PICK OF THE WEEK

The Top Foods in Federal Way would not seem a likely place to have a good selection of beer. And, it does not. Instead, it has a great selection of beer.

I visited the store a couple of weeks ago and discovered an aisle that is carefully tended by Charles. All I can say is that Charles rocks! He obviously cares very much about the beer that his section stocks. He asked me if I needed any help. I told him that I was just checking out their selection of ales because I had heard good things about them. He seemed somewhat shocked that I would drive to Federal Way to visit his beer aisle.

The next thing you know, Charles is explaining some of his beer philosophy to me. He likes to rotate his stock, and doesn't return to items too often. He has some exclusive deals with a few Pacific Northwest brewers. Some of them bottle in special sizes for the Federal Way Top Foods or give Charles "first shot" at new brews. He bottle ages some of his barley wines and other ales in the back before they even make their way to the sales floor. I was very impressed.

I don't always feel like driving to Federal Way, however, so I visited the Puyallup Top Foods. Although it is not quite as extensive in breadth or depth as the Federal Way store, the Puyallup Top Foods has a very good selection of craft beers and microbrews, as well as imported beers, especially some good Belgian ales.

The Puyallup location will primarily keep me busy in my search for great craft beer with a few trips throughout the year to Federal Way to see what Charles is up to. A joyful discovery on a whim of wandering!

INTERMISSION

To you, the devoted reader:

Whether you are a regular visitor, an intermittent visitor, or a first-time visitor, I apologize to you for my absence over the past week. Some personal crises—which will be neither discussed here and now, nor in the future, for they are mine, and not for public consumption—have kept me away from the Work Table for some time.

I have, however, had time to drink a couple of great beers, as well as read some great articles and books, which will be presented to you in the near future. Please be patient as I get my life in order!

Troy.

THE JOYS OF LIFE

The child loves hot dogs, especially those filled with processed cheese. I also happen to enjoy them as a guilty pleasure. The child also loves what she calls funny faces.

The picture on the left, taken by me, is of my masterpiece lunch presentation for her—a funny face consisting of a whole wheat slice of bread head; mustard and ketchup face; and hotdog eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and hair. The picture on the right, taken by the child, is the funny face she created later, consisting of a hotdog rhombus.

STORM DREAMS 3: ALL WASHED UP

Clockwise from upper left: (1) an area of the park across the street from my house that is under about four feet of water, none of which should be pictured from this vantage point; (2) trees now in the Puyallup River as it creeps through the park; (3) the roiling of the river looking down from the nearby bridge; (4) trees that normally are about five feet above the river now in it.

Once the river crested and the waters began to recede, we could finally get some rest. The wife and I did not get a lot of sleep on Monday evening or early Tuesday morning as the river rose. When I arrived at work, there was water damage and/or flooding everywhere. Water was dripping into our administrative space, our parking lot was partially flooded, gutters were clogged and overflowing, and our chapel's basement was flooded. I spent most of Tuesday cleaning gutters, vacuuming water out of drains and stairwells, working with the carpet cleaning crew that arrived to clean and dry out our chapel carpet, and other assorted water related tasks.

I am still trying to catch up on sleep from the anxiety, worry, work, and weariness associated with water and more water.

STORM DREAMS 2: TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

The trail just ends. In the waters of the Puyallup River. A river that should not be seen in this picture.

This is a picture of the trail that normally runs parallel to the Puyallup River rather than being submerged within it. A few hundred feet down the path are flooded apartments. The spot where I took this picture is about one hundred feet from my front porch.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Old Nick Barley Wine Style Ale by Young's

This was my first experience with a barley wine. I rather enjoyed the experience. It reminded me of a fruitier version of a brown ale.

A somewhat creamy, somewhat frothy, light brown head didn't care to hang around for too long, but did leave some nice lacing behind. The color of Old Nick was beautiful. It was a rich brown with a ruby red tinge at the edges.

The aroma was of molasses at the forefront with a slightly sweet background that seemed to be a mixture of pine and floral notes. It also smelled more like red wine than a beer. The flavor also tasted of molasses, with hints of dried fruit—raisins, dates, currants, perhaps even cherries (although very subtle on the cherries, if so). The beer sat mid-palate in the mouth, and started slightly sweet, becoming drier as the finish progressed.

