My question exactly: What's the Big Dill? By Half Fast Brewing Co.

When I initially saw this beer in a cooler at MoonRidge Brewery up in Cornell, I was puzzled just like William of Baskerville at the death of Adelmo. Why would they be carrying the brews of another brewery and who was this Half Fast Brewing Company anyway? I then looked that the label and saw that the Half Fast Brewing was, just like MoonRidge, veteran owned. Aha!

Half Fast, the business entity, at least, lists their address as being in Spring Valley, Wisconsin which is west of Menomonie. The can indicated that the beer, however, was brewed in Osseo which I presume meant at Northwoods Brewing which had closed just a few months previously. But perhaps just to the public. Maybe they contract brew now. I mean, how can Walter's just disappear again? Have the Gen Zers of Eau Claire and Trempealeau counties have no sense of tradition? Or maybe, just maybe the beer predated the brewery's closure. After all, there was no canned on/best by date to be found.

Having so much Central and Eastern European blood in me, I have a taste for pickle beer which no doubt seems odd to anyone who doesn't know me and of what stock I come from. Heck, it's even strange to me. Still, I bought a can of Half Fast's What's the Big Dill?, a pickle Gose.

Like all kinds of foods do, What's the Big Dill? fell victim to the dark color of my desk and so it looks gold in the photo but it's really a straw hue. It was clear with a smattering of bubbles. My pour produced a big head of loose, white foam. I was quite surprised by the aroma which was sweet and redolent of pineapple, of all things. I also knew that this just couldn't be good. Maybe not horrible because I don't think of a pineapple smell as being indicative of spoilage or any such thing but maybe someone got their flavoring bottles mixed up.

My tongue was greeted by a nice fizziness and the beer had a light body as expected. Then, inexplicably, came the pineapple. How blatantly odd. Thankfully it wasn't sweet, just a full fruity flavor. This was followed by some pickle taste. I spent a couple minutes pondering the tropical fruit flavor here - I suppose it could have come from a hop - and then it occurred to me that it was ostensibly a Gose. Was there any salinity? Of course on my next sip I tasted a bit so I am unsure if it was there all along but my tastebuds got sidetracked by pineapple or if I only tasted salt because I knew it to be a part of the Gose style and was not fully cognizant of this. Was my tongue playing tricks on me?

Regardless, the beer was lacking in the sour department. Pickles implies being pickled in vinegar and I just tasted nothing tangy/sour.

That odd pineapple-pickle combo lingered on the finish before the hops gently laid them to rest with a wave of dryness and a bit of bitterness.

This was one weird beer. It was also just not good. While the light body is par for the Gose course, the flavors, especially the pickle, were very mellow and the whole beer just came across as a watery mess. Where's the tanginess? Why is the dill pickle flavor so paltry? I'll likely try another Half Fast if given the opportunity but this one won't get a repeat.

Junk food pairing: With a paucity of pickle and Half Fast's proximity to Minnesota, pair What's the Big Dill? with a bag of  Old Dutch's Spicy Dill Pickle chips to boost the pickle quotient and get a little zip to boot.

What to do when you come to a fork

It was a lovely Monday morning in Bloomer and my vacation was coming to a close. Although it was to be a rather warm day, it was still cool when I awoke and clouds streaked the dawn sky as I stepped out of the hotel and moseyed over to Kwik Trip for coffee.

My plan was to take a leisurely drive home with a stop in Eau Claire at The Coffee Grounds for some local flavors to bring back with me.

There I got a cup of coffee, coffee beans, and some brews from Eau Claire's finest. Not being in a hurry I took Highway 93 south where I'd catch Highway 10 in Eleva. The drive showcased just how much the south of Eau Claire has been built up since I lived up there. What had been a sleepy area of town that led to the hustle & bustle of Oakwood and London Square Malls was now home to a senior living complex, stores, various businesses, dentists, and just all manner of things. It was no longer simply gas stations and fast food for those passing through on the interstate.

