Ramblings of a Hop Head

It had to happen.

Two intelligent women. The perfect porch. Summer returns. Long warm sunny evenings. Beer.

Home Brewed World Domination.

Funny that it took me until this revered vint-age to realize what being "hopped-up" really meant. I always felt it ranked down there with smoking pencil shavings or cornsilk behind the utility shed at the back of the school yard, or apple cider left out a wee too long after Thanksgiving. Ye Olde pre-1960s Country Time Highs.

Brewing is an ancient and revered sacrament going way back. I truly suspect that brewing is in fact the "Oldest Profession". Legend has it that in 16th century England and the Colonies, even the Puritans insisted that "Goodwife Prudence" should be an adept brew mistress before being considered as marriageable. That's a lot for a 14 year old girl to add to her already burdened homemaking resume. Even children drank beer, because the dangerous water micro-organisms had been boiled and fermented out of it. 'Small beer', it was called.

Well, we aren't making kid-stuff here. This is "Knock You On Your Ass & Fall Off the Porch" IPA. Suggested menu items would be slabs of roast beef, trenchers of mashed potatoes with gravy, horseradish sauce and slices of thick brown bread, grilled mushrooms and onions, some great tart chutney, and parsnips or something Pilgrimmy like that. For the more shamanic among us, to trip between the worlds as it were, salad rolls and cold Vietnamese noodle dishes would be nice and light. To speed your journey. To the Sky Realms.

The Egyptians paid their work crews in big jugs of soggy slushy chewy barley beer. Look at their little pointy thingys in the desert. Not so bad. And at higher elevations, with no grain crop, they even ferment yak or mare's milk. I think brewing predates prostitution by a long shot.

Personally, I've known dozens of people who may as well have had "WILL WORK FOR BEER" tattooed on their foreheads, they were so unconcerned about any other reason for collecting a paycheck. And in the busy kitchen, it paid to be real friendly with the back-bartender.

So this afternoon, Peg & I are venturing to a Brewer's Emporium to collect some raw materials and soak in the Brew Wisdom floating in the air. I feel a peculiar awe to be a tiny grain in the Great Mash of Venerable Brew Tradition, that as well as needle arts, growing things, cave painting, storytelling, and animal tending, I can participate in another truly ancient and mystical, alchemical art. Making and getting plowed on hoppy barley beer. Better than that pesky Stone Temple Puta thing.