Better And Better

If you don't draw yours, I won't draw mine. A police officer, working in the small town that he lives in, focusing on family and shooting and coffee, and occasionally putting some people in jail.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Things that taste good.

Antelope Shoulder Roast.

Procure the shoulder of one adult pronghorn antelope.*
Briefly sear it in a very hot large pan of olive oil.
Coat lightly with flour.
Place in turkey roaster (mine wouldn't fit in the crock pot).
Pour in a cup of hot beef broth.
Put in some bay leaves.
Put in some garlic cloves.
Put in a bunch of carrots and potatoes and onions and some celery.
Salt.
Pepper.
Cayenne.
Cover, place in oven at 225. Roast for 10 hours.

Eat.

Enjoy with a glass (or two) of the greatness that is Left-Hand Milk Stout.

Edit: Also enjoy with some of Alton Brown's recipe for polenta.

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*In my case, I loaned a pre-'64 Winchester Featherweight Model 70 .243 to Ambulance Driver, who shot a nice pronghorn doe and brought me the shoulder.

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Monday, April 02, 2012

Monday bits.

--Saturday we practiced drafting and water movement at the fire department. It was actually pretty fun. First, we threw up a temporary pool, made of a folding steel frame and rubberized canvas. It was about 10'X20'X3'. I pulled the lever over the chute at the rear of the tanker truck, and we had the tanker emptied in under three minutes, and 3,000 gallons in the pond. We then practiced drafting water from it through the engine, and had guys practice handline technique, refilling the pond. We also nursed the tanker, and used it like an "engine" to pump to a handline. We were taught to have the nozzle man backed up by a hose man, both leaned forward into what looks for all like a stance for shooting SMGs and shotguns. But it was just a piddlin' 1.75" attack hose, so the guy in back wasn't strictly necessary. (NOTE: The guy at the nozzle gets all the glory, but it's the guys behind him that do the real work. If they're doing their job, the nozzle guy has it very easy.)

--When I got on the nozzle, I asked for more pressure. I had my backup guy step away from the hose. I called to the engineer: "More pressure! MOAR!!"  They took me to 170psi (100 foot hose), and I finally felt it feel like it might push me over. I wasn't doing it as a stunt; I really wanted to know how much I could handle on my own. Frequently, we arrive at a fire with nobody much to help. An engine might arrive with one engineer and a hose man. I feel very confident about handling a 100 foot 1.75" hose with 150psi. 170, I could do, but I want a really firm place to stand, and I want the engineer to have eyes on me. More than that, and I'll look like this guy, but not having as much fun.

--I noticed that the round analog gauges showed some space for negative pressure, and showed us somewhat above zero when the pumps were off. I asked why. The captain explained that they showed atmospheric pressure. He snapped his fingers to recall it. I mentioned that it was 14.7 pounds, or about 30 inches of mercury.  He said, "Yeah, I knew it was somewhere around 20 psi." Later, in the firehouse during whiteboard talk, one of the young cocky guys looked up from his iPhone and announced happily that atmospheric pressure was 14.7 pounds, unlike what I had said. "You said it was about 20 psi!" He crowed. I found myself surprised at irritated this made me. "Look, you might not have been paying attention in school, but my A's in college physics were earned, you little piss-ant," I began. "I could no more forget SATP than I'd forget the speed of c or the distance of an A.U.!" He scurried off.

--My old college roommate had the cork break in his bottle of MacAllan sherry-casked 12 year-old. He called me over. After we reduced the volume, it was filtered and decanted. What a fine way to spend a Saturday evening off.

--My neighbor has offered to put up the rest of my fence for a case of Budweiser. I bought said case, and learned that he drinks longnecks only. So now I've a case (minus two) of Bud red in cans. Maybe we'll cook with it, or just keep it around the house for friends. Eh.

--My daughter was upset that her tennis coach had told the kids that if they skipped the tournament that he set up tomorrow, they were off the team. This after he had changed the date of it. Lots of kids had planned to go on a trip to see a play with the school, and had a mandatory band practice. I found myself sitting in the office with the principal today, saying, "Look, I refuse to slam the instructors in front of my kids, but can we PLEASE back the pressure off my kid a notch, here? She loves it all." She assured me that this would all be worked out to my satisfaction. This would be the first time that I've ever been in the principal's office on either of my kid's behalf. I really meant it when I said that I support them whole-heartedly. I suspect that that sentence is uttered in that office with somewhat less sincerity by some.

--This week we have a board of review for a new officer, which I am to sit on. I'm picking up my partner to have him sit on the board, too. It'll be good to see him back in the saddle in some way, again.

--Asparagus is shooting up out of the ground in our garden at such a speed that one should wear eye protection while about the garden. I'm only sorta joking.

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Sunday, March 18, 2012

New tag: "My Life As A Giant."

Recall that I got a beer with a friend last week? She took a picture:

I could have sworn that was a pint glass. (No, it didn't have Miller anything in it.)

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Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Random ThanksWednesday Thoughts.

  • --I'm halfway through my second six pack of Left Hand Brewery Milk Stout beer in as many weeks. Not only does it not suck, but it is my favorite stout, now. Yeah, it's that good. And they live up their tag line: "Dark and delicious, America's great milk stout will change your perception about what a stout can be."  I like many bitter beers, but most stouts out there can taste too sour for my preference. Not this stuff.
  • --I stayed up until past 2:00PM after a 12 hour shift last night that ended (ostensibly) at 06:00AM. Why do I do that to myself?
  • --Well, part of the reason was that I just realized that Having A Kindle Means Never Having To Delay Gratification, so when I saw yet another reference to The Guns Of The South and yet again realized that while I knew the story, I hadn't yet read it, I clicked Download, and started reading it 30 seconds later.
  • --My sergeant called me at 4:30PM to borrow a .22 LR rifle to put down a sick cat. How the hell is it that: A: Our P.D. doesn't have one, and B: A sergeant in a Texas Police Department doesn't have one? 20 minutes later he brought it back with only one round left in the 7 round magazine. I didn't ask.
  • --My brother dropped by shortly thereafter, and started digging through my refrigerator for a soft drink. All I had to offer was Topo Chico. He was unfamiliar, which was odd to me. What Texas boy, who grew up eating in taquerias, doesn't know the greenish-glassed goodness of that mineral water? I mixed him up an orange Italian soda with it.
  • --Looking at the link to Topo Chico, above, I was surprised to notice that they were advertising it in a twist-off cap plastic bottle, which admittedly was the traditionally greenish clear color.  I've only ever gotten it in the returnable lift-cap bottles that feel so cold in the hand when you're hot.
  • --The tag line that they say in their little video on the Topo Chico site is "¡Siempre cae bien!" This means something like "Always falls well," which I suppose means that it's a good pour. But I thought that I heard them say, "Simply dive in!" I've always heard that the tiny bubbles created by waterfalls create an aerated water that will not sustain buoyancy, and people have been known to drown when diving into waterfall pools. I looked it up once, curious of the myth, and found out that there's something to it. But what of carbonated beverages? They actually can lift things to the surface that don't normally float. Example? Toss a grape into a glass of champagne or fresh club soda. Bubbles form on the grape, lifting it up to the surface. At that point, the bubbles pop on the surface, and the now-unsupported grape sinks, and the cycle continues until the drink goes flat. So which is it? Would I float or sink in a vat of Topo Chico, were I to Simply Dive In? What if I dived into the pool at the bottom of a free-fall waterfall of Topo Chico?
  • --How much would that experiment cost me?
  • --I'll bet it'd really tickle to do that if you did it while skinny-dipping.
  • --Having thought that thought, I'm afraid that I can't drink anymore TC until I've verified the source of it isn't a bottling plant at the base of a heavily-used waterfall.
  • --I recently found out that a mentally-ill guy that I put in jail for an illegal weapon, just so that he could get some social services, got 37 days. A gang-banger that I arrested for Agg Assault Deadly Weapon plead it down to Deadly Conduct and got two days. That's not fair.
  • --My daughter just got a "Show Rabbit" for Ag this week. That means that, while she's out of town with her sister and my wife, I've got a rabbit. If you're keeping count, the menagerie is now: 1 gold fish, 2 cats, 3 chickens, and a black (pedigreed) rabbit.

