Brewed Musings

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Spot of English Tea gearing up for the biggest week for Oregon Brewers and beer aficionados alike

The irony from the last post is that the meeting of the minds never took place for one of the members (not me) decided to attend a Timbers exhibition match.  Instead that night I got to go to a local pub and converse and drink beer with some of my favourite brewer friends…and non-brewer friends.  But I still did some editing on the works that were flowing from the prior weekend.  And for that effort I will give you two of the poems that came from that river.

Prosit!

the confucian brewer

Mash Paddle  13.July.2008

In my hands, the mash paddle.
Ground through the mill
the malt falls, mixing
With hot water, and piles
Up on the bottom of the mash tun.
I use the paddle to stir,
To even out the mash,
an attempt at consistency.

This is how I explain it to my son,
If and when he arrives.
Holding the paddle in his tiny hands
We will stir the mash as I explain,
“You must constantly stir
so that the malt and the water mix.
Too thick and nothing flows…
Too thin and the wort weakens…
You must use the paddle
To determine the mash’s body,
To gauge its consistency.”

Every day I take the mash paddle
And create a sieve of hot water and malt.
I will teach this to my son:
a good mash is only the beginning,
But it is the key to a good brew.
I am a mash paddle.
He will become a mash paddle.

Untitled #2    13.July.2008

As I read Snyder’s Axe Handles
The dog lay at my feet.
She is now 10 years old.
Some believe that equals 70
In dog years.  Not too sure
I subscribe to that theory.
If true, Tess is a spunky Septuagenarian.

We have been together
A length of 8 years.
She has me well trained.

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Pint of Eagle Feather FIPA (an American IPA/Saison hybrid)

Yesterday was the 7th Annual Brewfest at the brewpub I work at.  This year’s was quite different than previous years because I had a little more say in the proceedings.  This meant the brewers could be brewers and not servers.  We did not have to stand behind the bar and pour beers to customers while some other customer tried to chat us up about our beers.  This year we stood outside with the festival goers and chatted them up on their turf.  One thing that would have been better is if the shirts that said “Brewer” on the back  had shown up.  We were indistinguishable in the crowd and, thus, very few people asked us any questions.

My beer was the Eagle Feather FIPA brewed in honour of my best friend, Charity.  It is a hybrid of an American IPA and a Saison.  What that means is that I brewed the recipe of an IPA in all its hop glory, and fermented it as if I were brewing a Saison.  A Saison during fermentation can reach temperatures of 85+ degrees F.   Normal fermentation temperatures for an ale such as an IPA are around 65-68 degrees F.  The tricky part about this beer is that the flavours and aromas of the hops must complement the flavour and aroma brought about by the farmhouse yeast I used.  Fortunately this occurred.  And while the American Pale Ale brewed by my friend, John, was selling more, the FIPA got great reviews from the people brave enough to try something different.  Little did I know that this creation and this day would lead to another creative, fruitful day.

The heat in Portland, while not unbearable, is still a bit over the top.  And to avoid sitting in the house today sweating and staring at a computer screen, I took my favourite chair and placed it in well shaded area, and sat with a copy of The Book of Songs and Gary Snyder’s Axe Handles.  This coupled with the first meeting of the Portland Brewers Writers Club aroused a flurry of creativity.  The club is essentially me and a couple of friends, one a beer writer and the other the fiance of a brewer friend of mine.  Our creative asses were getting big because we were lounging around too much.  The winter brought us down and we needed something to kick start our minds.

In the shade of a tree and with the dog tired from the walk I set out to reading some of The Book of Songs which is one of the five texts of Confucianism.  If you have not heard or read it, check it out.  It is some of the best and oldest lyrical compositions ever written.  After switching to some Snyder a thought turned into a stanza into a complete poem.  So I frantically typed it and went back to my day.  After some chores and a nap I went back outside, moved the chair under the hop vines and, lo and behold, 4 more poems came out.  I would share them with you but unlike my old self, I am actually going to edit and revise these with the help of my club.

