This past weekend our friends, John and Emily, threw a whiskey and waffles party in an effort to use up some of the many opened bottles they had of both whiskey and maple syrup. Genius!

This here was our little contribution, a bottle of Old Pogue bourbon whiskey.

It’s extremely mellow and sippable with the sweet flavor of caramel and very little burn. Definitely my new favorite bourbon!

And because I can’t go to a party and not cook something, I decided to use some of the bourbon to make bourbon baked apples to pair with the waffles we’d be enjoying.

I peeled and cored 5 large fuji apples and generously sprinkled them with cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and ginger. Then I topped them with a spoonful of brown sugar and 2 spoonfuls of the bourbon. Those got all stirred up.

I broke up a tablespoon of butter and dotted it all over the top, then baked them at 375 degrees for about an hour, stirring every 20 minutes.

And this is what came out:

I spooned two more spoonfuls of bourbon over the warm apples and stirred it up to let them soak up all the delicious bourbon sauce. I wanted them to be very soft, almost falling apart, so that they’d make a luscious topping for the waffles.

I was having fun in the kitchen so I decided to make some maple cinnamon whipped cream too. Just a half pint of heavy whipping cream, sprinkle of sugar and cinnamon, and maple syrup until it tasted maple-y enough. I whipped it with a stand mixer using the beater attachment and it was fluffy and delicious in about 5 minutes.

When we got to John’s house, he made us a few signature cocktails to go with our brunch. I had a maple Old Fashioned using the Old Pogue bourbon and some maple syrup that was matured in bourbon barrels.

Mmmm….bourbony!

And here’s the delicious brunch we all feasted on:

Crunchy bacon and buttery waffles that were crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside. Absolutely amazing paired with the maple cinnamon whipped cream, soft baked apples, and one of the many maple syrups we had to choose from.

After everyone got to eat, we moved the party outside for a whiskey tasting hour!

That’s about half of what was actually available.

We all compared a newly opened bottle of Glenfiddich with one that had been open for about 3 months to try to guess which was which in a blind taste test. I think I was the only person to get it wrong. Doesn’t matter, still got to try lots of new whiskeys.

I think we managed to polish off at least two of the opened bottles we were trying to get rid of, so I’d say the party was a success. And, I didn’t feel like death the next morning either. Double win!

Below is the recipe for those amazing bourbon baked apples. If you’re not into booze with breakfast you could absolutely leave out the bourbon, but I’d try replacing it with juice or cider to maintain the same moisture levels.

Favorite waffle topping?

I got almost zero sleep last night due to several events, some more fortunate than others.

The first reason could be attributed to this…

That is a flight of delicious whiskey samplings.  Oh yes.

Jeff and I walked into Decatur to grab some sushi after work.  We ordered way to much (I didn’t remember to get a picture) and wanted just one drink before heading back home.

We stopped in at Mac McGee, an Irish pub on Decatur Square and ordered a beer each. At that point a man in a kilt started speaking over everyone in the bar.  Apparently, they were having a whiskey tasting and lesson from a master whiskey expert that night, and we had stumbled in at the exact moment it began.

The bartender asked if we’d like to join in and whaddaya know, we caved.  We shared one since we already had beers on the counter, and because both of us would get trashed if we had 6 shots each, with beer.

First we tried a Dalwhinnie, sweet and honeyed but still with a pretty agressive burn in the throat.

Next came Clynelish and then Cardhu, both sweet and pleasant as well. Then my favorite of the night Oban, which is much smoother, less burning.

And here I’m tasting tasting some of the peaty, smokey, island-origin varieties: Caol Ila and Lagavulin.

Lagavulin was a little too smokey for both of us.

We also got to smell some of the ingredients used in crafting these fine whiskeys and some of the high-alcohol wort before it gets distilled further.

And we learned how to properly “nose” the whiskey, place the glass under your nose and breathe in through your mouth.

We were pretty giddy by the time we left and still had about a mile or so to walk home.

We fell pretty promptly into bed after that and were out instantly.  Then, hell opened up. Hell in the form of a tiny, brown, fuzzy, devil named Liam.

Liam has always barked at our bedroom door from time to time when he gets bored or lonely or energetic at night.  I say “barked” because that is more descriptive of the loud and insistent sound that comes bellowing out of him than “meow” can express.  This cat only has one working lung (I’ll delve into that story another time) and yet he can scream at a shrill and maddening pitch for hours without stopping.  Which is exactly what he preceded to do, starting around 1am this morning.

For your reference, this picture pretty much sums up how he views himself…

Don’t call me cruel, but I keep a squirt bottle of water on my bedside table just for these occasions when Liam absolutely loses it and decides to practice his operatic masterpieces in the middle of the night.  I never actually get to squirt him anymore though.  He’s learned to run away and hide as soon as he hears me get up, and usually just the gesture of me intending to squirt him will shut him up til morning.  Not last night.

Liam bawled and complained for hours on end and I got up at least 4 times, Jeff several as well.  It was around 4am when Jeff noticed that he hadn’t seen Lucas anywhere the last time he got up.

We found Lucas asleep in our second bedroom with the door closed, he must have shut it himself so he could have a night alone. That was what Liam was complaining about.  As soon as I shooed Lucas out of the bedroom Liam started purring and rubbing against my leg. Either he couldn’t sleep without Lucas next to him or, more likely, he just wanted to tattle on Lucas for being alone in the bedroom. They are seriously just like little kids, one can’t stand it when the other is getting to do something that they’re not getting to do.

They really are inseparable, though.

You’d think that with that little brat assuaged, I could get some sleep, right? Nope.  A whole symphony came to life outside our bedroom window.  A train blared not so far away to announce it’s arrival, then spent a good 20 minutes screeching to halt with a sound akin to nails on a chalkboard.  Sirens waled as they sped towards whatever danger needed intercepting.  Early morning commuters started their hustle and bustle out of the city. And then… there was an intense and furious poetry slam between an owl and a rooster…a rooster named Lakesha.

Some neighbors of ours a few houses down have a rooster in their backyard.  I don’t know if they have any chickens, but I know they have a rooster.

Jeff and I have heard this little fellows’ crow change as he’s grown in to an adult rooster. He used to just scream one loud note, “AHHHHHHHHH!” out into the morning, but over time he’s added other notes and come up with quite an individual little call for himself. He doesn’t, however, seem to have a working internal clock. Homeboy will fire up that voice box at any hour he feels compelled, and last night he was compelled by an owl, hooting away in the tree tops. They went back and forth for over an hour.

Now what you’re really wondering is, “Why is the rooster named Lakesha???” Here is the approximate conversation between Jeff and I that resulted in his rather feminine moniker.

Setting: In our bedroom in the middle of the afternoon one weekend. I was folding clothes, Jeff was on the bed checking emails from his phone, rooster was outside and would not shut up.

Me: “That rooster sure is loquacious.”

Jeff (not paying attention): “Lakesha?”

Me: “What?”

Jeff: “Did you just say the rooster is Lakesha?”

Me: “No!  I said the rooster is loquacious.  Besides, roosters are boys, he can’t be named Lakesha.”

Jeff: “Whatever, hon. I think you just named that rooster Lakesha”

Me: “Fine, Lakesha it is.”

And that is the story of a rooster named Lakesha.

I felt like crap today from all of these things.  I think I’m swearing off alcohol for a while, at least until this weekend for the Decatur Beer Festival. Yay!