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Saturday, April 02, 2011

This and that.

Sorry I've not been feeling it in the form of good blogging, lately. We'll try the shotgun approach:

  • --I bought a '94 Dodge van last week for $500. It runs like a top, has good A/C, a trailer hitch and working trailer lights connections, good rubber, and a stout luggage rack. It doesn't have any seats behind the front seats. Time to do some chores that I've been meaning to tend to, and I may just put together some kind of business with my shift partner. We'll see. In the mean time, the ride makes me look like a prime suspect for any future abductions. The word "skeevy" comes to mind.

  • --I bought my wife an iPad 2 in 32gig 3G. It was difficult to find. The guy at Radio Shack was so customer friendly, he put me on a list and called me and held it for me when it came in. That guy needs a raise. The wife loves the iPad. I don't know yet just how useful it is. I can't type on it very well, though Marko says that he can, pretty well. Marko does not have hands as big and clumsy as I do. Neither did the silverback Lowland Gorilla that I saw today at the Dallas Zoo.

  • --When we took my daughters and friends to the zoo today, we found parking was $7 per car (we took two), and admission was $12 a head. Then there was the cost of food inside. The animals ate well. Giraffes eat romaine lettuce and RyeCrisp crackers that you can buy from a vendor there. The bald eagle ate fresh quail. The fossa had a very nice looking rabbit. I don't recall my parents spending so much when they took me to the zoo as a kid. Still, we liked it.

  • --Dunno what other heeled visitors were carrying, but with the temps in the high 80's, I just wore my standard J-frame stoked with +P .38 Spl, with a NY reload of a P3AT in my pocket. The roundbutt .38 rode VERY nicely in my new but steadily-being-worn holster by Mike, which I need to do a review on soon.

  • --I found myself the other day able to compare Tamara's favorite Stone's Ruination IPA with my old standard Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA. The Ruination has a more pure note of bitterness all the way from the initial sip through the fair-thee-well. The Dogfish Head has a more complex flavor, with more malt and mouth feel. The head is almost crunchy. This will require more study. --I used the van tonight to fetch home 24 bales of Owens Corning pink insulation and a blower, so that in the morning I might blow in about 12" of insulation into my mom's attic and perhaps another 6" over my garage.

  • --My wife made a wonderful curry with venison on Thursday, and it suffers not one whit as leftovers, served over fluffy basmati rice. It seems that pressure-cooked venison makes a superb base for curry. If you're concerned about the gamey flavor of venison (we're not), may I heartily recommend you try it in a vindaloo?

  • --I was able to help a local family out recently, after their kid went on the lam, merely by picking up the phone and calling a fellow law enforcement professional. It seems the run-away son got himself picked up (in Texas, you can be a runaway at 17, but can still be held in grown-up jail for your criminal actions) for a minor misdemeanor (fibbing about his age). LawDog made sure that, while his stay may not have been comfortable or fun, it was at least safe and reasonably smooth. Classification is something of an art, and sometimes it takes a nudge from an artist with LD's knowhow to keep the puppies out of the wolves' dens. Problem child is back at home, mending fences. With a little help from some people he's never even met, he'll get by. (Thanks, 'Dog.)

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Monday, January 31, 2011

House Party XLIV

I turned in a request for 24 hours off this weekend, to burn some of the 400 hours of vacation and 80 hours worth of holiday time. I feel bad about having another guy work for me, but it's use it or lose it, y'know? Then too, there's the issue of where I went, and why.

Phlegmmy threw a bit of a shindig at her house for our beloved LawDog.

The food was rich and very plentiful. There was a case of Nerd Beer for LawDog (written on the side: "LawDog's! No Fraudulatin'!") And a case of Nerd Beer for the rest of us rabble.("Fraudulate all you want.")

The stories were thick and well-told. The weather, on Saturday evening, was shirt-sleeve-worthy. Christina, Vine, Old NFO, FarmGirl, Jennifer and EvylRobot, me and my wife, Phlegmmy, LawDog, Ambulance Driver, my dad and his bride, and others all chatted freely.

Old NFO (whom I cannot believe was not linked here. What the heck?!? My shame is boundless. I had him on my Favorites that I would click directly to him on my browser. Fixed.) handed me a couple of interesting pistols. There were grins when I double-checked each pistol before handling it. Apparently, this was something of a theme of the evening: EVERYONE multichecked each gun before handling. If only it were understood how common that action is among responsible gunfolk. I don't mean to say that it's absent-minded. I just mean to say that, when handed a firearm, I have the sudden urge to check the status of that gun that is as strong as the urge to pee after having a triple-iced-tea lunch.

Old NFO handed me a like-new S&W 637 that he's been talking about just flat giving me. I could not possibly accept such a generous gift without recompensing him with something, yet I couldn't afford to give him what it was worth. He kindly accepted a promise of a mere pittance from me. I later found out that Dad and Holly covered half of that! My heavens, but the generosity of the friends and family around me is amazing. Thank y'all. More on that gun in a later post.

EvylRobot brought his home-roasted coffee, which I incorrectly declared to be too darkly roasted, but which LawDog used his fancier French press to produce utterly superb coffee from. I restrained myself to only about 25 cups of that coffee. We reloaded the french press approximately 20 times during the weekend. Note to self: trust EvylRobot.

Ambulance Driver had called me earlier and asked if I wanted to go in with him on a nifty gift to LawDog: a signed first edition of Elmer Keith's hardcover book "Hell, I Was There!" I kicked in along with others (I'm sorry; I've forgotten), but this was all AD's idea.