So now that the sun is receding I must again go outdoors and enjoy the evening with the White Wonder, cook some ribs on the grill, and be thankful for the spark of creativity.  Who knows when it will come back or even if it has left.  I am not going to push it though.  If I make it mad, it will come back and haunt me.  If you are in the neighbourhood, come and enjoy a pint of the Eagle Feather…or the Saison at Puckerfest this week.  If you are not in the neighbourhood and want to enjoy my brews, move here.

Prost!
the confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A cup of Yerba Mate

It was buried there, deep
in the sands of the river
bed, covered by the silt
and the sand laid down
by years of the passing river.
I do not know why I began
digging that day through the cool,
damp sand.  I merely bent
down and knelt, knees sinking
in the silt, hand by hand
throwing the sand and the silt
to and fro, left and right,
not seeking any treasure,
just frantically digging for what
lay beneath.  And there it appeared,
an onyx stone polished clean
by eons of erosion,
by centuries of love
from the mighty river. I lift it,
rinse it, and admire it for hours.
In my palms it rests, the sun
Reflected on its black face,
The moon caressing its shiny skin.
And with a kiss I toss it
back into the mighty river.

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A pot of Oolong Tea

Some of you may have been wondering where I have gone to these past few weeks. For anyone who knows me I am very introspective and periods of quiet are quite normal for me. And that is where I have been. Plus I have been intrigued and engulfed in reading The People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn, a book that has opened my eyes and mobilized me. The following is a quote I read this morning and found it interesting enough to write it down in my journal. So interesting in my opinion that I am going to share it with you. The quote is from Archibald MacLeish on Post World War 2, the U.S., and the peace process:

“As things are now going, the peace we will make, the peace we seem to be making, will be a peace of oil, a peace of gold, a peace of shipping, a peace in brief…without moral purpose or human interest.”

Not too sure how you may view this quote being out of context of the chapter. But like I said it moved me enough to write it down. Perhaps a more moving quote should be the one that I read in a local newspaper which lead me to get Zinn’s book. It came at the very beginning of my introspective period and opened my eyes…or better yet it allowed me the strength to use the voice I have been given.

“People who seem to have no power, whether working people, people of colour, or women - once they organize and protest and create movements - have a voice no government can suppress.” - Howard Zinn

Prost!

a no longer voiceless confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Henry’s IPA in a polished pint glass

Thelonius where the hell have you been? It has been far too long since last we met and I was beginning to worry. Perhaps we just missed each other on the bus, you getting off at 6th and Main as I boarded one block away on 7th. Maybe you were on the 4:53 train dreaming of a new riff whilst I was late finishing my brew riff and had to catch the 5:08. Where have you been?

I have missed hanging out with all the gang. Charlie…Diz…Lester…Bud…Hell, even Mingus and his soulful unevenness. I have missed the beers at night in the bar down the street where Horace went mad on the keys and everyone in the room enjoying the madness even joining in and giving him their madness with him adding it to the mix making a big roomful of inviting madness. I miss the times watching Philly Joe beat the shit out of the drums skillfully and not once having to replace his sticks. You know I still prefer the swingin brushstrokes of Jo, but Philly has his moments. I miss sitting at the table with the gang with beers and wine and coffee listenin to Lady Day entrance the room with her version of the blues. We laughed at the squares at the corner table because they still do not get it and never will. I laugh even though I was one of those at one time and still am at other times.

So you can imagine my surprise this morning as I walk into the cafe, my favourite cafe, and see you solemnly sitting at the counter drinking a cup of joe and reading the newspaper. You looking all regal and at home with the coffee mug at your left hand - always at your left hand or at least that is how I remember it. The sight brought a tear to my eye as if I had just found my long lost brother. I wish I had a camera to capture your saintly serenity but no photo could do the image justice. Instead I stare for a bit like a child who is just about to meet his idol, Lou Gehrig, for the first time…Eyes blinking as if the sight of you, the length of the counter with empty seats while others are filled with the working men and women of the morning, the whole sight is a mirage and I am still lying in bed dreaming. After a moment of silence, I finally walk up, slap you on the back, and ask, “Thelonius, where in the hell have you been, my friend?”