The drive between Eau Claire and Eleva brought back many memories as I had driven it countless times. Zipping past the road that led to my old man's former home I felt surprisingly unmoved. A little nostalgic but I mainly enjoyed the scenery. Once I got to the top of the ridge just north of Eleva, I looked around at just what a magnificent view it affords. Farms tucked into the rolling hills, fields bordered by woods, and the sun illuminating it all with its warming refulgence.

Heading east on 10 I looked to the north at one point and saw a lovely grassy hill beneath the blue sky and it looked just like that Windows XP wallpaper.

I refueled in Osseo and then hopped onto I94. The drive home went by quickly and traffic wasn't too bad outside of the usual convoys of trucks. After getting home I unpacked and got a load of laundry in the wash. I hadn't really bought much in the way of souvenirs this trip and everything I did buy was edible. Like this chocolate bar.

It's an Abu Dhabi Bar from Mayana Chocolate up in Spooner. I presume it is their take on the trendy Dubai bar, a chocolate confection with pistachio filling that is all the rage in confectionery circles these days, I take it.

Very tasty!

Plus I brought beer back to Madison that is otherwise unavailable here. First we have some Czech-style lagers from Eau Claire's Lazy Monk Brewing.

The Standard 10º brew has proven to be my favorite of the two. Light and crisp and full of Bohemian(-style) brewing goodness.

At Moonridge I picked up a can of their blonde ale as well as a pickle Gose from Half Fast Brewing Company.

I'd never heard of Half Fast. The can says the company is in Spring Valley, WI which is a bit west of Menomonie but that the beer had been brewed in Osseo, presumably by the now-shuttered Northwoods Brewing. I suspect the can was to be found at Moonridge as Half Fast appears to be veteran-owned just like Moonridge. Tasting soon, I hope.

I sat down to check my email and saw that the tree outside the window had come fully into bloom while I was away.

Beltane had truly come to fruition.

Settling down, I thought a bit about Piper as well as the end of my marriage which was likely to transpire the following week. My mind felt a bit weary after all of the contemplation it did over the weekend. It was very nice to not feel the anger that I had felt earlier in the week. At least nowhere near as intensely.

I realized that I had come to terms with most of the changes in my life regarding family the past several months. There don't seem to be any more depths of my marriage to plumb. I think I've examined it thoroughly and discovered the lessons it has to teach, found all the assignations of guilt to be had, and learned the myriad ways that it has affected me. My eldest stepson simply wants my money and so our relationship is on hold, if not over. My youngest stepson is beset by so many problems that I can do little to nothing about so I am resigned to take things as they come and do what I can, nudging him in what I think of as a more salutary direction occasionally.

While the fact that I married my wife remains a source of shame and embarrassment for me, I am content with that. I am content with knowing my mistakes and at peace with my regrets.

No doubt my thoughts on all this will change as time goes on. For now, though, I am trying to heed Henry David Thoreau's advice, "Never look back unless you are planning to go that way." I'm looking forward to my marriage ending soon, to getting a new cat, and treading new paths in life. I am anxious to see where they take me.

The Corona Diaries Vol. 114: Getting cozy

(Listen to the accompanying sound track.)

(early October 2023)

Always a glutton for punishment, I returned to the Chippewa Moraine State Recreation Area the day after my spooky encounters. This time I glued myself to the familiar trails I have always hiked and have never once shared with a homicidal, axe-wielding maniac. To my knowledge, anyway.

While it was yet another overcast morning, there was no rain. The Circle Trail was, as always, simply gorgeous.

I again pondered how to plan a trip up here when there is more fall color. Perhaps senescence is creeping up on me but I would have sworn the Travel Wisconsin website I had consulted before driving north said that we were near peak color.

Not even close to peak, as I see it, but there were some great seasonal hues nonetheless. Just look at these red oak leaves!

As I do every year, I slowly traversed the trail, stopping at my whim. It’s such a relaxing place. Work seems a million miles away and my mind, lulled into a sense of ease by the quiet and solitude, wanders freely. It is nature's Calgon.

