The weather has turned here, going from low 70's and sunny one day to low 50's, blustery, and raw the next. The storm windows have come down, and I always think of that as initiating a quiet time of the year, since the outside noises are shut out. I can't believe it was just a couple of weeks ago that we were at the home of friends, celebrating a birthday with a massive gardening party. Not a garden party. A gardening party. Sod removal, building berms and swales for rain gardens and erosion control, planting native plants, and all on a gorgeous day. Taking a break with my friend and a growler of porter from Grizzly Peak Brewing in Ann Arbor, we started talking about music, art, politics... and beer! Another guy joined us, and as we were saying that the porter was hitting the spot -- dark and flavorful, but easy to pour down -- he asked if we had tried anything from Short's brewing in Bellaire, MI, up north. Neither of us had. He said we should make a point of it.
I did, and now I'm trying to think about how to get up to Bellaire and visit their pub.
Just before the fall chill, soon after the party, a friend came into town for a couple of days, and we went out to a mutual favorite, Old Town Tavern. They had Short's Huma Lupa Licious IPA on their rotating tap. Really terrific beer. It's a big IPA, flowery, bitter, citrusy. I was impressed. And I'll admit: the name is fantastic. A few days later, I was in one of our very good local markets perusing their beer section, where I've been particularly taken by the selection of singles, and there was Short's Pandemonium Pale Ale. This was an astoundingly good beer, with a rich, creamy head that gradually dissipated into craggy peaks and amber color so intense that I wouldn't have been surprised to find a mosquito encased in it. Assertively floral, hoppy nose. Slightly heavy mouth feel -- this was a maltier pale than I expected, though once poured, the head certainly was a clue. This beer was laced with floral and bitter notes, but also a hint of sweetness that just made it come together perfectly. It was like a tango on my tongue. As it warmed a bit in the glass, the citrus notes became more pronounced, a kind of orangey hint that was a nice addition to what was already a complex beer.
While the brewery's website shows distribution within Michigan, I'm not so sure that it's gotten out of state yet. It should. Go drink your Short's!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
First Loves
We all have first loves. Those life-shaping experiences that imprint themselves on our often-wee psyches. I'm not talking about romance -- at least with a person -- but experiences that tweak our brains and set the stage for what me might continue to love in the future.
For me, these include:
Going to Knott's Berry Farm with my grandparents at age 5. They always came to L.A. from Chicago for my birthday. Even then, I knew that was special, but now I'm so much more exquisitely aware of what a statement of devotion those trips were. One year, they took me to Knott's Berry Farm. Not only did we do all the rides and shows, but they sprang for the special tour of the park. I still have a treasured, somewhat faded photo of that trip, the three of us in front of some rustic, western cabin. I'm squinting into the Southern California sunshine. I still love that place, though it's been years. Maybe now, if I went back, it would simply disappoint, so perfect is the memory.
Pancakes and waffles. I have always loved breakfast food, especially these treasures of the carb kingdom. There's nothing quite like them. They were a rarity at home growing up, so it was extra-special when we'd bust out the clunky old waffle iron or skillet and fill the house with the smell of breakfast goodness. When my dad got a job as in-house counsel for a major restaurant chain that has something of a specialty in pancakes, I was in heaven. To me, it was like some sort of birthright had come to fruition: my destiny was complete. I had become the prince of pancakes.
Chocolate souffle. Believe it or not, this was the first dessert dish that I declared to be a favorite. I went out to a French restaurant with some out-of-town relatives when I was around 5 or 6 and ordered a chocolate souffle for dessert, probably because I saw the word "chocolate" and went right for it. When that beautiful pillow of decadence came -- I remember it as being HUGE -- I broke into it. Even the aroma was enough to take me into the next dimension. But the taste, oh the taste... that was beyond the beyond. It was like some sort of perfect distillation of chocolate. I last had one probably 6 years ago, but it remains a true favorite.
And then there were the beers...