Prost!

the confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pot of Green Tea and the return of the Spring Sun

The past few weeks have been chaotic to say the least, something that usually leads my mind to the far-reaches of the cosmos and returns with some ramblings of philosophy and a sense of calm. Alas, that point has not been reached yet and I am still far off in the netherworld taking notes. (Please send some trail mix and another pen.) So I thought I would keep you loyal readers busy with some notes from a conversation I had a while back, sitting with a friend over pints. I will also end it with the one and only thought I had the other day whilst chatting with a very special friend. Enjoy!

Every decision, whether conscious or unconscious, gives birth to a myriad of decisions of conscious and unconscious. Who is to say that nothing is predetermined.

I am destined to die some day. This I know to be pre-determined. All my decisions from birth til now gave rise to our meeting, yet I was not destined to find you.

Just because all things are pre-determined in the cosmos does not mean I will inherit a million dollars. The timing must be 100%. 99.98% and all is naught.

The only place destiny is found is in death.

The previous thoughts came from a conversation a friend and I had a while back about the difference in pre-determined and destiny and whether or not there is such a thing called fate. The point of our conversation was not to debate who is right or wrong, but to get us thinking on a different plane, thinking outside logic. Take it as you will…I hope it stirs something up in your mind. And I will leave you with the following:

Sometimes all it takes to start an avalanche is a whisper.

Prost!

the whispering confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice: Any good pint you would like to drink during a philosophical discussion

It has been a few days now and I believe it is time for the story that lead up to the previous statement about the talents of assholes. It is one of those statements that are clever at the moment, and depending on you outlook, be it as an optimist or a pessimist, remains clever or simply fades into obscurity. As a Mencian Confucianist, I still believe the statement to be true despite its status in the cleverness realm.

The other night a few of my friends and I were sitting around a table, pints in hand, discussing philosophy. If given the choice of discussing philosophy or politics, I will always pick philosophy. Political discussions tend to bore me because rarely does anything useful come from them save rhetoric and cliché. When I do get involved in ‘em I tend to do one of two things: 1. Sit quietly and let the others resolve nothing; or 2. Become an antogonist just to provoke said others. Most of the time it is the latter option. It seems more fun. But on this night I was around friends who felt inclined to discuss useless philosophy…My forte.

Somehow the discussion turned to “assholes.” Every one knows at least one. Some people attract ‘em like flies on manure. Some are attracted to them. Some, like me, have learned to ignore ‘em for the most part. But there is no escaping ‘em. They are there and not going away. Our discussion started because we have a few in the Timbers Army that we try to distance ourselves from because their actions reflect poorly on us as a group. It is somewhere in this lively discussion where I said, “It takes talent to be an asshole. Thankfully, I am talentless.”

That may sound like a very negative statement. Most people would rather think the opposite: the talent lies in being nice and being honest. To be honest I have a hard time coming to terms with my statement. But hear me out. As a follower of Mencius, who believed that humans were inherantly good, the asshole statement holds true. Which sounds more positive, that one has to try to be nice? or that one has to try to be mean? In my opinion, I would like to think that we as humans do not have to try to be nice. It just comes naturally. A person has to try to be an asshole. They have to perfect that ability. That is where the talent lies.

Do not get me wrong. I do not think I am truly talentless. My talents lie elsewhere. I simply have no talent in being an ass. Our discussion ended, openly, on famous baseball player, Leo Durocher’s quote, “Nice guys finish last.” Many of us at the table agreed that we would rather finish last if it meant that we did not have to step on others to place first. We can argue about this quote on a another day and with another brewed beverage.

