to the north

It's been some time since I've had a Scandinavian beer, since I don't make a habit of drinking Carlsberg.  Even in Copenhagen, all those years ago, it was mostly "industrial" beers, although I can't really complain about them.  So here's a little change of taste: Nordic Rye.  The label is entertainingly almost entirely in Danish, except for the part where they say who imports it to Australia.

The first pour releases a light, vanilla-like scent, while the color is a bit ruddier than I expected.  The head is fairly thick and with some staying power.  Not much smell, but the taste is full and ... smoky.  The color and smell threw me off; I was expecting something sweeter, but no matter.  It's quite nice, actually.  It's like a good many IPAs around in that it has a little spice to it, a mellow little sweetness that comes out after a few minutes sitting and sipping.  I definitely see it as a meal beer, with some meat or very lightly seasoned vegetables.  I get the feeling stronger flavors could bring out the berzerker in this brew.

She's got her cat, her cow, and her client.  And if he gives her any shit about the beer, she'll turn him into a toad or something.

liquid candy

Yep, almost Halloween, so something chocolatey sounds good about now.  The interesting bottle is also a point in this beer's favor when you're looking at the wall of brews.

It pours out with a satisfying glick-glick and has a surprisingly light color for a chocolate porter; brown without a doubt, but the stream isn't quite opaque and has a reddish tint to it.  The smell might also throw you off, since it's just that typical sharp porter smell, but the taste...ah, wonder.  Not bitter or sour at all, definitely chocolatey.  Starting out so sweet made me suspect it might get overwhelming as it warmed up, but the taste remained light and just sweet enough for the whole glass.

Just a little rusty at the bottom

Although it might go well with a dessert, something not too sticky sweet or heavy, I find Meantime Chocolate Porter a delight unaccompanied.

a tale of confrontation

The sun in the east did rise that morning, as every morning, and did shine upon the little bird.  And the little bird did flutter and sing and lift his sweet voice to the sky.  His little brown wings were chilled with night winds, but daylight made them warm and supple once again.  He flew.  His little belly was empty of grains and crawling things and he did let his black eye seek with fervor such stuff to fill it.  One crawling worm was first to go, to make the saying true.  And then a singing cricket, up too late or out too early for its own security.  Lo, what did the little bird spy next?  A pile of yellowy seeds, just edged with green, looking tasty and generous on the ground.  And the little bird did flutter down and take of the bounty, but not more than two minutes had passed when the great orange cat, the scourge of small wanderers, leapt from the nearby weeds and crushed the little bird's neck.  The great orange cat did pick at his prey, pulling plumes aside, daintily taking for his own the choicest tiny morsels.  And he left the rest to the crawling things, some, one might think, happy to partake as if in vengeance.

"You are cruel, cat," came a voice from the shadows, "That bird did nothing to you."

The great orange cat had no warm feeling for the sly gray wolf.  "If my nature is cruel, so be it.  But I at least corrupt no-one.  I do as I please and insist on no other's participation," and he turned a haughty head and went away at a strut.

"And if it is my nature to corrupt, so be it too.  Is that not fair?"  The wolf grinned and winked.  The cat looked away in disgust.

"You use sticky words, like mud.  They cling like burrs to one's hair and bite when one wishes to remove them, but they serve less purpose than those burrs.  I see them scraped off at peasants' doorsteps and I see the burry plants spring up seasons after.  The burrs are fruitful, but your words cause no more than harm."

"Don't you see, dear cat," laughed the wolf, tongue a-lolling, "The burrs seek only to make more of their own.  Fruitful, indeed.  More burrs to prick and to scratch.  If I am like the burr plant, then I am harm, for that is the fruit of my words.  And I wish for others to do harm in my stead, for my burr-words would produce that fruit."

"And that is what you are!" snapped the cat, ears flat, tail lashing, "You twist your image into one of a joker, a trickster, a fool.  You hint at cosmic understanding in your burrs, if only did we let them take root, but instead we are placed at odds with all those around us.  We are lost, you darken our way and smudge our nature with yours.  If I did listen to you, I might wish to seize goods from the peasants, for the mere reason of possessing them, like the mad crow.  I might kill every little thing I came across, only to make my power clear.  I might cease all my activity and wither away, like-"

And the great orange cat shut his mouth with a snap and moved to leave the conversation.

"Like who, cat?" teased the wolf, "Like the great gray over the road?  You were friends, were you not?"

The flying claws of the great orange cat met the nose of the smug gray wolf and there was a snarl of surprise that did echo in the air.

"Would you attack the burr plant, cat?"

"I am sure in my own self.  I will rebuff you when I must."

The wolf's eyes were narrow now and red, like the sun would be in the west.  Little setting suns in the furry night.  "I will leave you now, cat.  I have many burrs to shed.  But you would be wise to keep your eyes well open from now on.  A burr can find you when you least expect it."

Off slunk the sleek gray wolf, low to the ground and shiny like oil.  The great orange did watch him go with defiance.  But, when all sight and sound of him was gone, the cat did move briskly from the place with fear in his feet and worry in his eyes, worry that clouded them from the little bird he passed, who had pounced upon a struggling worm.

setting

A sweet beery smell wafts up from the freshly opened bottle.  It's very bubbly, with a mellow earthiness in taste typical of stouts.  It's a good rounded flavor that expands in the mouth.  Going down the bottle, it sweetens, also something I've come to find typical from bottled stouts. 

