Tastiness colored my otherwise ugly and incessantly noisy day in the form of Duchesse de Bourgogne (ahem), on tap, at Jack Brown’s.
It’s every bit as funky and fruity on tap as out-the-bottle.
Dear Weyerbacher Tiny,
Looks to me like you’re confused.
You think you are a Belgian Imperial Sout, but you’re too watery to be a stout and you’re not Belgian.
You are, perhaps, an expired sugar-free-chocolate-pudding blended with more booze than mouthwash and if there was ever a Belgian yeast in you, it drowned in the ABV. I think you are an Imperial Chocolate Porter.
PS. Your aftertaste is crappy and I hate you.
I’ve been drinking shitty beer.
And I’ve been feeling kinda bad about it.
That is until today, when I starting thinking about why I’ve been drinking shitty beer, and, more importantly, why I drink beer at all. Ahem.
I like beer, dude. There’s so much to like. The craft, the culture – beer bar culture, dive bar culture, backyard BBQ bocce culture, new releases, finally popping that Vertical Epic that I’ve been saving, visiting breweries, traveling for good beer bars, trying stuff that I thought I’d hate and then liking it. It’s an adventure and it’s tasty and fun.
Lately though, I want to drink beer and then not talk about it. I’m temporarily tired of thinking about what I’m drinking and comparing it to other things I’ve drank. Just because I am. And I think that’s fine.
When there’s so much on your plate that you don’t know what to do with yourself, and life is so frickin’ stressful that you can’t stand it, and summer is upon you in full force, friends and PBR are there to offer a cozy haven of solace away from the world of tasting and re-tasting and getting drunk all quick because that Imperial IPA was 10%.
I’m not drinking High Life because I think it’s delicious. I’m drinking it because it’s there, and it’s cheap, and it’s not complicated or thought-provoking. It’s one less thing I have to deal with.
I do have a new Flanders Red that I can’t wait to pop and critique.
…of things to be excited about.
I dropped off the face of the blog. Don’t worry. It’s all for the best. Psychic miracles are at work. More on that Later.
Now, back in action, all I have to show for it is a particularly exciting recipe I found.
I love, as you know, Flanders reds. I also love, as you don’t know, rhubarb.
I’ll return with pictures.
It’s a beautiful day.
Beer: Saison DuPont.
Best For: Girls Night, Yard Sale.
Alcohol Content: Medium.
Cheaper/Easier to Find Alternative: Ommegang Hennepin.
Beer: Full Sail Hop Pursuit.
Best For: Yard Work.
Alcohol Content: Medium.
Extra Credit: All those tasty hops without the heaviness.
Easier to Find Alternative: Dale’s Pale Ale.
You were there.
You drank some beers, you mingled, you waited in the port-a-potty line. I bet you can’t stop talking to people about it. You’re swapping favorite beers and praising the gorgeous weather. You were impressed by the local bands, the sense of community, and you’re patting Harrisonburg on the back, which, let’s face it, isn’t something you do every day.
But did you know…
- It SOLD OUT (3000 tickets).
- Ian and I were the first ones through the gate.
- Steve from Ommegang tried to break the oreo record at Jack Brown’s (he ate 11).
Did you have a good time? Tell me tell me tell me!
Stephen King’s Misery + DuClaw Misery.
But…Netflix doesn’t stream Stephen King’s Misery. It does stream Delores Claiborne, also a Stephen King movie, and, as I recalled from over 10 years ago, it’s also a pretty freaky movie.
Much more freaky than I remembered.
DuClaw Misery is a wheatwhine, which, for those unacquainted (me), is a curious creature. BeerAdvocate describes it as, among other things, “soft and fluffy.”
Soft and fluffy.
Soft and fluffy.
Particularly hard and very very not fluffy, I say, at the least. And, to me (Ian disagrees), indistinguishable from a barleywine. 10% and freakin’ owning it, Misery hits you in the chest like a sack of fire-bred bricks and doesn’t let go. No Scotch has ever warmed my innards like this shit.
I drank my Misery very slowly, and Delores Claiborne progressed similarly. Trudging along with Kathy Bates being an extreme badass and Jennifer Jason Leigh all fresh and sassy and young and yellow-toothed, Delores Claiborne was severe. Step aside, Requiem For a Dream. Step aside, Leaving Las Vegas. Delores Claiborne wraps your alcoholism, your child molestation, your desperation and your mortality into one neat little 2 hour and twelve minute package.
Which pairs very nicely with a bottle of Misery.