 

 

The Circle Trail is a bit over 4 miles long and I once read a description of it in a Best Hikes of Wisconsin book or article that said it took about two hours to walk, on average. I remember thinking to myself that it takes me about twice as long to hike it. When it comes to human locomotion on foot, it's usually about getting from point A to point B in the shortest time. But, if you're out on a hike, it seems to me that the opposite is true. Whoever takes the longest is the winner.

What's the point of going out into the woods if your goal is just to get back to the trailhead as quickly as you can? Why not just remain there and declare yourself the victor? I like stopping often to watch the woodland creatures scurrying about, to listen to the eloquent, rhythmic trills of birds and ponder what they're saying; to smell the earthy aroma of the land and trees; to feel the various textures of bark as well as the smooth yet tacky mushrooms that dot the trees; and to take lots of photographs because it takes me several shots to get one that’s in focus.

In that book I read a couple years ago about the benefits of being out in nature, The Nature Fix, the author noted that it doesn't take very long for salutary effects to take hold. Just 15 minutes can produce a noticeable reduction in stress. The more, the better, I say.

 

On my hikes here, I especially enjoy standing on the shores of the smaller lakes like the one above. The entirety of the lake is in my view and I can see the ring of trees that encircle it. There's just something about this sight that gives me a sense of comfort. It has a coziness to it. Odds are there's a lengthy compound German word for this sensation but "cozy" and "comforting" are the best English words I can think of.

My first encounter with this feeling came as a young boy. The first floor of my childhood home in Chicago was about six feet from the ground. There was a deck at one of the corners in the back that straddled the property line and being about six feet up meant the space below it was rather large. A burgundy picket fence separated our lot from the next door neighbor's.

Underneath the deck, that fence ran until it was parallel to the corner of the house and a small section ran at a 90 degree angle from the main length to butt up against the house to form a corner. A 4x4 deck post was there but there was just enough space for me to squeeze in behind it, for a time.

That corner, that space where the two sections of fence met had a coziness to it for my younger self. And today as a middle aged man I still love those kinds of spaces.

They have to be enclosed, but not completely. That is, the outside world has to be visible or, at least, its presence discernible. I don't find these spaces claustrophobic, just snug, if that makes any sense.

Corners usually evoke these feelings, though by no means all corners, but there are other spaces that do so as well. The intersection of Clover Lane and Sargent Street in my neighborhood is one.

Clover ends at Sargent and the intersection has a lot of trees around it. So, in the summer, the canopies envelop the space giving it that cozy feel. I suppose that a couple terraces overflowing with flowers add to the effect.

Whatever this phenomenon is, I try to take comfort in it when I can.

When my walk was over, I bid farewell to the Chippewa Moraine State Recreation Area until next year and took a leisurely drive east to Cornell down country roads that had no shoulder to speak of. They're mostly tree-lined but there are occasional openings that reveal more gorgeous kettle lakes. My destination was Moonridge Brewing where I’d get a couple-two-tree glasses of muscle relaxant. If I can get a dose soon enough after a hike, I can usually stave off at least some aches and pains.

I rolled into town, which like last time, looked as if it was deserted like in a Twilight Zone episode. It was slightly eerie. At some point a car drove down the main drag to dispel the notion that Cornell had become the municipal version of the Mary Celeste but I saw no one on foot. Much to my disappointment, I discovered that the brewery was closed. Not permanently, just for the day. Oh well. Maybe they were short on help. As long as I was in Cornell, I thought I’d get some photos of the pulpwood stacker that I had neglected to get the last time I was in town.

The stacker, or what remains of it, anyway, is a giant steel structure that looks like an oil rig that leans at 45 degrees. The enormous arm of girders and cross beams looked to have weathered the decades well. Big concrete pillars anchored the leviathan.

As the name says, the Cornell Pulpwood Stacker stacked pulpwood. Here’s the historical marker.

You would have never caught me crawling up that thing to make repairs, I can tell you!

Today a figure appropriately carved from a log sits at the base to serve as a reminder of its former glory keep watch over the site.