I have always loved the taste of beer. When I was really young and would swipe or beg a sip, I loved the combination of bitterness with a hint of sweetness, the fizz of the bubbles, the mustache from the head, the peculiar yeasty smell. My first really conscious experience of craft -- as opposed to any -- beer was probably on a trip to Boston with my dad. This was back around 1988. We went to a restaurant, and when the server came to our table for drink orders, Dad asked him what he might recommend. He said, "Sam Adams." This was before Sam was widely distributed, and we west coasters certainly hadn't heard of it. It came to the table, and when Dad tasted it, his eyebrows flicked up in appreciation and he immediately said, "You have to try this." I glanced round to make sure no one was watching and took a sip. Sheer pleasure! Later, back in the hotel room, Dad discovered that there was a mini-bar that had -- you guessed it -- two Sams in there! We broke those out along with some snacks and settled in to watch a movie. Now, people can debate whether Sam Adams is a craft brew, and it certainly ain't no micro. But back then, as I said, it wasn't yet ubiquitous. Maybe it was the setting, having it on the big trip with Dad and getting a chance to hang out with him in a more concentrated way than usual, but context is indeed part of experience, and I've seldom had a finer beer-drinking experience than that one.
We all have our personal trips to a "promised land." In 1993, after graduating from college, I had a cross-country drive with a college buddy to get home to California. After hanging out in Southern California, we headed north, and San Francisco was one of our destinations. I had had Anchor Steam now and again, and I really wanted to visit the brewery. We got to this haven of deliciousness and I went straight to the desk and told the lady there that I wanted to go on a tour, please. Oh naive boy! She paused a moment and then told me that she was really sorry, but the tour had already headed out for the day, and she gestured in the direction of the brewing area. I said that maybe we could join them, and she again said she was really sorry, but it was full. She added that reservations were generally required. Well, I thought, we were staying in San Francisco for a few days, so I said that I'd like to reserve a spot on the next available tour. That's when she told me that tours were booked weeks -- or was it months? -- in advance. My face fell, outpaced only by my heart, and I didn't know what to do. Then I took a deep breath and did something that shocked me then, though nowadays I'd probably try it without hesitation. I told her that I had just driven across the country, all the way from Ohio, and that the one thing that I had most wanted to do was tour the Anchor Brewing Company. I explained that they made my favorite beer ('twas true!), and that I wanted -- almost needed -- to see where it was made. I used words like "pilgrimage" and "desperate," not to mention lots of superlatives. I told her that the drive had been very difficult ('twas also true!). I told her that I was extremely sorry and utterly embarrassed that I hadn't thought to make a reservation, but that I was new at this and just had no idea that one was required. I asked her whether there was any way, any way at all, that I could join the tour. Then I stopped and hoped. There was a long pause. And then she looked at me with the kindest look you could imagine and said, "Tell you what. They are about to get to the tasting room. Why don't you join them there?" I looked back at her the way one might look at someone who had just carried them out of a burning building, thanked her every which way, and let her guide us to the tasting room. I think I tried every beer they had in there, most of which I'd not had, including a delightful barleywine. I had reached the pinnacle up to that point. Total bliss. First love.
For me, these include:
Going to Knott's Berry Farm with my grandparents at age 5. They always came to L.A. from Chicago for my birthday. Even then, I knew that was special, but now I'm so much more exquisitely aware of what a statement of devotion those trips were. One year, they took me to Knott's Berry Farm. Not only did we do all the rides and shows, but they sprang for the special tour of the park. I still have a treasured, somewhat faded photo of that trip, the three of us in front of some rustic, western cabin. I'm squinting into the Southern California sunshine. I still love that place, though it's been years. Maybe now, if I went back, it would simply disappoint, so perfect is the memory.
Pancakes and waffles. I have always loved breakfast food, especially these treasures of the carb kingdom. There's nothing quite like them. They were a rarity at home growing up, so it was extra-special when we'd bust out the clunky old waffle iron or skillet and fill the house with the smell of breakfast goodness. When my dad got a job as in-house counsel for a major restaurant chain that has something of a specialty in pancakes, I was in heaven. To me, it was like some sort of birthright had come to fruition: my destiny was complete. I had become the prince of pancakes.
Chocolate souffle. Believe it or not, this was the first dessert dish that I declared to be a favorite. I went out to a French restaurant with some out-of-town relatives when I was around 5 or 6 and ordered a chocolate souffle for dessert, probably because I saw the word "chocolate" and went right for it. When that beautiful pillow of decadence came -- I remember it as being HUGE -- I broke into it. Even the aroma was enough to take me into the next dimension. But the taste, oh the taste... that was beyond the beyond. It was like some sort of perfect distillation of chocolate. I last had one probably 6 years ago, but it remains a true favorite.
And then there were the beers...
