Brewed Musings

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Spot of English Tea gearing up for the biggest week for Oregon Brewers and beer aficionados alike

The irony from the last post is that the meeting of the minds never took place for one of the members (not me) decided to attend a Timbers exhibition match.  Instead that night I got to go to a local pub and converse and drink beer with some of my favourite brewer friends…and non-brewer friends.  But I still did some editing on the works that were flowing from the prior weekend.  And for that effort I will give you two of the poems that came from that river.

Prosit!

the confucian brewer

Mash Paddle  13.July.2008

In my hands, the mash paddle.
Ground through the mill
the malt falls, mixing
With hot water, and piles
Up on the bottom of the mash tun.
I use the paddle to stir,
To even out the mash,
an attempt at consistency.

This is how I explain it to my son,
If and when he arrives.
Holding the paddle in his tiny hands
We will stir the mash as I explain,
“You must constantly stir
so that the malt and the water mix.
Too thick and nothing flows…
Too thin and the wort weakens…
You must use the paddle
To determine the mash’s body,
To gauge its consistency.”

Every day I take the mash paddle
And create a sieve of hot water and malt.
I will teach this to my son:
a good mash is only the beginning,
But it is the key to a good brew.
I am a mash paddle.
He will become a mash paddle.

Untitled #2    13.July.2008

As I read Snyder’s Axe Handles
The dog lay at my feet.
She is now 10 years old.
Some believe that equals 70
In dog years.  Not too sure
I subscribe to that theory.
If true, Tess is a spunky Septuagenarian.

We have been together
A length of 8 years.
She has me well trained.

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A Pint of Eagle Feather FIPA (an American IPA/Saison hybrid)

Yesterday was the 7th Annual Brewfest at the brewpub I work at.  This year’s was quite different than previous years because I had a little more say in the proceedings.  This meant the brewers could be brewers and not servers.  We did not have to stand behind the bar and pour beers to customers while some other customer tried to chat us up about our beers.  This year we stood outside with the festival goers and chatted them up on their turf.  One thing that would have been better is if the shirts that said “Brewer” on the back  had shown up.  We were indistinguishable in the crowd and, thus, very few people asked us any questions.

My beer was the Eagle Feather FIPA brewed in honour of my best friend, Charity.  It is a hybrid of an American IPA and a Saison.  What that means is that I brewed the recipe of an IPA in all its hop glory, and fermented it as if I were brewing a Saison.  A Saison during fermentation can reach temperatures of 85+ degrees F.   Normal fermentation temperatures for an ale such as an IPA are around 65-68 degrees F.  The tricky part about this beer is that the flavours and aromas of the hops must complement the flavour and aroma brought about by the farmhouse yeast I used.  Fortunately this occurred.  And while the American Pale Ale brewed by my friend, John, was selling more, the FIPA got great reviews from the people brave enough to try something different.  Little did I know that this creation and this day would lead to another creative, fruitful day.

The heat in Portland, while not unbearable, is still a bit over the top.  And to avoid sitting in the house today sweating and staring at a computer screen, I took my favourite chair and placed it in well shaded area, and sat with a copy of The Book of Songs and Gary Snyder’s Axe Handles.  This coupled with the first meeting of the Portland Brewers Writers Club aroused a flurry of creativity.  The club is essentially me and a couple of friends, one a beer writer and the other the fiance of a brewer friend of mine.  Our creative asses were getting big because we were lounging around too much.  The winter brought us down and we needed something to kick start our minds.

In the shade of a tree and with the dog tired from the walk I set out to reading some of The Book of Songs which is one of the five texts of Confucianism.  If you have not heard or read it, check it out.  It is some of the best and oldest lyrical compositions ever written.  After switching to some Snyder a thought turned into a stanza into a complete poem.  So I frantically typed it and went back to my day.  After some chores and a nap I went back outside, moved the chair under the hop vines and, lo and behold, 4 more poems came out.  I would share them with you but unlike my old self, I am actually going to edit and revise these with the help of my club.

So now that the sun is receding I must again go outdoors and enjoy the evening with the White Wonder, cook some ribs on the grill, and be thankful for the spark of creativity.  Who knows when it will come back or even if it has left.  I am not going to push it though.  If I make it mad, it will come back and haunt me.  If you are in the neighbourhood, come and enjoy a pint of the Eagle Feather…or the Saison at Puckerfest this week.  If you are not in the neighbourhood and want to enjoy my brews, move here.

Prost!
the confucian brewer

Brewed Beverage of Choice:  A cup of Yerba Mate

It was buried there, deep
in the sands of the river
bed, covered by the silt
and the sand laid down
by years of the passing river.
I do not know why I began
digging that day through the cool,
damp sand.  I merely bent
down and knelt, knees sinking
in the silt, hand by hand
throwing the sand and the silt
to and fro, left and right,
not seeking any treasure,
just frantically digging for what
lay beneath.  And there it appeared,
an onyx stone polished clean
by eons of erosion,
by centuries of love
from the mighty river. I lift it,
rinse it, and admire it for hours.
In my palms it rests, the sun
Reflected on its black face,
The moon caressing its shiny skin.
And with a kiss I toss it
back into the mighty river.