Monday Bourbon Review

Monday Bourbon Review (Well…Kind Of…)

Special Edition: Bubba’s Alabama White Lightning

This week’s review isn’t bourbon.

Hell…it barely qualifies as a legal concept.

There isn’t a bottle.

There isn’t a cork.

There isn’t a wax seal.

There isn’t a master distiller wearing suspenders explaining notes of “stone fruit” and “toasted marshmallow.”

There isn’t even a company.

There’s just a guy everybody calls Bubba somewhere east of Moundville, Alabama, who appears out of the woods once or twice a year carrying a cardboard box full of mason jars like some backwoods bourbon Santa Claus.

Nobody knows exactly where he lives.

Nobody asks.

That’s part of the agreement.

You don’t ask where Bubba makes it.

Bubba doesn’t ask why you’re buying six jars.

Everybody minds their own business.

As the good Lord intended.

You can’t buy this online.

There isn’t a website.

There isn’t a QR code.

There isn’t a bourbon influencer making duck-face selfies beside it.

You either know Bubba…

…or you’re standing in line at Total Wine hoping they unload another pallet of Buffalo Trace.

Bless your heart.

The Nose

Sweet corn.

Fresh grain.

A little Alabama summer.

A little creek water.

And enough alcohol vapor to remove every bad decision you’ve made since middle school.

One sniff opens your sinuses.

The second sniff lets you hear colors.

The third sniff has you calling your ex just to apologize for something you’re pretty sure wasn’t even your fault.

If your eyes don’t water…

Some Yankee added Sprite.

The Palate

This doesn’t introduce itself.

It doesn’t shake hands.

It doesn’t ask permission.

It kicks open the screen door.

Leaves muddy boot prints across Mama’s clean kitchen floor.

Raids the refrigerator.

Finds the leftover fried catfish.

Complains the sweet tea isn’t sweet enough.

Pets your dog.

Borrows your truck.

And somehow has your neighbor helping it load a washing machine before you realize you’ve been robbed.

Sweet corn.

Black pepper.

Pure white lightning.

It’s less of a sip…

…and more like getting clotheslined by a retired Alabama linebacker who immediately hugs you afterward and calls you “buddy.”

The second sip is somehow smoother.

Mostly because your taste buds have filed for workers’ compensation.

The Finish

Long.

Warm.

Shockingly clean.

About thirty seconds later you’ll suddenly have very strong opinions about cast-iron skillets.

You’ll be shopping Facebook Marketplace for an old tractor.

You’ll start measuring your backyard wondering if you have room for chickens.

You’ll convince yourself smoking meat for sixteen hours is “relaxing.”

And for reasons science still can’t explain…

You’ll begin ending every sentence with,

“Y’all.”

Around minute five you’ll swear George Jones sounds better than he ever has.

By minute ten you’re trying to explain SEC football to someone who never asked.

Final Thoughts

I’ve had more fun introducing this to my Yankee friends in New Hampshire than almost anything else I’ve ever poured.

It always starts exactly the same.

“So…what’s moonshine?”

Then they hold the mason jar up to the light like they’re evaluating a thousand-dollar bourbon.

One person says,

“It smells really sweet.”

Another says,

“It can’t be THAT strong.”

That’s usually the exact moment everyone else quietly takes one step backward.

Then comes the first sip.

Silence.

Complete silence.

One coughs so hard a squirrel falls out of a nearby tree.

Another starts blinking in Morse code.

Someone always fans their mouth with both hands while insisting,

“…I’m fine.”

Nobody has ever been fine.

One inevitably asks,

“How much proof is this?”

I have absolutely no idea.

Neither does Bubba.

His proofing method appears to be taking one sip, looking toward heaven for a second, nodding once and saying,

“Yep.”

Good enough.

Around Here…

People stand outside liquor stores before sunrise hoping to score an allocated bottle.

They join Facebook groups.

They trade samples.

They argue over MSRP.

Back home…

If Bubba hands you a mason jar…

Congratulations.

You just skipped the waiting list.

That’s the allocation.

And unlike most allocated bourbon…

Bubba doesn’t care how much money you make.

He wants to know who your daddy is.

The Porch Test

Would I buy another jar?

Immediately.

Assuming Bubba still remembers me and I haven’t accidentally offended one of his cousins.

Would I recommend it to a friend?

Without hesitation.

Watching a Yankee take that first sip should honestly be an Olympic event.

Would I share it with an enemy?

Absolutely.

Because after two pours we’re either going to become best friends…

…or they’re finally going to admit they were wrong in that argument back in 2019.

What’s in it?

Corn.

Sugar.

Generational knowledge.

Equal parts confidence and poor judgment.

Probably a family recipe that’s older than electricity.

And just enough mystery that you don’t really want to know the rest.

Final Rating

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ (5 out of 5 Mason Jars)

“Some whiskey comes from a multimillion-dollar distillery with a visitor center, gift shop, and tasting room.

The best whiskey comes from a guy named Bubba who measures ingredients with his heart, filters quality through pure instinct, and thinks OSHA is somebody that married his cousin.”

Disclaimer: No Yankees were permanently harmed during this review. A few temporarily developed Southern accents, one asked where to buy overalls, and another has been saying “Roll Tide” for three days despite having absolutely no idea what it means.