I have always loved the taste of beer. When I was really young and would swipe or beg a sip, I loved the combination of bitterness with a hint of sweetness, the fizz of the bubbles, the mustache from the head, the peculiar yeasty smell. My first really conscious experience of craft -- as opposed to any -- beer was probably on a trip to Boston with my dad. This was back around 1988. We went to a restaurant, and when the server came to our table for drink orders, Dad asked him what he might recommend. He said, "Sam Adams." This was before Sam was widely distributed, and we west coasters certainly hadn't heard of it. It came to the table, and when Dad tasted it, his eyebrows flicked up in appreciation and he immediately said, "You have to try this." I glanced round to make sure no one was watching and took a sip. Sheer pleasure! Later, back in the hotel room, Dad discovered that there was a mini-bar that had -- you guessed it -- two Sams in there! We broke those out along with some snacks and settled in to watch a movie. Now, people can debate whether Sam Adams is a craft brew, and it certainly ain't no micro. But back then, as I said, it wasn't yet ubiquitous. Maybe it was the setting, having it on the big trip with Dad and getting a chance to hang out with him in a more concentrated way than usual, but context is indeed part of experience, and I've seldom had a finer beer-drinking experience than that one.
We all have our personal trips to a "promised land." In 1993, after graduating from college, I had a cross-country drive with a college buddy to get home to California. After hanging out in Southern California, we headed north, and San Francisco was one of our destinations. I had had Anchor Steam now and again, and I really wanted to visit the brewery. We got to this haven of deliciousness and I went straight to the desk and told the lady there that I wanted to go on a tour, please. Oh naive boy! She paused a moment and then told me that she was really sorry, but the tour had already headed out for the day, and she gestured in the direction of the brewing area. I said that maybe we could join them, and she again said she was really sorry, but it was full. She added that reservations were generally required. Well, I thought, we were staying in San Francisco for a few days, so I said that I'd like to reserve a spot on the next available tour. That's when she told me that tours were booked weeks -- or was it months? -- in advance. My face fell, outpaced only by my heart, and I didn't know what to do. Then I took a deep breath and did something that shocked me then, though nowadays I'd probably try it without hesitation. I told her that I had just driven across the country, all the way from Ohio, and that the one thing that I had most wanted to do was tour the Anchor Brewing Company. I explained that they made my favorite beer ('twas true!), and that I wanted -- almost needed -- to see where it was made. I used words like "pilgrimage" and "desperate," not to mention lots of superlatives. I told her that the drive had been very difficult ('twas also true!). I told her that I was extremely sorry and utterly embarrassed that I hadn't thought to make a reservation, but that I was new at this and just had no idea that one was required. I asked her whether there was any way, any way at all, that I could join the tour. Then I stopped and hoped. There was a long pause. And then she looked at me with the kindest look you could imagine and said, "Tell you what. They are about to get to the tasting room. Why don't you join them there?" I looked back at her the way one might look at someone who had just carried them out of a burning building, thanked her every which way, and let her guide us to the tasting room. I think I tried every beer they had in there, most of which I'd not had, including a delightful barleywine. I had reached the pinnacle up to that point. Total bliss. First love.
"Oh, that's good!"
That's what my grandfather used to say at the table when he ate something really really tasty. He'd get a happy, satisfied look on his face and slowly say, "Ohhhh, that's gooood." And it was; he was always right about this. It was such a trademark phrase of his that my brother actually mentioned it when speaking at his funeral. And we all smiled when he said that and pictured things like my grandmother's apricot chicken or brisket, two of the several things that prompted that statement of totally blissed-out satisfaction.
I want this blog to be about good stuff. Satisfying stuff. The kind of thing that might make one say, "Oh, that's good." For me, that means craft beer, and few places are as rich in great breweries as Michigan and the other great lakes states. That's what I'll be covering, along with some more general commentary on food and drink, both local and far-flung. I'll also throw in random musings, and -- because I can't help myself -- some curmudgeonly commentary. It's in my nature, and my work as a lawyer in child protection matters simply reinforces it. But don't worry: this is not a law blog. There are enough of those already.
If you're reading, welcome! Sit back, pour yourself a tasty, local brew, and enjoy.
I want this blog to be about good stuff. Satisfying stuff. The kind of thing that might make one say, "Oh, that's good." For me, that means craft beer, and few places are as rich in great breweries as Michigan and the other great lakes states. That's what I'll be covering, along with some more general commentary on food and drink, both local and far-flung. I'll also throw in random musings, and -- because I can't help myself -- some curmudgeonly commentary. It's in my nature, and my work as a lawyer in child protection matters simply reinforces it. But don't worry: this is not a law blog. There are enough of those already.
If you're reading, welcome! Sit back, pour yourself a tasty, local brew, and enjoy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