My own meager contribution was a fair bit of good loose tea for LawDog, and some muslin bags to make teabags with on the run, and a couple of bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon for the the house, to belatedly celebrate Phlegmmy's housewarming.

As the air chilled and the hour got late, several of us retired to a very nice inn that was just two blocks away from Phlegmmy's house, and found our underpriced quarters to be very pleasant. We planned on going shooting in the morning after breakfast.

Come morning, a front had moved in. Shooting just didn't sound that fun. We broke our fast at a joint with heavy smoke coming from the barbecue pit. Note: ALWAYS choose the smoked meats at such a place. We camped at our tables until lunchtime, then moved back to the house, where we hung out into the Sunday evening. Phlegmmy fed us yet again with a very rich dish, of which I was only able to get two or three bowls* down.

I was glad to introduce my own wife to some people she had not met before, part of the tribe that I've become part of. She, ever the introvert, said little. She said she liked it.

LawDog, an introvert his ownself, was at home. He was among people that had come a fair distance to see him because they love him. He was at his home, with a lovely lady who admires and revels in him. I've seen the 'Dog stressed, and I've seen him happy. I don't think I'm speaking out of turn to suggest that he was happy, this weekend.

I hope my own 44th birthday is as good and filled with good cheer.

Happy birthday, friend.





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*Large bowls.

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Monday, August 23, 2010

Blogorado II

Dad and I rolled up on Thursday evening, and joined the Farm Fam for a very pleasant round table discussion. I was suffering heavily from sleep deprivation and a bad (BAD) bout of hay fever, and fell asleep on the couch during discussions; I'm afraid I didn't contribute much.

Friday evening, however, the Roundtable Discussions On The Lawn were epic. Get a group of story-tellers together, lubricate with easy-drinking, hard-kicking Nerd Beer, and stand back!

Old NFO would have a great tale for us, and Ambulance Driver would try to top it. And Peter would give his take on a topic. The Atomic Nerds would speak up. LawDog and Phlegmmy and Gay Cynic and AE Pilot would all throw out great accounts, and all the while Oleg Volk was circling, circling, his lens lingering on one person and then another. FarmDad always had a good one to toss in, in that easy-going way that may be country, but sure ain't slow-witted.

Later came Sal and TD and the lovely Vine, and new friend Joe, all of whom fit in splendidly to the Round Table chats. We tended to group around the beer, and the discussions would sometimes form into breakout groups, with members moving easily back and forth as it pleased them, eating good food, drinking good drink, and enjoying each others' company. I know-- we all showed up to talk about guns and shoot them, and such. And we did. We shot at targets near and far, and sometimes even shot far targets with guns associated with nearer targets.

Here's JPG, for example, popping 3 gallon water jugs at ranges of 100 to 175 yards, with a 4" Colt Trooper:

(Click to embiggen. Target is the white dot at the left of the screen.)

And I rambled about some miles open country, plinking with Joe and Ambulance Driver, with the sun setting behind the only promontory for dozens of miles:
(Click to embiggen this picture, which by the way I took with my frickin' camera phone.)


We set up targets of opportunity:


And we shot at a half-sized silhouette steel target that Old NFO turned into an Easter-egg hunt, out against a rolling hillside with scattered brush.

But it was the exchange that I enjoyed the most. This is why our breakfasts always convened at 8:00AM and didn't break up until 11:00AM, and why the evening chats always went into the wee hours of the morning.

What a pleasant group of people to exchange ideas with. We missed some of you who didn't come, and invoked your names fondly and often.

I cannot express enough my appreciation for the generosity of time and resources that the Farm Family presented all of us.

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Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Blogarado, Part 2: It's Not A Party Until The Police Are Called.


We rolled to a stop behind the several bloggers' vehicles, on a lonely farm road in SE Colorado. What happened?

"Ambulance Driver hit a deer," we were told. Aw, crap.

We pulled around to the front of the line, and lit up the front of A.D.'s Dodge pickup. Not TOO bad. Must have been a small deer. I went to help drag it it in from the field, where it had expired after being struck by the grill and radiator of A.D.'s Dakota.

Whoa.

That's a big buck. No, that's a REALLY big buck.

At first glance, I figured 250 lbs. After having helped A.D. drag it the 100 yards to where the vehicles were stopped, I began to revise my estimate to far closer to 300 lbs. Mind you-- A.D. and I aren't petite little things, either.

We pulled it up on the road, and then the jokes started. 15+ bloggers, all beginning to get a bit chilly, thinking of the pot roast that FarmGram had prepared in town, began doing what they do: snark.

"I swear to Gawd, after what he did to my truck, at least I'm gonna mount that buck," A.D. said.

"Damn, A.D.-- you already killed him. Now you want to defile the corpse that way?" came a chorus.

The question then came up: Now What? We contacted our hosts, who were already at or near town, and explained the situation. It was decided that we would tow the pickup with already present pickups. We figured that it would be a shame to let the meat spoil and...

Crap. Three off-duty cops were present, and here we are, planning to leave the scene without reporting it.

I called 911.

"911. What's your emergency?" asked the dispatcher.

"Minor vehicle crash. Pickup versus deer. Both are expired. No injuries, Some road blockage. Copy 28?" I said, offering her the license plate number of A.D.'s pickup.

"What's your location?" she asked. Sensible enough, in case we lost connection. I had to ask what road we were on, and told her.

"Are there any injuries?" she inquired.

"No. That's why I said 'minor crash,'" I said, slightly impatiently.

"How many occupants in the vehicle?" She asked. Good question, but I didn't know, precisely. I asked, and told, and reminded her that no one was hurt. I told her that everyone was okay.

"Okay, I've got an ambulance en route," she said.

"But, as I've said, No One is hurt. We don't need a box. We need a game warden," I said, a little plaintively, now.

"Well, sir, it's just our policy, whenever there's an accident, we send medics," she said.

"Who will have less experience than the Paramedic instructor that was driving," I muttered.

"What's that," she asked, typing in the background.

"He said the he'll decline treatment," I said. "Please also notify the game warden." I hung up.

Just after this call, an off-duty Colorado Department of Natural Resources man happened to drive by, and told us that A.D. could keep the meat, but not the head. There was much cussing.

AD decided to get to work removing the head, and asked for a knife. About 10 were immediately opened and handed toward him.

Old NFO's fixed-blade knife turned out to be well-suited for the job, but not better than the Sawz-All that FarmDad produced from his pickup.

A.D. got busy removing the head.

After some time, a Sheriff's deputy arrived, and began to introduce himself. This young man was every bit of 16 years old, I'm certain. He never blinked at a large party of armed, laughing bloggers who took lots of pictures and made lots of risque comments. But he did a full triple-take at the hood ornament on A.D.'s pickup.

I quick stepped over and presented to him the business card left by the DNR man. "He said that we could remove the head," I said.

"Okayyyyyyy," said the deputy. "I've got a state trooper en route to work the accident."

