The physical instantiations of the Malt Impostor serve as an Oasis of Calm from the freneticism of the rigors of life, and I was sure that the Ardbeg Supernova would prove superior to a Champagne Supernova (in the sky). Little did I dream of what was in store for me, beginning with a nose like Pinocchio's when he was a liar: woody, long, shapely, and vaguely smacking of the charms and barnyards of the Old World. A swirl in the tasting glass revealed a bazillion (note: not a technical term from mathematics) legs; truly, it beaded up like amber bindis, and partitioned the elegant swell of my glass like a Riemann sum, with δ rapidly converging to 0. (Note: these are technical math terms. Emergency exits are conveniently located in your browser toolbar. Thank you for flying Air Impostor.)
Back to the nose: It's a massive banyan tree pumping briny sap through it, roots digging deep in the dank dark earth. In the mouth, the anise flavor is what a permafrost licorice stick honed to an ice pick would do to your soft palate in the hands of a drunken soccer yob who'd eaten a jicama salad. If it's possible to imagine Tolkien's tree-shepherd Fangorn belching after an orgy of sambuca and Longbottom leaf tobacco, then welcome to the taste sensations in the Supernova. Gandalf preserve us.
The finish is a record-setting 32-inning baseball game, and inspires discourse on a bizarro-world Hegelian Phenolmenology of Spirits. My spirit is the starstuff that will one epoch become planets--I contain worlds--I contain multitudes--though I am not Legion. My lips are numbed and unsealed.
On the scale of world-shattering revelations (literally)—
The Ardbeg Supernova is the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Seriously, is there a cooler, more cataclysmic way to begin the ending of earthly life? A neutrino storm sounds depressing, and the implacable increase of entropy is for the neurotic.
*--Master of Malt
(in this case, the Ardbeg Supernova 2010 (SN2010) 2nd release)
Check out other Master of Malt Drinks by the Dram here.