By the time I had wandered around the stacker and taken my photographs, my muscles had begun to ache a bit. My hike had done its work. And so I hit the road once more and made my way to Bloomer where I’d be staying the night. My first stop was to be the local purveyor of muscle relaxant, Bloomer Brewery, which, I thought to myself, had better be open or there's going to be trouble.

Luckily they were receiving the thirsty and so I avoided having to cause a ruckus which would have probably seen the local constabulary throw me across the town line into a ditch. I began my treatment with, if I recall correctly, a lighter brew such as a golden ale or a cream ale but then for reasons I cannot explain, my typical desire for beer that tastes like beer deserted me and I got a s’mores porter or stout or whatever style it was. Such novelty beers are strictly verboten in my workaday life. I love the taste of grain and adore the flavors that are produced when they're cooked but, while on vacation, I occasionally throw caution to the wind.

The rim of the glass was lathered with marshmallow fluff that had a dusting of crushed graham cracker. I don’t know. Maybe I was still shaken by yesterday’s spooky walk and spectral encounter at Valkyrie and so my guard was down. Whatever the reason, this beer was a big mistake.

I think the beer itself was OK but I couldn’t really taste it after licking away some of that goop to get clear a spot that I could drink from. All that sweetness dulled my tongue to the (theoretically) succulent maltiness of the brew. I did not eat all of the marshmallow but the damage had been done by the little I did.

My next one was not the beer equivalent of a novelty ice cream treat but I could barely taste it. Heed this cautionary tale - avoid novelty beers!

Having eaten a moderately hearty lunch at the brewery, I needed to get out and about so I didn't descend into a post-prandial lethargy and decided to cruise around town to see what there was to be seen. One thing I saw was an ever rarer fallout shelter sign at the entrance to a church or a church school.

No doubt the older parishioners smile to themselves when the young folk look at it and ask just what the heck it is.

As I cruised down Main Street, I spied what appeared to be a Trachte shed off to the east. I turned down the next street and went in search of it. After a couple wrong turns, I finally found it in an industrial area that was bordered by train tracks.

I have no idea what it is/was used for but it was neat to see a little bit of Madison history up north.

When I went back to the hotel, I immediately showered and then sprawled out on the bed with the air conditioning turned up to high. With the sun beginning to set, it was time to bring out the book I was reading, The World of the Shining Prince: Court Life in Ancient Japan by Ivan Morris. It had been a long time coming.

I bought it back in circa 1999 in order to familiarize myself with the favorite era of Japanese history of the woman I was seeing at the time. She had been a Japanese language or Japanese literature or whatever other similar major the UW had on offer to aspiring nipponophiles. Her long hair and big eyes were captivating and her love of Japanese culture and history was quite alluring. It was impossible not to get taken in by the great enthusiasm and affection that emanated from her every word when she spoke about the early 11th century classic The Tale of Genji and its author Lady Murasaki. The Heian period, late 8th to late 12th century, was, as the kids say these days, her jam.

We dated very briefly and, although I had bought the book, I was unceremoniously dumped before I had dug in. With my main motivation of impressing a pretty lady now gone, I put reading the book onto the back burner as I pursued new frauleins. I never ran into another woman enamored of the Heian period and so the tome remained on my medieval history bookshelf collecting dust. One recent day as I was scanning my bookshelves looking for something to read, it occurred to me that I am getting to a point in my life where I really ought to start reading more books that I've meant to read over the years because, if I delay much longer, they'll go unread.

Published in 1964, The World of the Shining Prince is ostensibly for the layreader. But it has that academic sheen to it. I suppose this is still the time of The Great Books of the Western World where your average middle class Joe is presumed to be able to read Milton in its original early 17th century English and endowed with the ability to comprehend it without any helpful annotations.

Despite a fairly staid writing style, the book was quite interesting. The 2 centuries previous to the Heian period saw Japan appropriating any and everything it could from China much the way they pillage American culture today and come away with a profound love of baseball and Elvis. But as the 8th century became the 9th, the Japanese became more insular and began to generate their culture themselves rather than borrowing it from across the East China Sea.