"How far out is the trooper?" I asked.

"35 minutes, or so," he answered.

"You don't work these kinds of accidents?" I asked.

"Oh, I work 'em all the time," he answered, "but we're supposed to let the state troopers work them when they'll come to the scene."

"So you're leaving?" I asked.

"No, I'm staying with the scene, until he gets here," the deputy answered.

"To work an accident that will take about 20 minutes to work," I sighed.

"Yeah. Listen, I didn't make this policy," he said resignedly.

We started quartering out the deer. And by "we," I mean that Ambulance Driver got bloody, and we cheered and made inappropriate comments, and laughed and took pictures.

We discussed posting this picture (gore warning) without explanation, with a request for caption, under the post title: "Take That, Broadripple BlogMeets!" (Some of us not in the MidWest hear of much fun at those blog meets. Well, we're having fun, too...)

When the ambulance arrived, the EMT called it a baby deer, proclaiming that she had killed a much bigger one last year. I, still panting from dragging this one in, was indignant.

"Lady, that's about a 300 pound buck, no teeth left to speak of. He'll be about 5 years old," I said.

"Oh, I mean his rack is tiny. Probably about 130, maybe. I've got a 160 inch rack at home," she said, smugly.

Now, look. I know this wasn't a monster rack or anything, but my friend Ambo driver had just lost a radiator to this big boy. Last thing I was going to have is some smug para med from Colorado go dissing his deer. Besides, I've scored a buck or two, myself.

"Lady, that's a 20 inch spread, with near perfect symmetry," I said. "Nice beams, too. He'll go about 150." Honestly, I was pulling that number straight out of my butt.

"Oh, that's maybe a 16" spread," she said. Where y'all from, anyway?" she said, knowing the answer.

"Texas," I said, stepping into the trap.

"Oh. I might have known," she answered.

A tape was pulled out, showing an honest 20" spread (this picture has a point obscuring the final total, but it's 20"). Points were measured for later scoring. Just as well we measured it. The D.N.R. guy came back and took the head. Ambulance driver cussed roundly.

I took some more pics, and we all laughed and giggled in the cold for the next hour. If I had been the deputy, I would have assumed that everyone there was drunk or high, when in fact everyone on scene was sober.

We (A.D., with lots of spectators) finally got the deer skinned and quartered, and put it and A.D.'s gear and guns in the back of the Atomic Nerds' pickup. With 5 garbage bags of meat, about 10 rifle cases, and theirs and A.D.'s stuff, it made quite a pile. The Nerds prepped to tow A.D.'s pickup with a tow cable.

"Do you finally feel validated for having the truck?" asked LabRat to her stoic husband.

"Yes." Stingray looked satisfied.

Back at the FarmFam's house, I learned that Stingray is a hell of a brewmeister. His stout is superb, and I found nothing wrong with his IPAs, either. But after a glass of stout and four IPAs (Hey, back off-- I was on vacation.), I was feeling no pain. Whew.

What a lovely time.

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Monday, June 15, 2009

Back from Belize.



Back from Central America, that is.

I discovered a few things, to my pleasant surprise, about Belize:

It's not a Latin American country; it's a Caribbean country. Yeah, a goodly number of the people (especially in the west) speak Spanish, but EVERYONE speaks the Caribbean Creole that is based on English, but which most English-speakers will not be able to understand until it's been slowed down and repeated three or four times. Think Jamaican accent, spoken very quickly and with lots of contractions.

Like many tourist-friendly countries, it's a dichotomy of very nice houses and accommodations, against complete abject poverty. But then you go west to Guatemala, and learn that in fact the Belizians have it pretty good; even the poor ones.
The Belizian dollar is fixed to the U.S. dollar (which I'll bet they're questioning the logic of, now), at a rate of $2 BEZ to $1 US. All of the Belizian money has Queen Elizabeth II on it, though Belize has been fully independent since 1981. The Belizian dollar is a a thick coin that reminds one of an octagonal English pound coin, but has no writing on the edge. The Belizian quarter dollar is the same size and shape and color as a U.S. quarter, but the locals call 'em shillings.

Everyone is friendly there. Wear a hat, because the sun is outrageous, and because you'll need it to tip to everyone you pass on the street. If you don't want to exchange pleasantries with strangers, do me a favor and don't tell 'em you're from the U.S.-- they are very courteous, and I like to think that my wife and I acted as responsible ambassadors while there.


Cabbies there, who are courteous, helpful, and honest, are clinically insane as soon as they sit behind the wheel of their vehicles. Several cab trips involved me spending several minutes shaking blood back down into the knuckles of my hands after reaching our destination.

On Ambrgris Caye (pronounced "key"), a can of tuna can run $5.00 US/ $10 BEZ in the grocery store. Find out where the locals shop, and you can maybe get that cost down to just under a dollar for your cat-food-worthy tuna.


In San Pedro, Ambergris Caye, 90% of the traffic is in golf carts. The streets are narrow and usually sand, so they sport knobby tires. Gasoline carts are most common, and they sport full-sized license plates, front and back. Traffic laws are completely ignored, except that people drive (generally) on the right. Strangely, on the second half of the month, they swap sides of the street on which to park. I have no idea why.

Caye Caulker, which is halfway between Ambergris Caye and Belize City, is slower, less populated, and more laid-back. It's more of a backpacker's destination, and is your weed-smoking headquarters. Or so they say. I never saw a single joint smoked, though I saw a LOT of people who are tokers and make no bones about it. I'm so square-looking, I was never offered drugs in 8 days, while my wife was offered drugs 2 or three times. Wearing a backpack seems to help you get offers, if you're into that sort of thing.

The second largest barrier reef in the world is about a mile east of the coast of Belize. You don't have to be a diver to enjoy it; I'm not, and did. It seems like everyone's a snorkeling guide there, and you'd be amazed at how easy it is to intentionally lose yourself, kicking two to 20 feet above the corral reef, among stingrays, conch, nurse sharks, grouper, blue tangs, sea cucumbers, tuna, barracuda, and (once for us) manatees. I saw all types of physiques and ages doing this. Our last trip, on an old Rastafarian sailboat, I assisted an older man with his strong right arm in a sling, in getting back up into the boat at each location. While in the water, he had no problems.





At the Mayan ruins of Xunantunich, I observed well-camouflaged soldiers with rifles up among the trees that grow among some of the mounds. Seems they've had some problems in the past with bandits robbing the tourists, so they hide up there to try to pick 'em off as they storm out of the jungle. My guide was very uncomfortable with my question about them, preferring to ignore them, but I just wanted to know: A: were the guys hiding in the bushes with guns on our side, and B: what was the likelihood of exposure to the bandits. He assured us it had been a year since the last such robbery there. As I carried nothing more than a small-ish Columbia River lockblade in pocket, I didn't figure to do more than find a hidey-hole for my wife and me, should festivities erupt. We of course carried a bit of cash in our pockets, with our passports and main cash and checks hidden elsewhere on persons.



