Monday, April 2, 2012

The Farmer and the Ale

Dogfish Head/ Victory/ Stone: Saison du Buff (2012)
Elysian Brewing: Idiot Sauvion
Mikkelier: Ris a la M'ale
Du Stuise/ 3 Floyd Brewing: Shark Pants
Farmers Cabinet House Beer: Joy Division Series-New Dawn Fades
Clown Shoes: Tramp Stamp
Founders: Breakfast Stout
Daisy Cutter: Half Acre

The weather is to confusing lately. A few weeks ago I was all about Saisons and IPAs. It is amazing what 10 degrees lower will do to your palate. So for the past week I got every little last drop out of my keg of Milk Stout to both prepare for something new and in high hopes that the sun will shine again. I grew tired of waiting. And because I haven't written down a list of what I drank over the weekend in a while, I decided to throw out a few of my favorites.

I always look forward to a Mikkelier and 3 Floyds is always worth having when on the menu. When it is a Du Struise collaboration is extra worth it. Somehow I have been drinking Half Acre a lot recently. It is such a clean and well hopped Pale Ale that it is hard to pass up. I haven't had Founders BF Stout at all this winter, but I wound up having an early-early bird dinner yesterday that it was perfect to pair with the time and conversation. It was an old school Sunday dinner for me in the 3pm range.

The Mad Farmer Revolution
Wendell Barry

The mad farmer, the thirsty one,
went dry. When he had time
he threw a visionary high
lonesome on the holy communion wine.
"It is an awesome event
when an earthen man has drunk
his fill of the blood of a god,"
people said, and got out of his way.
He plowed the churchyard, the
minister's wife, three graveyards
and a golf course. In a parking lot
he planted a forest of little pines.
He sanctified the groves,
dancing at night in the oak shades
with goddesses. He led
a field of corn to creep up
and tassel like an Indian tribe
on the courthouse lawn. Pumpkins
ran out to the ends of their vines
to follow him. Ripe plums
and peaches reached into his pockets.
Flowers sprang up in his tracks
everywhere he stepped. And then
his planter's eye fell on
that parson's fair fine lady
again. "O holy plowman," cried she,
"I am all grown up in weeds.
Pray, bring me back into good tilth."
He tilled her carefully
and laid her by, and she
did bring forth others of her kind,
and others, and some more.
They sowed and reaped till all
the countryside was filled
with farmers and their brides sowing
and reaping. When they died
they became two spirits of the woods.

On their graves were written
these words without sound:
"Here lies Saint Plowman.
Here lies Saint Fertile Ground."

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