I ate this with the wife's chilaquiles, which may have been just a tad too spicy for the richness of Old Nick, but it worked well, nonetheless. I imagine this would be another ale that would go well with roasted meat, potatoes, and carrots.

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Aside number one:

The child has been observing me spending a lot of time checking out the beers I drink for appearance, aroma, flavor. She watches me as I sniff the beer, sometimes many times, or for a long moment. She watches as I take a small sip to run around my mouth before taking a larger quaff. She watches me taking notes.

So, she is sitting in her highchair watching me savor my Old Nick, and she is playing with her Halloween candy. I told her she could eat one piece. She chooses a small Hershey's chocolate bar.
She tells me she is tasting it (trying to be like me). I ask her what it tastes like. She replies, "A door!" She should know since she licks everything!

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Aside number two:

From the website of the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms:

However, an increasing number of "flavored malt beverages" have varied and diverse characteristics which distinguish them from traditional malt beverages. Further, these characteristics are so diverse that the demarcations between "flavored malt beverages" and distilled spirits or wine products are becoming increasingly blurred and undefined.

Which is why Old Nick is called a barley wine style ale rather than just barley wine. Even though Old Nick is a barley wine, the strange hybrid drinks (flavored malt beverages), have made brewers more wary about how they package their products. Adding "style ale" to the description ensures that it is in the category of ale rather than being confused with wine, which is unacceptable to ATF. Beer and wine are separate categories and must remain such.

Therefore, brewers argue from a historical perspective. This or that type or style of ale has a history, unlike "flavored malt beverages." I find the sense of history and historical "connectedness" fascinating.

STORM DREAMS

The chill of late October gives way to the relative warmth of early November. The storms are coming.

The soil, once parched by summer sun, is now saturated with the autumnal rains of the Pacific Northwest. The ground cannot slake its thirst and continues to drink. It cannot contain the object of its appetite.

The Puyallup River, only a few hundred feet away, laps at its banks, as well as at the edge of my dreams. The Puyallup River, once bound, is now a nightmare in the making. The cold, murky, muddy water, filled with debris—twigs, branches, stumps, whole trees—eases into liminal zones it rarely visits. The water weaves between brambles and blackberry bushes. It crawls over the grass, ever closer to the purported safety of my home.

Security is a falsehood. I tremble in my sleep, which is light and fitful. I listen for the patter of the rain. I listen for its intensity. It increases. It decreases. Crescendo. Decrescendo.

Work is no relief. You would think I could go there to escape the damp and cold. But inside it is damp and cold. A broken furnace, leaking carbon monoxide, is shut off until repairs can take place—"Next week," the promise last week, and now, this week, a delay in parts. Next week becomes next week becomes next week. Water drips, and, later, streams, from a leaky roof through light fixtures and heating ducts. The drip of water plays a rhythm in small plastic bins that are scattered about the floor to catch the intruder. Tip tip tap. Tip tip tap.

A noise that becomes difficult to shake, whether asleep or awake. Tip tip tap. And, ever still, the river creeps closer...

PICK OF THE WEEK

The pick of this week is staying home. The weather was wet and dreary. We have used our wood stove approximately three times within the past five years. Now we can add two more to the total.

The past week was one in which the wife, the child, and I all seemed a little fatigued. Whenever the child went to sleep at night, I was quick to follow, which is unusual for me. I tried to read and would fall asleep. I was supposed to be writing a letter of reference for a friend, but whenever I tried to write it I would fall asleep. I would sit down in front of the television for two minutes, and, you guessed it, I would fall asleep.

The child and I were supposed to head up to Seattle to visit one of my friends. He had to postpone the visit due to illness, which was a blessing in disguise for me. It allowed me time to just stay at home, get some chores done, and relax. Laundry, cooking, chopping wood, cleaning the gutters in torrential downpour, washing dishes, and playing with the child, along with sleeping in front of the fire have been the order of the past two days. The two highlights, however, have to be, in no particular order, (1) the fire, which actually got the house a little too warm at 82 degrees Fahrenheit, and (2) the dinner of pot roast, roasted vegetables, and Big Sky Brewing Company's Moose Drool Brown Ale that I prepared.