Everything in Belize is made of mahogany. If you would use pine for it here, they use the hardwood there. Thus stair risers look delicate and insubstantial, because the hardwood is much stronger than the softwood that we use to build, here. Bathroom doors on outhouses are even made of the beautiful rain forest wood.

Belizian sewage technology hasn't advanced enough to handle paper. There are signs everywhere reminding the tourists to dispose of paper in trash cans provided. That said, Belizian bathrooms, on the average, smell better and are better cleaned than American public restrooms. They are not open to the public, though. Want to use the potty at a Belizian restaurant? Better buy a drink. TANSTAAFL. I'm actually cool with this, because:

The beer of Belize is Belikin. It comes in four basic styles: regular, served in 9.5 oz bottles that are very thick-walled and look like 12-oz bottles, Premium, that tastes a little different but gives you a full 12 oz bottle, Lighthouse, which is I think a cream ale in 7.5 oz bottles, and Stout, which is sold in the same 9.5 ounce bottles as the regular, but has a blue cap instead of the green one. Belikin beer is good. All of it is good. My wife and I preferred the Premiums, though, because of the value. ($3 BEZ at a bar.) Belikin also is licensed to bottle and sell Guinness Extra Stout, strangely. There is some Heineken found in Belize, in little cans. I drank a LOT of Belikin on this vacation. In Belize, they think nothing of drinking beer on the bus, or on water taxis, or before breakfast. It's hot-- have a cold beer. The drinking age is 18.

The local rum in Belize does not seem to make you go blind, which is the best thing that I can say about it. Oh, and it's cheap. But I didn't price it against their local paint thinners, where you might get a better deal. When there, be sure to call for a brand of rum that tastes good.

Coconut palms, which are not indigenous, are everywhere there. They are picturesque, and useful. After seeing several locals do it, I finally had to try getting a drink myself, by knocking down a brown coconut, smashing it once against the tree trunk, and drinking long from the several ounces of coconut water that drains out of the nut. The locals swear that it is a secret to longevity, and I have to admit that I routinely under-estimated ages there. In fact, the average coastal Belizian, especially on the cayes, is very good-looking, and typically in good physical shape.

The local fruit is fantastic. Bananas picked ripe from the tree are generally 5 for a dollar (BEZ), and limes are about 10/$1 BEZ. The limes are so sweet that you can eat them alone, like oranges. There are mango trees everywhere.

Every restaurant seems to serve ceviche. I was indifferent to the conch ceviche, but the shrimp stuff, made with lots of fresh cilantro, is out of sight. Never tried it made with snapper.

Belizian food that the locals eat is good, but it's hard to get it in the resorts. We finally got adventurous enough to hit the street vendors on their bicycles and the street stalls. Fantastic tamales made in the Yucatan style, made flat and steamed in banana leaves, were all over. The standard Belizian dish is beans and rice (more rice than beans), sold with your choice of meat (usually chicken), with the incredibly hot local habenero sauce for condiment. Sometimes this would come with a fried plantain atop the rice. This stuff was cheap, filling, and plate-licking good.



At the border with Guatemala, the guards carried cruiser-stocked Mossberg and Remington pump shotguns and belts with extra shells. In a jungle environment, this made since. Then, further into the country, I found that the Guatemalan country seems to have gotten a real deal on pistol-gripped shotguns; they were everywhere. Soldiers had them. Police had them. Guards had them. The guys at the ticket counter at the Tikal Mayan ruins had them. They guy who came to take our ticket in the jungle had one.

Upon return to the main park from the walk among the ruins in Tikal (Guatemala), I noticed also a couple of guys in beige t-shirts with chromed or polished-stainless round-butt K-frames either stuck in their waistbands or discreetly in their laps. I stopped to chat with one, who admitted that he was with the Guatemalan national police.

The only cops in Belize that I saw openly wearing sidearms were either customs types at the airport, or were wearing the enormous British-style sergeant's stripes on their khaki uniform shirts. They carried Hi Powers.
They don't serve fresh coffee there. Everyone makes instant. Strange, because they grow it there. Who knew?

Okay. Gotta run shave off my vacation beard to go testify in court. More later. Sorry for the Vacation Chat, but I'm really kind of doing this as a travel journal for myself. Hope it's not too boring. Many more pics later, some from underwater film that I took.

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Sunday, April 13, 2008

We're living in the future.

Tamara links to Sippican Cottage, where the proprietor asserts that this ain't a bad time to be alive.

I've been saying this stuff for years. It sucks to live today for some reasons, but those reasons are offset by the fact that we're livin' in the future, man.

Cell phones have changed the entire planet in the last decade. In my profession (police), we've seen it change the way we receive and answer calls, and the way that we respond to them when we get there.

Computers-- especially laptops-- have changed the world. Hell, I'm at home, and I'm not even using my desktop. Why should I? the little notebook does it as well, and I can pack it with. In my patrol car, I can bring up a suspect's mug shot, criminal history, and what he paid for his house, without even invoking privileges given by the badge-- I'm doing that on the public side, through Internet Explorer.

My tired old Honda that's 11 years old and has almost 200k miles on it still gets 32 mpg, when I drive it like a bat out of hell.

Telephone service is cheaper than it's ever been in the history of ever. I can talk all day long to my friends in other states on the reasonable flat fee that I pay once a month.

Flush toilets. Air conditioning.

Clean water is taken for granted, my entire life.

I ate homemade lasagna Friday night. Unimpressive, right? But the pasta was a favorite brand of whole wheat. The cheeses were chosen among an impressive variety of them, still with an eye toward reducing the fat. The garlic was fresh but I didn't have to grow it. The basil was fresh from my windowsill. The pork sausage was made in my kitchen with a food processor a few minutes before we made the pasta dish. The oven was digitally regulated. The sauce was frozen, but was defrosted in the microwave. The food was dirt cheap, compared to my yearly wages.

Beer: It comes from all over now. And there's competition to make it better. Even when I was first legally able to buy beer, a good selection was a rarity.

Same for coffee.

Seafood: We who live inland can now enjoy it, too.

Entertainment: Shows are a LOT more complicated than they were as recently as the 1970's and '80s. Back then, 4 main characters was a LOT, with 8 being very complicated. I heard somewhere that that 24 show that some of y'all watch has over 40 characters. Huh. People are smart enough to keep up. Who knew? Also the variety is a lot better. Used to be, you had some goofy comedy, some game shows, maybe a western, and some cop shows prominently featuring car chases.

Music: Download. Order. Plug in an MP3 or burn a CD or whatever. It's an anomoly to have to cue a tape, these days. And setting a needle in a groove is a lost skill. Which I don't lament.

For better or worse, free speech is utterly guarenteed, with regard to obtaining access to information. Also, it ain't hard to publish an opinion, these days. Yes, there are draw backs to removing the vetting process of an editor or publisher, but there are benefits, too.

