread across the glass, and with a little patience and a careful eye, the light reveals what the river has chosen to keep hidden.

Tad also included a small bag of pay gravel from a trip we made to the local gem and mineral society dig near Lakeside. I am posting photographs of the bucket and of Desiree making a run with a handful of pay. No sapphires surfaced this time, but that feels beside the point. We will gather more gravel soon and let the light try again.

The Sapphire Bucket Complete

The Kit on Display

Desiree Looking for Sapphires

—Mitchell Hegman

You Can’t Please Everyone

I figured out a long time ago that the aphorism about not being able to please everyone is an absolute truth. But I’ve since determined that you can annoy everyone with remarkable efficiency, either by making weird noises constantly or by singing Bob Dylan songs even worse than he sings them.

—Mitchell Hegman

NOTE: I’m a huge Dylan fan.

Something Fran Lebowitz Said

—    “Children are the most desirable opponents at scrabble as they are both easy to beat and fun to cheat.”

—    “Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.”

—    “Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about wine.”

Normal Instructor

My friend and, for quite some time, coworker, Kenny, perished after a fairly long bout with cancer. But that did not keep him from appearing in a dream I had last night. In the dream, I found myself walking down the street of an unknown city. I was a little uneasy because I had lost my cellphone. Just as I turned a corner on a sidewalk in a residential part of the city, I saw my friend Kenny walking partway down the street on the opposite side. Naturally, I called to him and waved.

He stopped and allowed me to approach. “Kenny! I have not seen you for ages. How are you?” 

“Doing great,” Kenny answered, smiling.

“I’m having a bad day,” I admitted. “I lost my cellphone. But you look fantastic. Really good!” I found myself amazed by how fit he looked. He had a notable glow of health about him. Kenny is not the hugging type, so I gave him a playful punch to the shoulder. “What have you been up to?”

“I started two trucking companies,” he said without hesitation. “I threw in with a partner on one of the companies, and we are in the process of selling it.”

“That’s good. Who is your business partner?”

“Normal Instructor.”

I paused, squinting a little, as if the meaning might come into focus if I adjusted my eyes. “Your business partner’s name is Normal Instructor?”

“Yes. Normal Instructor.”

I cannot quite decide if it was good fortune or bad timing, but that is the precise moment I woke up, left standing there with him, and with that name, like a door that had just begun to open. 

—Mitchell Hegman

Tomb Raiders

Alejandro Cambronero Albaladejo is angry. No, he’s not angry about the syllabic train wreck that is his name, though he has every reason to be. He’s miffed because he no longer holds the Guinness World Record for the largest collection of Tomb Raider games.

He was unseated by Amy Dyson, a British woman who bested the Spanish collector with a count of 291 unique copies of games in the franchise, including special editions, the same game across multiple consoles, and foreign-language releases. AL (for the sake of ease, I’m calling Alejandro Cambronero Albaladejo “AL”) had a collection that tallied 215 back in 2017.

Amy said the video game helps her deal with functional neurological disorder, which causes symptoms including brain fog, tics, tremors, and paralysis.

Interesting, the brain fog and tics. Might that explain why Amy purchased so many copies of the game, propelling her to a world record?

Maybe so.

But how do we explain AL?

Amy With Her Games

—Mitchell Hegman

Source of Original Story and Photo: UPI (Ben Harper)

Precious Dirt

At no point as a creek-fishing, apple-throwing, bike-riding kid in East Helena, Montana, did I entertain any thoughts about buying dirt. Well, as an adult living on a pile of rocks, I find myself buying dirt on a fairly regular basis. And just yesterday, Desiree and I bought a yard of it for several spring planting projects.

First up, we planted an October Glory maple in front of the house. Desiree has been dazzled by fall colors since joining me here in the North Country, where autumn declares itself in dramatic colors. Maples, especially, have held her attention, their leaves turning like quiet signals from another season.

To plant trees around my house, you need to begin by digging a hole (read: prying out rocks here) so you can surround the root ball with some semblance of dirt. In this case, once we had an appropriate hole, we dropped the tree in, and I shoveled dirt down from the back of my truck while Desiree tended the tree and kept it properly oriented (leafy side up, thank you).

I’m sharing photographs of our work.

Up next: fall colors.

Desiree Digging

Me Shoveling Precious Dirt

Desiree Tending the Tree

Desiree with the Planted Tree

—Mitchell Hegman