Toward a Moral Life

Thomas Wolfe once said you can’t go home again. I discovered several years that you can indeed go home–you just can’t stay long, and old friends often change to unrecognizable strangers.

When I decided several years ago to get myself out of a loveless, abusive marriage, I spent time and effort reconnecting with old school friends. The internet, which was just beginning to embrace social networking/annoy the bejeezus out of us with textual advertising, was helpful in finding some of them, including my first requieted love. She  is now a teacher in the southern U.S. and has had her share of life’s adventures, including two marriages, several children, and a history of military service and teaching. We chatted and exchanged email for awhile.

I discovered how much she has changed (or perhaps how much I changed); we are very different now. She maintained her faith in the Christian God; I haven’t. Her pride in her personal and familial history of military service (she served in the Air Force) has evolved into an almost jingoistic fervor; I support defense of our country and our allies, but not involvement in that rabid pitbull of a country (Afghanistan) or that object of  Saudi Arabia’s fear and loathing (Iraq). Our presence in both of those countries is inspired by economics and power grabs, not a genuine need for security.

I find this combination to be the social equivalent of dropping pants and crapping in the middle of a dance floor at a wedding reception, and I finally had to ask her to take me off her mailing list that was annoying the living crap out of me. It made me sad to have to do so, and I suspect she won’t take it very well, but I couldn’t continue to lend moral sanction to someone who espouses points of view I find repugnant and harmful.

Thumbs up:

Have you ever been broke and found yourself walking down the street wishing, “Geez, I wish I had enough money to get that espresso and iced cardamom cookie over at Nina’s”, and glorioski! you find a $10 bill wedged in a crack in the sidewalk.

That’s something like what happened to me last night. I’m in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, for a class, and my cohort-in-crime Haddassa called me and said, “You should take a look at Carolina Breweries in Chapel Hill.”

So I had a Tar Heel Burger, which was rather dry and tasteless. However, it was not entirely the restaurant’s fault; blame the state of North Carolina for not allowing hamburger to be cooked any less than ‘medium’. I started out, however, with an alcoholic version of that $10 bill–their Copperline Amber Ale. From their site:

I knew I’d made the right choice of beer when I hovered my nose over it. I was instantly hit with a distinct toasted marshmellow aroma. It was followed by a palate that contains caramel, a nicely blended malt overtone, and just enough fruit and hops fighting it out to make for a pleasantly isometric struggle. I really like beers with complex tastes and noses that vie well for attention without clashing badly, and I really liked this one. A lot.

Thumbs down:

You ever take that 11th step down a familiar stairway, thinking you’re all the way down. And then you discover that the level of perversity in the Universe has tended yet again toward a maximum, while unpleasantly discovering that the treacherous Stairway Fairies have installed a 12th step while you were asleep?

That is what else happened to me last night. The next beer I tried from Carolina Breweries was their Octoberfest. From their site:

Understand here that I usually adore octoberfest-style beers. They are traditionally fall beers (as the name indicates), and usually rich with malts, spices, and usually just a hint of sweetness about them. They are often on the creamy side, similar to some stouts, and these combinations usually make for a good cold-weather brew. European octoberfests tend to be drier than their slightly sweeter American counterparts, but they’re all usually good.

I hit that 12th step rather badly. The beer was watery, with badly blended, bland flavors that were overpowered by (to tell the bald truth) not much in the way of hops. When a mild hop chemistry can overcome an octoberfest-style drink’s appeal, you know there’s something really, really wrong. Nix on that one.

(BTW, their sweet potato pie is not to be believed. I have never had better, and I can say, being a retired old-fashioned-southern-gentleman as I am, that I’ve had a lot of them.)

So, one thumbs-up (a big one), and one thumbs-down. The Copperline was good enough that I will definitely go back for it; the plan is to return later this week to try their Old North State Stout and Western Wheat as well.

If you wish there to be justice in the world, demand that Leinenkugel bring back Big Eddy’s Russian Imperial Stout.

(I usually only write about beers and such that are made in true microbreweries. However, this beer is so good, and so very much deserves it, that I have made an exception to the rule.)

This is a VERY full-bodied stout, rich with chocolate and coffee overtones, thick (though even thicker would be better!), and layered with an exquisitely explosive orchestra of flavors and noses, including caramel, honey, orange, cinnamon, ginger, and other warm spices.

I categorically declare that I have not had a finer stout in my life. You can literally smell it when the glass is set before you. Never before have my taste buds been assaulted so pleasantly.

(The sad news is that the brewery did not realize what they had made. Sources tell me that Leinie was literally dumping kegs of it into the sewers.)

I tried this at The Happy Gnome, one of the finest purveyors of beer in the Twin Cities area. They were lucky enough to know what they had stumbled across, and have it on tap when they can find it.

You should find it if you can, and discover this unacknowledged, brilliant star in the Firmament of Brewing. Let Leinenkugel know (repeatedly) that they need to make it again.