As the title indicates, we’re talking about court life here, not the lives of the rural peasants. Chinese was still the language of choice in administrative, religious, and academic matters (like Latin was in the West during the Middle Ages) but Japanese became more common in literature during this time.

Buddhism came ashore and mixed with the native Shinto religion while the various superstitions that reigned such as directional taboos and a panoply of demons and ghouls were likely derived from older Japanese folklore.

At court, gentlemen were expected to be aesthetes of the highest order with a great sensitivity to beauty in art such as painting as well as more utilitarian things like gold inlaid boxes that held scrolls. Good calligraphy and the ability to compose verse was important for both men and women while courting. I cannot recall all of the details but the man would write a 31 syllable poem to the woman he was looking to get it on with. She’d reply and courtiers would fall over themselves to inspect her calligraphy to make sure it was up to snuff and everything was done in strict order. Quite a bit different and much more eloquent than a meager swipe to the right on a smartphone.

A very interesting book made all the more so by the fact that I knew precious little about the Japan of any time period going into it.

I woke up the next morning to find it rather muggy out and that the smoke from those Canadian wildfires had settled in overnight giving the town a hazy golden glow.

I got fuel – both coffee and gasoline – and cruised around town a bit more as I had a little time to kill for I had an appointment in Eau Claire at noon o’clock and the trip wouldn’t take me very long.

My youngest stepson had been shacking up with his girlfriend there until recently when she unceremoniously dumped him and kicked him out. He was now living with us in Madison and I had volunteered to stop by the apartment to fill my car up with as much stuff of his as it could fit.

I decided to wander the streets of Bloomer once more to see if I had missed anything yesterday and ran across a couple more items of interest. First was a restored ghost sign for the Hotel Anderson on Main Street.

 

There's a coffee shop on the ground floor and it looked like the upper storeys were now apartments. Perhaps tourists from Illinois stayed there while on vacation back in the 20th century.
 

I also found that the sign for the old telephone company was still around. The building was now home to an internet service service provider, I believe.

Instead of taking Highway 53 all the way, I exited it before Eau Claire and took some backroads. I ended up at this intersection where county highway workers no doubt had a good laugh over a couple cigarettes and coffee when putting up the signs.

In Eau Claire, I stopped at a coffeehouse for more go juice and then at a dentist's office where some statuary had caught my eye back in August but a chance to take photographs eluded me.

Noon rolled around and I zipped over to the apartment. The kid’s ex-girlfriend was very kind and helpful. Much to my delight, I found that she had packed up his stuff and done so without seeming to have intentionally destroyed anything. She even helped haul some of the boxes to my car.

As I cruised down the road headed for home I was sad that my vacation was over. My hikes were simply wonderful and I enjoyed investigating Bloomer. But it was back to the workaday world and to being a stepdad to a very lost young man. I had to lend the kid support and try to convince him to rub some dirt on that wound and get back on that horse.

He is 24 and it’s all too easy for me to look back when I was at his age and sigh “Kids these days” in an exasperated tone. I was on the rebound too at that time of my life but I was gainfully employed and self-sufficient. Still, I have a lot of sympathy for him. He is welcome to stay with us. It’s fun to have him around. The kid has a long way to go and I’ll be there to help him. As they say, every journey begins with a single step and I am focused on getting him to take it.

********

Bonus photo. This time we have statuary from Mankato, Minnesota.

 

 

(Check out the postlude.)

The Corona Diaries Vol. 95: Those Darn Republicans Even Have Their Own Street

(mid-June 2023)

(Watch the prelude.)

What I needed after a nice bit of hiking was a beer. And so I headed east to Cornell, the home of the MoonRidge Brewing Co. I could not recall ever having been to Cornell so I'd get a chance to check out a new place in addition to enjoying some muscle relaxant. Swinging into town, I noticed a rather large crane type thingy by the shore of the river. (Cornell lies on the Chippewa River.) On the way out of town I would stop and check out this rusting hulk.