Now, I am going to head off to try and read a few pages in St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves by Karen Russell before I drift off to sleep near the fire. Pick of the week, indeed.

on THE TAPHANDLE

Buzzsaw Brown Seasonal Ale by Deschutes Brewery

Buzzsaw Brown is a summer seasonal that was accidentally hidden away for awhile in my basement.

The quote on the bottle reads:
Buzzsaw Brown Seasonal Ale is lightly hopped with a biscuity character and a smooth finish. Milder than a porter, brown ales are especially rewarding after a hard day's work.

Well, there is not much to argue with in that brief explanation. It is lightly hopped, with a more malty, earthy flavor. The "biscuity character" is a good description of both the taste and the texture of this ale. The taste is somewhat like a biscuit (I like to describe good beer as bread in a bottle) and the texture is thicker than some other beers. It does have a smooth finish and is milder than a porter or stout. And, this beer is especially rewarding after a hard day's work of further "frying" my eyes at a computer terminal.

The wife made chicken piccata and this is the ale I chose to accompany it. It wouldn't seem a natural choice to some, but the earthiness of Buzzsaw Brown helped to ground some of the tang and pizzazz of the lemon and capers of the piccata. It was a good pairing, as far as I am concerned.

COLLABORATIVE MONSTERS

It is Halloween. We are supposed to be keeping monsters at bay. Instead, the child and I are creating them.

Between the two of us, we possess two Mr. Potatohead bodies, the accessories for the equivalent of three Mr. or Mrs. Potatoheads, and one set of Mr. Potatohead safari accessories. We keep switching out parts. This set of eyes for that set of eyes. A beak instead of a bulbous red nose. Different shoes. An ear as a hat. After every few switches, the child has us trade the Mr. Potatoheads and begin switching parts anew. The improvisation, directed by the child of course, has created some rather interesting creatures. They are not those that will inhabit tales of generations to come, but they are monsters nonetheless, and they will be spoken of in the company of the child and I. We will whisper about them. We will remember them on cold autumn nights. They will be summoned forth on future Halloweens. They will creep about in the recesses of our minds. They will haunt us.

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At work, for our staff meetings, we have been reading the book of Genesis as broken up in a commentary by the Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann. We are still in the early chapters of Genesis. These are the tales of the warriors of old, the men of renown, the Nephilim, the giants, the sons of God who mate with human women. These are the tales of phenomenal floods, bloodshed, angels who guard paradise with flaming swords, the rule of Nimrod. These are the tales of an age lost, perhaps of a time and places that never were.

I am reminded of the gods of old and their comingling with humans. Of chimeras, gryphons, creatures half human and half beast, horse or cow or other. Of gorgons, cyclops, minotaurs. Of Leviathan, Behemoth, alligator, hippopotamus. Of giants and dwarves. Of the Other.

I am reminded of the first chapter of For the Time Being by Annie Dillard. She is looking through her copy of Smith's Recognizable Patterns of Human Malformation. She perfectly captures the mixture of fascination and horror that we have for the Other and its siren song. She writes:

A chromosome crosses or a segment snaps, in the egg or the sperm, and all sorts of people result. You cannot turn a page in Smith's Recognizable Patterns of Human Malformation without your heart's pounding from simple terror. You cannot brace yourself. Will this peculiar baby live? What do you hope? (page 6)

The question remains there before you: What do you hope?

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Where do monsters not lurk?

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I started reading the new collection of short stories by Karen Russell, entitled St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves. It is also the realm of monsters. The monsters within are all too real, which is the whole point of all monsters. They are attempts for us to describe the undescribable. They may inhabit the language and landscapes of myth, legend, fable, or fairytale, but they still know how to prickle us with fear and worry.

Karen Russell sees monsters around the children in her tales and speaks those monsters to life without explicitly naming them. The anxiety is tangible, like the monsters themselves—rape, incest, mental illness, abandonment. The Bird Man may have the ability to imitate the calls of birds with beauty and talent, but he is still a molester. And, even though, we as readers don't "see" the molestation, it is hinted at, it is there, present, destroying, tearing asunder those it touches.

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How do we protect ourselves from the monsters? How do we stop them? How do we slay them?

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Every once in a while, the game of collaborative monsters that the child and I are engaged in is interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. We are stopped, pulled back into the space and time of the here and now. The child carries a basket of candy at my flank as I pull the door open to view those who are still trying to keep the monsters at bay.