Prosit!

the talentless confucian brewer

It takes talent to be an asshole…Thankfully I am talentless…

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A pot of Green Earl Grey Tea

Got up at 8:15 this morning and after a while of diddlin’ ‘round doing this and that – more of this than of that – I decided to take the dog for a walk while the sun was still shining because it will not last long in Oregon spring so I walk out my back door to see how my hops are doing and smile at one that is almost at 5 feet in height but really only out here to gauge the coolness of the air to see if I need a jacket with the response of, “Yes!” walking back in the apartment grabbing the jacket and the Timber’s Army ‘No Pity’ scarf not because of the chill in the air but because of the excitement in the air for Thursday’s opening night of standing and singing and cheering reminding me of my childlike stubbornness the other night at being reduced, well reduced is not the correct word, to a cheerleader with me pouting saying, “No I am not!” when in reality she speaks the truth and as usual gets me to see a different point of view even though I will outwardly maintain that I am a hoolie although deep down I know hoolie and cheerleader are one-in-the-same and as I am thinking this I grab the dog, the leash, and my mp3 player putting on Andrew Bird’s ‘Simple X’ and sing along because Andrew is the only one I can sing along with in somewhat the same key – O! Andrew! Only thou can make whistling sound so beautiful! – takes me back to Chicago when I saw him do a show and he had this remarkable 4-button suit that I wanted and O! Crap! I have two weddings to go to this August and need a suit because, despite my outward appearance, I do like to look good once in a while – a bit of vanity maybe – and by the time Andrew has finished his whistlin’ and the sun has gone behind the clouds, Tess and I have reached our destination of Stumptown for a spot of tea and me-time so I switch the music to American Analog Set, tie up Tess to a nice spot throwing her a treat because she likes catchin’ ‘em now and step inside the olio of the morning.

Brewed Beverage of Choice: A Pint of Cask Conditioned Stumptown Porter from Lucky Lab

Today as I was riding Tri-Met (Portland’s local PubTrans) to run some errands, I pulled out the Northwest Brewing News from my bag and started reading. I have many guilty pleasures in my life including: Surfing documentaries, Dwell magazine, and reading the Northwest and Great Lakes Brewing News from cover to cover. A thought popped, no leapt into my head while perusing good friend and fellow Timber’s armyman Abe Goldman-Armstong’s article on organic hops and the high demand for such a limited product. The thought is still in its broad jump as I sit here with a late lunch and a pint of Real Porter: With the shortage of hops in the industry, will we see the resurgence of the Mild Ale?

The Mild is one of my favourite brews because, underdog lover that I am, it is completely misunderstood and difficult to find in the hop happy Pacific Northwest. As an historian and a socialist, the Mild also draws me in because of its ties to labour and farmers. In fact, in honour of May Day, the official workingman’s holiday, I brew a Mild ale (called May Day Dark because fickle Americans do not like the term Mild) which I will put into tank this week.

If I have not educated you on the Mild before, let me give you a bit of historical background. The Mild was not originally a style of beer but a whole group of beers. In England in the 17th and 18th centuries, beer was served in two forms: Stock or “stale” and Mild. The term mild was to denote fresh or unaged. These beers were also brewed by country people to be served for their workers. Yep…It is a British Farmhouse of a sort. At least in my opinion. The Mild evolved over the centuries to adapt to public tastes so that by the 20th century we see the Mild as a brown, malty brew with lower alcohol. (It is good to note that brewers often bottle their beer as browns and serve their draught brews as milds.) It is also this beer that found favour with the miners and manual labourers in the West Midlands of England because, as David Sutula notes in his book Mild Ale, they could “quaff great quantities of the low-gravity beers after a hard day in the mine or the factory…” It was a replenisher.

Beer styles and trends are naturally dependent on supplies. Styles such as the Pilsener, the Municher, and English Pale came about partially because of the water that was used in them. The water in those cities creating a specific taste that at the time could not be replicated. We in the Pacific Northwest are hop mad as I have stated earlier because we have hops growing in our backyards…Sometimes literally. So naturally with the shortage of hops on our hands, a style such as Mild should come back from obscurity. And I am taking up the torch by challenging other brewers in the area to brew a batch. It does not have to be a classic Mild. What fun would there be in that? But make a nice, full-flavoured dark session ale. Mild has been ignored for too long! Have a pint!

Prost!

the confucian Mild Ale brewer