Computers are dirt cheap, relative to a few decades ago.

I'm relatively free from concern about contracting communicable diseases. While AIDS sucks, you have to participate in activities that I exclude myself from, to get it.

My daughters have a pretty good chance of living lives in which they are not constrained in their life choices, merely because they're female.

There's more. A lot more.

Quit yer griping. Yeah, there're problems. But check out the bennies.

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Wednesday, February 06, 2008

Pity the irony.

That I should discover Melbourn Bros. Spontaneous Fermentation Cherry beer of the Lambic style, only because my local purveyor of fine beers is putting it on close-out because the distributor is no longer carrying it in this region.

The sour cherry flavor is phenomenal. I put it against Lindeman's Kriek lambic, any day, for 1/4 the price or less. Brewed in Lincolnshire, England, the Melbourn Bros. beer can't properly call it a "lambic" any more than the better California sparkling white wines could call themselves a Champaigne-- it wasn't brewed from the spontaneous wild yeasts and bacterias [!] blowing in the windows of the breweries around Belgium.

It has 6 ingredients: Water, Barley Malt, Wheat, Hops, Yeast, and Cherries.

I've tried the stawberry, and it's fit to drink, too.

Even the bottles are worthwhile-- extra heavy-duty and with a hard shoulder in the old style, to pour the unfiltered beer into a glass in one pour, leaving the dap of yeast and cherry sediment in the bottom of the bottle and giving you a clear glass of red goodness.

I may have to find me a source. Maybe the same one that will finally bring me a bottle of Stone's Ruination.

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Sunday, December 23, 2007

Two minor insights.

I just noticed that one of the Christmas recordings that we listen to a lot includes dark comedy by two different gay guys. What does that say, I wonder? About the genre? About those who like it? We (my wife and I) aren't homophobic. But then, I did notice it, and now I've commented on it, so what does that mean? And now that I'm asking about that... (You realize of course that this inane game could go on for ever.)

One of the guys is in Act Two here, which puts my wife and I into tears of laughter about Christmas traditions.


Then also, I just realized that I have a minor crush on Breda, that good-looking pistol-packing librarian who gets excited about her local brewery having obtained a brewer from Stone Brewing Company, whose I.P.A. I happen to be swilling the very minute that I'm typing these words.

Oh, get over the shock. She just warms my heart, that's all. I'm not obsessing over her, or anything. She's just admirable.

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Thursday, December 13, 2007

What's in your pint glass tonight, Matt?


It's been so long since you asked!

Well, it's Samuel Adams Hallertau Imperial Pilsner. I bought some last night in honor of finishing my finals.

Friends, this is a big beer. But big in a GOOD way. You know about, by now, how Tams and I are hopheads. Hops, the traditional bittering agent and aromatic agent in beers, is most pronounced in India Pale Ales, which feature long boils with hops in the pot, as well as "dry-hopping," wherein hops are just stuffed by the handful into the barrel that the beer is stored in. IPAs also traditionally have a lot of alcohol in each glass. This is because alcohol and alpha acids (the chemicals that make hops bitter) are preservatives, which helped British Beers get safely around the cape to the SubContinent during imperial times.

A little while after this, an American guy named August Busch was visiting Czechoslovakia, and discovered this little village in the Pilsen region, where in a little town named Budweis, they were brewing light, pale beers using a bottom-fermenting yeast at lower temperatures, in a technique called lagering. They also filtered the beer through its own sparged grains, resulting in a very bright, clear beer. This was a sensation, and Augie Bush knew a winner when he saw one. He rushed home and began marketing his Budweiser as fast as he could. In a style unfortunately associated with American enginuity, he took a style that the Czechs had perfected over more than a half millenium, and in two years had boiled it down to a brew that he could mass-produce, mass-market, and sell with minimum flavor to the world. (If he were a modern car-maker, he would have come back from Germany, and mass-marketed a new Chevrolet called the Porsh, based on a Chevette with a new trim package, priced to sell.)

Of course, Bush's version of the pilsener beer, while popular, was lighter than the Czech style, and that trend continued in the U.S., through Prohibition, when the Volstead Act allowed brewers to use unmalted grains to make beers under 0.5% alcohol. When Prohibition was lifted, Bud stuck with the rice that it had taken to using, and the American pallete was ruined for real beer, ever since.

But some remember that a Pilsener (or pilsner) style is strong on hops, mostly clear, pale, and strong on hops. It should have a very strong nose as well as bittering.

Samuel Adams has a bunch of seasonal beers, and some beer snobs have taken to eschewing this mini brewery. I will not. This Boston company brought our national beer tasting palette a long way. This winter, they released their Hallertau Imperial Pilsner, with the subtitle: "An Intense Hop Experience."

It's a lot of hoppiness, and they're not ashamed of it. Remember: hops can provide bitterness and aroma. In this beer, founder Koch put in Hallertau Mittelfrueh Noble Bavarian hops. I'm guessing that those high-dollar green flowers are what jacked the price up so much-- a 4 -pack cost me $10 US, which is roughly a buck less than what you'll pay for a Dogfish Head 90 minute IPA 4-pack. The awesome thing about this kind of beer is that flavor is everything-- one will last you the evening. (You get a "fair-thee-well" that seemingly lasts for days.)

The flavor is big. Although this is first, middle, and last a hoppy beer, they raised the malt to compensate, so the flavor is more balanced. Those Noble hops are incredible. Nowhere nearly as harsh as the American Cascade hops, they bitter without being rough to the mouth.

The beer has some chill hazing, and you would not want to read a newspaper through it.

Fine. Drink it and read like normal.

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Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Shoot, I dunno.


Uh, gee, I don't actually know Massachusetts licensing law. And I don't know about your state's licensing issues for commercial drivers and ambulances and the like. Hell, Ambo Driver would likely know as much or more.

But I think that I would just go to the source, and ask the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles about it. (Note: While I should stab myself 28 times in head with a spoon if I were to desire Texas to be anything like Massachusetts, I do think that it's high time that this state got off its duff and administered driver licensing and vehicle registration through the same office. It can be done! Put it all under TXDOT, and realize economies of scale.)

From what I can see, you're looking at a mandatory suspension of your driver license for a conviction of Driving Under the Influence, with a hefty reinstatement fee required. We here at Better & Better Central are very much in favor of the Automatic License Revocation program developed in this state.

That said, we are also in favor of not paying for your damned welfare check, or for your room and board at the Graybar Motel, so check into the possibility of something called an Occupational License. I'll just bet that you've got 'em in Massachusetts. Occupational licenses let you drive to work, and on the job. They have strict guidelines as to when you can drive.

I'm highly in favor of Occupational Licenses, because they let you maintain your livelihood, at no expense to me, and with minimal danger to me. Most people (with a few notable exceptions) won't drink and drive on the job. Especially ambulance drivers. They run a little too closely with the cop crowd, and also rub elbows with the firefighters and docs and nurses, who often have no sense of humor about such things. So ambo drivers, while by reputation a rowdy bunch, generally do their beer-swillin' after hours, which we here at B&B Central are utterly fine with... so long as you're not driving drunk.

