This is a bourbon that wears its ten years like a well-cut linen suit in the Mississippi heat — tailored, sweat-slicked, and heavy with stories. In the glass, it shines like polished mahogany, catching the light with a slow, confident swagger. The nose is deep and resonant: cherry cola syrup, worn saddle leather, pipe tobacco still warm from a puff, and pecan pie cooling on a windowsill. It smells like it was poured in the study of an antebellum mansion where the only sound is a ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead.

The palate hits rich and deliberate. Vanilla bean and brown sugar bloom on the tongue first, followed by thick caramel, roasted peanut brittle, and a burnt orange bitterness that keeps everything from slipping into cliché. The oak is omnipresent but never overpowering — it’s not shouting for attention, just standing quietly in the corner, tipping its hat when you notice. You taste the time in barrel in the layers of spice: cinnamon oil, clove, and a whisper of pipe ash. There’s a rustic elegance to it — this isn’t polished to perfection, it’s got calluses and grace.

As it opens, secondary notes creep in — old library dust, leather armchair, dry cocoa powder, and charred cornbread crust. The complexity builds like a slow Southern drawl, each syllable thicker than the last. Water coaxes out softer notes: apricot jam, baked apple, a touch of hazelnut cream. But the heart of this bourbon stays true — deep, smoky, and just a touch dangerous.

The finish is long, meditative, and bittersweet. Cinnamon bark, dark sugar, and a final ghost of black cherry. It stays with you like a well-told tale, long after the last sip. This is bourbon for twilight hours, back porch reckonings, and letters never sent. Not just a bottle — a character study in American oak.