 

There was a smattering of people there as I stepped inside. It looked very nice. I am used to craft brewery taprooms being industrial chic with exposed duct work and whatnot. Here at MoonRidge, however, an up north aesthetic prevailed with wood everywhere. Cozy and welcoming.

 

I cannot recall what I drank first – probably a golden ale or whatever the lightest beer they had on offer was. As a last drop of sweat fell from the tip of my nose, I took my first sip and I can tell you it tasted incredibly good.

 

 

The brewmaster is apparently quite fond of honey as there were 3 beers that had the sticky sweet stuff in them: a hefeweizen, a brown ale, and another one that might have been a Kölsch. I appreciate it when a brewer has their own niche that takes you off the beaten path instead of just dosing their brews with various combinations of hops that taste like tropical fruit as too many brewers do these days.

 

In addition to a young couple enjoying lunch, there was a local at the bar holding court. He was middle aged and wearing leather so I assumed that he rode a motorcycle. I chatted with him a bit and found that he was a funny guy. He talked about various and sundry things and would refer to nearby towns and events that transpired down on some local road or other. I told him at one point that I wasn’t from these parts and didn’t know where he was referring to. Obligingly, he explained where such-and-such town was or where the road in question was in relation to Cornell.

 

But, after continuing his tale for, oh, another 10 seconds, he resorted to his old ways, assuming I had any clue who Harriet from Holcombe was or that I knew anything about a particular farm out on County W.

 

Nothing like some local color.

After a couple brews, I was suitably refreshed and found that my muscles had stopped aching. I grabbed a six pack so I could sample more MoonRidge at home and headed out.

 

Cruising around Cornell a bit, I discovered some nice older buildings downtown but I didn't spy any ghost signs. It seemed a very average town - no statues carved out of trees by drunken lumberjacks nor any mutant beavers with two tails stuffed and mounted at a bar. But it does have Brunet Island State Park which lies on the north side of town so I headed over there for a post-beer hike.

I found that there was a .75 mile trail there which was just perfect.

The first stretch was paved but soon it became a dirt trail.

 

 

Very pretty. I’d like to explore the park and the adjoining Jean Brunet Woods State Natural Area someday.

Feeling good, I hopped in my car and headed out to Chetek with visions of a shower dancing in my head. As I turned onto a county road, I realized that I had completely forgotten to investigate that crane thingy. Oh well. Next time.

After a shower, I went out in search of a meal. I settled on a bar that had a large menu online. On my way there, I ran into a couple of interesting things.

First, there is an Indian Mound that has survived for hundreds of years and now sits precariously next to a gas station.

Too bad we’re in a drought because that grass doesn’t look so good. Still, it was nice to see that the lumber barons didn’t obliterate all signs of the natives that lived there.

The second thing of note was this street.

 

I don’t know who had to do what in order to get their street named “Darn Republican” but it is funny.

For reasons I don’t understand, Chetek has no supper clubs. How it ended up bereft of this Wisconsin staple is a mystery worthy of Agatha Christie herself. And so I went to a bar across the street from Lake Chetek. Throwing caution to the wind, I ordered a beer I had never heard of from Earth Rider Brewery up in Superior. It turned out to be one of those trendy IPAs with enough hops to fell a horse. Not my thing. But I drank it anyway and drowned out its hoppy excesses with some spicy Buffalo wings.

I spent the evening doing a little reading and writing.

 
The next morning I was up early and on the road headed for Trego, about 45 miles to the north. There I was to hike a couple trails that were each about 3 miles long, if I recall correctly. It was still fairly cool when I parked my car at the Trego Nature Trail where I would stroll through the woods and along the Namekagon River.

 
I canoed the Namekagon 25 or so years ago with a friend. While not exactly in the same league as Lewis & Clark, we did a 75-mile trip over 4 days and I fell in love with the river. For the most part, it was easy paddling. The water was very clear so you could see fish and turtles scatter beneath your paddle as the canoe cut the water. A deer looked down upon us from a short ridge a couple of times. Pure bucolic goodness.