Look into it. Save your job. Stay off welfare. And check out Sam Adams' new Imperial Lager-- it's awesome.

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Sunday, December 02, 2007

Cheap.

Look, it was cheap beer.

In fact, my beer snob self is embarrassed to even document what beer it was that I moistened my sinuses with, and damned near spattered on my monitor, when I read Ms. Crystal's little blog entry.

And speaking of cheap...

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Tuesday, September 04, 2007

Michael Jackson-- the only one that matters-- is dead.

I met Michael Jackson, AKA "The Beer Hunter," in Austin at a home brew competition I had entered, and it was like getting to shake the hand of a rock star*. This man had single-handedly brought beer from the back cabinet, and put it on the counter for inspection, study, and praise. His writing and studies and categorization was responsible for the microbrewery craze of the 1990s.



Michael Jackson was a heavily-bearded, curly-haired British man with a quiet laugh and a background in journalism. He said that he had for years found that he and other newsmen would gather at day's end, discussing beers of all kinds, their peculiarities, and where to find and try new ones. Yet when he approached editors and publishers (often those same newspapermen with whom he would have long discussions with about beers), he was always told that "people aren't interested in reading about beer." He finally did a book on pubs, in which he managed to sneak a little beer lore in, and from there managed to get a book on beer, and then another, and then another. He then started a BBC television series, and writing monthly columns in numerous publications about it.

Then he set to writing about Scotch.
Most of what I know about single-malt Scotches, I learned from Michael Jackson. He wrote some fine books on single-malts, and I own a couple. My old roommate Bill Hall and I would occasionally buy a new bottle of single malt (though Bill was by far the more avid collector; he had several dozen different representatives in his collection), and we would play "Name that Scotch," with one of us choosing a bottle from Bill's collection and pouring a secret dram into a clear glass for the other, while the drinker sat with a copy of Jackson's book on single malts, and would try to determine what exactly he was drinking. As there are 7 discrete styles, scores of labels, and hundreds of bottling, this isn't an easy game to play, but it certainly is a fun one to practice.

Jackson was, of course, cursed with a name that was made more famous by a pop star with questionable proclivities. He had a good sense of humor about it, and said that, while he couldn't dance, he did possess a good singing voice and a glove.

As someone who managed to convey to the world that good beer is every bit as worthy as any wine every made, he did the world a service. He brought dignity to the common man's pint, and taught pinky-pointing sherry-sippers that there was finery to be found in malt.

He died this past week at 65. He'd been living with Parkinson's for his last decade.
Rest in peace, Beer Hunter.
_ _ _

* The third place ribbon that I received for a fruit ale (a peach cream ale) was just icing on the cake. I got him to autograph one of his books.

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Thursday, August 02, 2007

"What's in your beer glass, Matt?"

Well, since you asked...





Dark. Malty. Light flavor. No hint of hop aroma but good hop bittering, as the style dictates. Thick lacing from a creamy white foam head.


It contends with Anchor Porter for the title of best American porter, but I think that Sierra Nevada is a softer note, and more drinkable.

(And this better load this time-- Blogger's dropped it twice, already. . . )

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Monday, July 30, 2007

Touchy-feelie

I came in from work, changed out of my uniform, and checked on my girls and wife. All sleeping soundly.

I found myself pacing a little, up and down the house. Something was agitating me.

I grabbed the work cell as I pulled a long neck from the 'fridge. Cracked open the Blue Moon Belgian White Wheat Ale as the phone rang to the work cell of the guy who had just relieved me a little bit earlier at work.

"You busy?" I inquired when he answered.

"No, what's up?" he sounded a little surprised, and maybe a little glad to hear my voice. Huh. I would have thought otherwise.

"Just checking on something. Dude, when we were doing pass-on a little while ago, things seemed, uh, tense. Wanted to see if I was pissing you off somehow."

"Oh. That. Sorry, man. My wife had just chewed my hide before I came in. That's all," he said. He sounded a little embarassed.

"That's it? You sure? Anything you need me to do? I don't want stuff to fester," I pestered.

"Nope. It's not you-- I'm just an ass, is all," he responded with a chuckle. "But thanks for your concern."

"Heh. It was completely selfish, you may be certain of that, brother," I said with a smirk. "I have to sleep, sometime, and I sleep fitfully if I think that I've screwed up."

"Nope."

"Well then, be safe. G'night," I said as I hung up.

I took a swig of the Blue Moon. Yum, yum. I don't care if it is mass-produced; it's a tasty beer.

Then I thought: John Wayne never would have made that call. Ahab would be quite ashamed of me. Maybe I am getting too much soy (and its attending synthetic estrogen) in my diet...

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Friday, July 20, 2007

Beer.


The very first post that I posted here was tangentally related to beer. I kind of thought that I would continue the trend, but other things seem to pop up. If you were to click on the "beer" tag at the bottom of this post, you'd find that I've written about beer a little bit in this blog.


I like beer.


The first beer I ever drank was liquid nastiness. It was an old, old can of Old Milwaukee in the bottom back of an old, neglected refrigerator in an old A-frame cabin. The cabin had no running water, but it had electricity, and an old semi-retired refrigerator. The cabin was mainly a hunting cabin, but was, that summer between my junior and senior years in high school, my residence while I worked as a ranch hand. Untold amounts of food had dripped onto the can over the years, and it had undefined chunks on it. I don't know how long it had been there. Because of the heat of July, I would try to sleep half the day, work in the evening, and then stay up late. (Ah, self-directed labor.) Because of the lack of running water, I had to drive 20 miles, half of it over almost impassable roads, to fill my jugs with potable water.

One day, I woke up, dry of mouth. The sun was full in my face, and it was past noon. I'd been suffering a stuffy nose, due to the dust, and slept with my mouth open; my tongue was like cotton. The thermometer said that it was just about 100 degrees, and rising. I checked the jug. Empty. I went out to the truck, to check my canteen. Empty. So. Very. Dry. I checked the fridge, and found the beer. I was a good 17 year-old. I really hadn't been drinking. I drank the beer, and it was the nastiest wake-up drink I'd ever put in my mouth. I didn't touch beer until...
Freshman year at U.T.

Let's just say that some abuse occurred, none of which endeared me to beer.

Then I went to UNT, and met some guys who liked good beer. I was impressed that they actually LIKED beer, for more than just getting drunk or cooling off on a hot day. We put together a party that October that mostly surrounded a keg of Guinness Extra Stout, called, predictably enough, "Guinnesscide."

I met my future wife there.

On about our third or fourth date, my Future Wife and I decided to see Good Foot (a funk band) play. Because it is best to dance when seeing funk bands, and because my wife was a little inhibited, she suggested that we purchase a six-pack of beer and consume same before going to the show. That was about where my appreciation for beer really was back then. I could drink it, but didn't have much love for it. It was cheap, and cold.

