A drizzly Easter Sunday, bucket’o’paint, puttering around the brewery making amendments to the draft system and such, counting the minutes to our re-opening Thursday 4 April, all spic-n-span. We’re still in headscratching mode about where to put the cask and beer engine . . .
Archive for March, 2013
Growing from infancy into childhood we are introduced to illusions that we collect and refine. The rest of aging seems to be a process of dealing with our roster of illusions: either by shedding them when they no longer work for us or seeing them actually assaulted and defeated. Also there’s substitution. And collaboration. And prostitution. And eventually we are hopefully old peeps adorning porches and happy just to still be ticking.
They say that older people are happier than younger, which seems counter-intuitive for a moment and then makes perfect sense. Illusions are heavy baggage, and the strain of fitting the world in them is a crippler. The denial or suffering required to deal with the damage done to them by brute reality exacts psychic pounds. But who is illusionless expects little and so’s happy with what comes. Expecting nothing is only jaded if you’re bitter about it; if you’re cool with it, well, it’s like what the brilliant and peculiar Darryl Zero says in the brilliant and peculiar film Zero Effect (1998) about looking for things: “When you look for something specific, your chances of finding it are very bad, because of all the things in the world, you only want one of them. When you look for anything at all, your chances of finding it are very good, because of all the things in the world, you’re sure to find some of them.”
Sometimes, though, an illusion is so appealing that it’s impossible to flush it all the way down the toilet. You start flushing it, then reach in and save it and say, hang on, I can do something with this. Take the idea of meritocracies, for instance. We grow up thinking that if we work harder than the next guy it will translate into success. We grow up in thrall to the idea that every generation does a little better than the last owing to equality of opportunity and hard work. The cream rises to the top, the early bird gets the worm, blah blah blah. Some of us see through this illusion earlier than others. Some cleave to it out of necessity. (I heard a one-percenter interviewed on Planet Money or something who said that a person with a cell phone isn’t poor. “If you have a cell phone, you aren’t poor,” he said, chuckling.) The truth is that equality of opportunity is a myth so long as schools are unequally funded. A smart kid from a poor neighborhood can reach the same finish line at the same time as a middling kid from a rich neighborhood, maybe, but she’s got to run faster and harder and the wind’s against her and someone’s shooting at her and there’s all this crap in her way.
It’s childish to think that society at large will furnish conditions in which merit blindly determines success, but it’s grown-up to look to your own. It isn’t an illusion if your own actions bring it forth.
There is much that we at the French Broad Brewery do not have. We are not shiny. We are not controlled by millionaires. We are limited. We are the old horse, the small claim, the bowling shoes, the gift wrapped in newspaper, the battered car with a busted odometer, the sweaty collar, the strong back and its ache at day’s end.
But we’re running hard. And our beer? Our beer is pretty damn good, y’all. Come on over and get you some this weekend. We’re here every day.
Maybe it’s indicative of how exhausted people become with winter that Spring has so many different starting pistols.
Puxatawney Phil gets his annual fifteen minutes every Candlemas. Later on we “spring” forward. Some people (I just learned this) mark the start of Spring from the day after President’s Day. Pitchers and catchers report in February for Spring Training.
When the calendar and astronomical reckoning declares Spring, it’s one of those things where you’re like, O.K., but where’s the beef? My feet are cold. This wind cuts. Sure I bought oil for the lawnmower and cherry trees are budding, but let’s not kid ourselves: half of Asheville grilled out in the first week of January, too, and nobody planned then to be lawnchair sunning the next day. Winter isn’t finished–it’s doing the same “Not…Dead…Yet!” routine we see every March into April. Like the German fancypants dancer out for vengeance against Bruce Willis’s John McClain in the first Die Hard.
Saturday’s supposed to bring snow, and them who plant before Mother’s Day will know better next year.
But it is a joy kept in a shelf all its own to see the days get longer, and few things in life can compete with the happiness of the year’s first shorts-outside.
At 7:02 A.M. this morning Spring officially kicked off in the Northern Hemisphere. What for us is the Vernal Equinox is the Autumnal Equinox on the other side of the equator. In Iran and other countries with large Persian populations the new year is being celebrated. Here at the Brewery and in every other working Brewery on the globe we’re celebrating (wittingly or un) the ancient Mesopotamian festival of Akitu, or, the cutting of the barley. Someday, soon and finally, winter’s last chilly gasp will thaw and recede into the deep earth, beneath the booming flowers and unruly lawns, and we will yawn into the warmth, beers in hand, beers sweating on hands, game on the radio and neighborhoods buzzing with lawnmowers, kids splashing in pools, kids sprinting through long, long days, winter a memory impossible to feel. We will wake up in the dark and turn on air conditioners. We will sleep under only sheets.
It’s going to be great.
Because it is arguably in our best interests to appear sweatlessly professional in everything we do, I will just say that we’re tapping (AT 4 O’CLOCK TODAY) a keg of Imperial (nitrous) Stout and that it’s no big deal and stuff. The nitrogenated mouthfeel might make your head pop right off with a shock of rapture, but whatever. It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done for us if things were the other way around. And what the hey, it’s St. Patrick’s day weekend, so…
In all seriousness, this is the first time in the life of brewer Peter Batinski that one of his recipes has been tapped at a public drinking establishment. He seems duly impressed by the moment and I am too–and so should you be, Beer City residents, who’ve watched with satisfaction the critical massing of Asheville-style craft beer. It is doubly neat that this first coincides with the other first for us: the nitrogen effect. I had a drink yesterday thinking to myself, big whoop, and then I was like, What? The word tapioca comes to mind. Caviar. Wayne Newton singing “Tiny Bubbles”. Also this is a big, strapping, John Wayne in The Quiet Man kind of beer, with an ABV sitting at 9.5% and chocolate notes that might physically make you weep. And it’s black as ink and cold as sin. And there’s only about five gallons of it, y’all, so make haste.
Cask IPA with Columbus dry hops, too! Holy crap, so much beer! All you have to do is buy it!
Now here’s a picture of Dave Desmelik, who plays TONIGHT!