Events in the Life of Janet O'Connolly - Destiny

Janet O'Connolly was having a good time.  It was her cousin Juniper's birthday and they were at a bar with a big group of friends and friends of friends, celebrating in style.  Drinks were in every hand and laughter filled the air with ear pounding merriment.  Janet had just made another toast with her buds and was wandering around, looking for her conversation group.  They weren't her best friends by any means, but she found the discussions with them stimulating.  It was kind of like what people nostalgize college to be, and it never is.  Only two years out of college, Janet knew well how boring it really was, for the most part.  As she was scanning the bar for their serious faces, with brows far too furrowed for their years, a hand reached out of the ether and grabbed her elbow.  She looked towards its probable source and saw Mike, a receptionist at the company she had done a summer internship for.  It had been a few years since she had last seen him, but he hadn't really changed at all - same puppy eyes, same crooked grin, same receding hairline.

"What a surprise!" he said when their eyes met, "I didn't know you knew Vince."

"Oh, I don't.  I've never even met a Vince in my life.  I'm here for Juniper's birthday party."

"Oh," he looked perturbed, "Well, Vince organized the party.  I didn't know it was for somebody, he just asked a bunch of us to come..."

"I guess he wanted the place to be packed, which it is.  How's things at the office?"  Janet was actually a little stung that they hadn't offered her a position after her internship, which she felt she had completed brilliantly.  That damn sluggish economy, one might suppose.

"Oh, you know.  Same old, same old," Mike looked a little peevish at having work brought up.  "Old man Williams is a little worked up lately, but you know how he is."  Mr. Williams had been Janet's supervisor, who she thought she got along with splendidly.  Not well enough to be referred for a job, obviously.  Some people thought he was just too full of himself, but Janet had only experienced a man knowledgeable of his field and happy to share his knowledge.  She, and Mike, had been nothing but deferential to him while she was there.

"Yeah, I remember," Janet said as non-commitally as possible.

Mike grinned and downed his beer.  "Hey, listen, I have to go now, but why don't we hang out tomorrow?  We can meet by Britten's on Albert Ave."  Hang out with Mike?  Well, Janet still had a nagging desire to be connected to the company, and maybe he could find an in for her.  She acquiesced.  Mike smiled broadly and disappeared into the crowd, so Janet went back to her search for her partners in serious debate.

The next day Janet went to the appointed meeting place at the appointed time - Mike had texted her later that night with more details - and she stood waiting.  Mike showed up, five minutes late, and said, "Did you have trouble finding the place?"

Janet wanted to reply with, "You're the one who's late!" but she just replied, "No, I used to have an apartment right around here actually."

"Well," Mike was scanning the street, "Why don't we go to the sandwich shop on St. Catherine's?"  That was a little strange for Janet.  The sandwich shop was OK, but she wasn't hungry and she had gotten the impression that they were going for drinks.

"I'm not going to eat anything," she warned.

"Oh, me neither," was the reply, which drove Janet to even more confusion.  Why go to the sandwich shop, if not to have a sandwich?  But Mike was already walking down the street, talking about the time he spent in France as a child.  His mother had worked for a French company and they spent almost four years in Paris when he was young.  So, that felt like it should have been interesting.

They each ordered a beer and sat down at a table away from other customers.  They were quiet for a moment of two, sipping their drinks, and then Mike asked, "What's your favorite thing in the city?"  Janet had to stop and think.  It was a strange question for her, like something you would ask a tourist or a celebrity.

"Well, I don't know," she mused, "I've always liked the news building on 7th street.  It's so classical and stately.  It makes me think I'm in New York City or someplace."

"Oh." Mike was perplexed.  "But what do you do?  Do you just sit in front of it and look at it?"

"What?  No, I just like the building.  Did you mean what's my favorite thing to do?"

Mike looked a little irritated now, but he just said, "What about parks?  Do you like to walk in the park?"

"Yeah, I guess.  I hate dodging dog poo and runaway kids, though."

"But isn't it romantic?  At night?  Under the stars?"

"I...don't know.  I was never much of a romantic.  If you're with somebody you love, I suppose it doesn't matter where you are, under the stars or in the park or what."

Suddenly Mike leaned over the table, close to Janet's face, and said in a quiet, tense voice, "Do you believe in destiny?"

Janet was now very uncomfortable.  "I don't know about that either.  I mean, maybe some things are meant to happen, but it seems kind of simplistic to say all our future is written in the stars or something."

Mike was watching her closely, trying to gauge her openness she supposed.  "Don't you think two people meeting is destiny?  That it's meaningful for how they relate to each other?"

"Actually, that's just confusing to me.  Why should only certain meetings be destined?  How do we know which ones they're supposed to be?  It makes more sense to me that either all meetings or none are part of our so-called destiny."

Janet guessed that Mike was trying to let her know that he thought they were destined to be together.  He was looking more and more frustrated as she spoke.  Finally he leaned back in his chair and said, "You're right, you really aren't very romantic."  For some reason it felt more like a reproach than a simple statement and Janet could only reply, "I guess not."

The beers were gone and there wasn't much reason to stay.  At the door, Mike said he was going shopping for his nephew's birthday and he'd give her a call.  Then he strode off.  Janet felt a little hurt all the way home, which surprised and frustrated her.  It wasn't her fault she wasn't interested in Mike.  There just wasn't any chemistry and nothing they both liked that they could talk about.  Still, she felt guilty and cried a little over the glass of wine she had with her supper that night.