Four months later, however, I'd started to find that, strangely, some beers were beginning to interest me, while others still seemed skunky. I walked into a local brew shop, and the purveyor educated me on why, while managing to sell me a kit to brew my first five gallons of beer-- a pilsner.

True beer, she informed me, had four components, each of which changes the flavor. The necessity of purity had driven the Germans 500 years before to pass a law called Reinheitsgebot, which dictated that only three ingredients could be placed in beer: 1. Barley malt. 2. Water. 3. Hops. In the 19th century, the yeast was discovered, and now that too may be added. The sediment layer of yeast from one beer is moved to the next batch of wurt. She added that the fifth ingredient was sanitation, explaining that lack of cleanliness created Bad Things.

This and many other chats opened my eyes. You could use boughten spring water to make beer. You could use fresh or frozen fresh hop flowers to bitter and preserve your beer. You could add more or less barley malt, and buy different grades of it, roasted to different colors. You could add special hops that added almost no bitterness, but added aroma. You could get different strains of yeasts, to provide different yeasty flavors or lack of them. You could add more or less sugar at the end of the fermentation at bottling, to make the beer more carbonated or less carbonated. (Sparkling or still.) You could add a LOT of malt and yeast, and make it really alcoholic, or back it way down, and just make it a light summer drinking beer. You could even add a lot of malt, but stop the yeast halfway through their fermentation, so that the flavor was sweeter, and then change the off-setting bitterness by the amount of hops put in, and the duration that they were left in the boil.

It was like finding out that the train that you've been riding down the tracks is actually capable of doing aerial acrobatics, if you wanted it to. I did.

So I made up some batches. Some were okay, a couple were notably bad. I never got a mash infusion system (that's how the big boys did it), in which one actually takes grain and removes the malt right there in the pot. I always used extracts-- usually malt powder. I would put a little extra grain in some cloth and put that into the pot during the boil, to add a flavor or texture that I wanted. (For example, 4 oz of cara-pils grain in a boil adds nice lacing to the glass and a stiffer head to the beer.) I would make up little 5 and 2.5gallon batches, and drink them with friends. I even sent a few off to competitions, but never took better than third in my category. (Beer connoisseur Michael Jackson gave me a third place ribbon for a peach cream ale that I made.)
I was in the brew shop so much, the lady who owned it would sometimes pay me to mind the shop when she had to be out. I was expected to bring in my own home brews and drink them at the shop while on duty. God, that was a great job.

I finally pretty much gave up home-brewing. I still have the stuff, but haven't done much of it in years. Oh, there have been a few. When I got married, we brewed 10 gallons of good easy-drinking beer, and even non-beer drinkers enjoyed it. I managed to snag one half-cup of it, in between shaking hands and meeting people; it was good, and went great with the barbecue.

Now, I treat myself to boughten beers of different styles, from different cultures around the world, the country, and the state. I used to be something of a snob-- Only imports. Only microbreweries. But there are some great large-batch beers made very, very well. In fact, as my friend and professional brewer John Morrison had learned at the Seibel Institute, common Budweiser, "The King Of Beers," is technically a perfect beer... it just doesn't have enough flavor. (That's where corn and rice and stuff other than barely will get you!)

What surprises me is the popularity of beer, given its inherent complexity. Very few people like their first beer, yet most enjoy it later in life. I wonder if that has to do with the development of the palette? As I alluded to earlier, even foods which are made exactly the same way as I loved them made as a child now taste too sweet, typically. Could it be that most people grow to embrace the bitterness of the hops, and subtle sweetness of the malt? Interesting. It reminds me of how, as a child, I had hated raw tomatoes, but, around age 10 or 11, I discovered that there is no better thing than a vine-ripened raw tomato. (My elder daughter, as I suppose I should by now expect, is ahead of me; she turned the corner from hatred to love of raw 'maters at age 8.75, this summer.)

For whatever reason, socially beer has been thought of as the drink of the common man, and thus receives a lower status than wine or spirits. Some of this may stem from the quickness with which the beverage is made: one may go from grain to a top-end beer in well under a month using the slow traditional methods, and in about two weeks using the modern methods. Wine, on the other hand, may take a year or more to finish, with the faster versions finishing in a few months. Probably the ingredients are cheaper for beer than wine. While good hops are costly, they comprise only a small part of the overall volume of what goes into a mashing ton or a fermenting vat. Barley malt is just the byproduct of grain, and is easily produced, and dissolved into... water! By far the greatest part of beer is water, which is quite a bit less expensive than grape juice to come by. Because beer requires no distillation, it's easily understandable that it's less expensive, ounce per ounce, than the cheapest rotgut whiskey.

Because of its popularity and cheapness, companies have moved from the traditional methods of shipping it (kegs, bottles) to the modern cans. Some major innovations had to take place to make the humble beer can a viable option. Because of the high proportion of can surface area to the product, it is very easy to detect the metallic flavor that the cans impart to beer, if something isn't done to prevent it. What's been done, virtually throughout the industry, is to line the metal with a thin layer of plastic to prevent the beer from touching the aluminum. Surprisingly, this works pretty well, with only the purists claiming that they can taste the difference.

Brewing is a fairly popular home art. Under U.S. law, without any licenses, a single brewer may make 100 gallons a year, or 200 gallons per household, so long as he or she does not sell it. Why the cap at 200 gallons? Because beyond that they figure that you're selling it, and if you're selling it, they want to tax the unholy Hell out of it. The U.S. government has a particularly high tax set for that sinful old beer. Interestingly, though, traditional lore is that brewmeisters are exempt from the draft. (I've never been able to establish if this is actually true, or mere myth.) I made my first batches before I was 21. I was legal to buy the materials, and legal to put them together, but at some point along the line, I became a minor in possession of five gallons of an alcoholic beverage.

In my recent move, I transported many 7.5 gallon vessels, 5, 6, and 2.75 gallon carboys, cases of bottles, bottle racks, siphons, hoses, brewpots, bottle brushes, etc. My wife rolled her eyes-- it's been a couple of years since my last beer, and longer since my last successful one. But it's an old hobby of mine, and I still think of myself as a brewer, I suppose, so I keep the stuff.

Maybe I'll craft another one, soon. . .

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Thursday, July 05, 2007

What's in your beer glass tonight, Matt?


Well, I have to say-- in their 98th year of beer-making, the little Spoetzel brewery in Shiner, TX has made a fine new addition to their line, in their new Shiner Bavarian Style Amber. Very tasty. Not a traditional Amber, but the Bavarian yeasts give it a nice European flavor.


And, half an hour before start my interview with Mark on BlogTalkRadio, I'm having a glass of my beloved Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA, and thinking about Warren Zevon's B-side hit, "Leave My Monkey Alone."

"...we drank our bitters
While the Empire fell."

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