We are lovers of barrels, that which resides within their steel banded darkness is heaven.
The aging of beer at our own hands is still just a fumbling hobby; but when done by brewers, it becomes a kind of sorcery. That synergy of time, bacteria, and wood coalesces into flavors and sensations that Hot Knives and other beer freaks now hunt down with the same voracity that we used to for heavy-handed hop brews.
Let these bottles cost way too much. Let them stay out of the fridge a little too long, and let them lose 20% of their fizz before you swill and contemplate the vastness of fruit-inflected, ale infections.
This Red Poppy was the one time we wanted, nay, needed the flaccid security of a rubber cork and one of those cheap air pumps the weak use when they can’t finish their fancy grape juice. A strange compulsion to be sure: Why did we not want to saber more bottles, dumping the ruddy, red suds into our gaping mouths like blood crazed cannibals? What preservation, what need would stretching this 375 ml. continuum fulfill that another tall glass would not? This was different; this was like some forced sensation of the Sacred. We wrapped the bottle in saran wrap and rubber bands, trying to tie off the gusher so that another tart-minded tongue could sip something this good.
Tartness that actually made the words “oh my god” come out of our mouths — a sensual knee jerk reaction like the kind you only have in the company of naked people.
Even keeled tartness with no bitterness? Amazing old ale flavor with no saccharin back side? Deep flavors of barely mashed grain? S. H. I. T. This is good. Brain zaps. Mind pops. This needs to be repeated. Where, and when, will we get back to the beer store — which is where by the way? Where did you get it? Where was I…
We’re not fucked up, we’re going crazy.
Maybe it was circumstantial. The sun had just peaked through the clouds. The chores were done before noon. All the knives had been sharpened, and news from the wilderness was that all our ladies were safe and elated and on their way home. A sense of calm.
Fumbling, we unwrapped our hermetically sealed leftovers, we lost control. It’s so perfect.
Dairy Pairy: Bavarian Limburger
Soundtrack: Fever Ray “If I Had a Heart”
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