I pulled out my deet and gave myself a bath in it. I was ready to go.

It was very beautiful despite the din of Highway 63 in the background which grew as the morning went on. Every time I stopped to take photographs, I was immediately beset by a large swarm of mosquitoes. Large enough to make an audible and very sinister hum. The threat of exsanguination was real, I tell you. Thankfully, my deet was up to the task and the shroud of blood-suckers stayed a half inch away from my precious skin. It was still eerie, though.

The trail began in the woods but the Namekagon slowly came into view.

And then there she was.

 

Just so pretty. At the far end of the trail the sound of the highway was extremely faint and was replaced by the sound of flowing water. Perfect.

After a few miles, the hike was over and I drove to the north side of town to my next destination which was the similarly named Trego Lake Trail. It would take me along a stretch of the Namekagon before coming to Trego Lake.

Although it too was gorgeous, the lake bore signs of human activity as it was dotted with docks and slips for boats. Still, another beautiful hike.

At one point, I turned the corner and saw a woodpecker not too far in the distance hanging on the side of the remains of a dead tree. It was very patient and allowed me to take several photographs before heading off into the woods. Of course, none of the pictures turned out to be in focus.

So it goes. 

I don’t think I’d ever been to Trego before this trip. Or, if I had, it had been decades and when I was very young. So I cruised around town. Trego is a tiny place – surely less than 1,000 people. It didn't seem to have a downtown but rather a smattering of businesses on frontage roads along the four lanes of Highway 53. However, I did find this really neat ghost sign for Occident Flour.

I find that Occident Flour is not a brand but rather an old timey name for what we now call all-purpose flour. I think the top of the sign was for somebody’s general store and that along the bottom it read “Costs More – Worth It”. 

While I found no downtown, I did run across an abandoned church smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood.

Some of the windows were broken and I was able to get a good look inside.

Somebody appears to be working on something in there.

After a couple minutes, a woman emerged from the house next door to politely tell me to leave their property.

Despite it being a sunny morning, there was just something creepy about that place…

********

Bonus photo! I saw this ad at the grocery store.

(Now watch the postlude.)

Your beer is like a rollercoaster baby, baby: Rollercoaster by MoonRidge Brewing Company

Last time, I wrote about MoonRidge's Below the Dam and noted that I had brought a mixed six pack of their brews home with me from the brewpub up on Cornell. The next beer in line for tasting is Rollercoaster, a "maple bock dark lager".

The brewmaster at MoonRidge sure loves sweet, sticky stuff as there were 3 or 4 beers on tap when I was there that had honey in them. Rollercoaster wasn't on tap and my craft beer nerd instincts told me that this brew was likely a winter (being a bock) or spring (that's when maple syrup is made) beer and so not overly fresh which has been a problem for me with MoonRidge beers. In addition, MoonRidge is a very small operation. Did they have the capacity to lager a beer properly?

I made up those excuses and probably more to boot to not grab a Rollercoaster despite it being right up my strasse. A dark beer. A lager. With maple syrup, a very tasty Wisconsin flavor addition. I threw caution to the wind and grabbed a bottle.

When it came to tasting it, I had low expectations, truth be known. I was certainly hoping for it to be a real gustatory treat but wasn't going to bet my house on it. Quite aside from freshness issues, lagers from small breweries that brew mostly ales is very much a hit or miss proposition with misses being much more common, from my experience. But hope springs eternal.

My mug was graced with a good, light tan head. The frothy foam had what I think of as an average lifespan. The liquid was a gorgeous dark amber, not unlike maple syrup, and clear which allowed me to see some bubbles running upwards. The aroma was very nice with some maple, caramel, and a faint grassy scent hiding behind all the sweetness.

It was well-fizzed with a medium body that leaned a bit to the light side. Maple and caramel were up front but I didn't find the beer cloying. That fizz no doubt helped out here. I tasted a very faint smokiness, a little roasty grain, and some welcome grassy/herbal hops which surely abetted the hops in keeping the sweetness in check.

The sweet flavors faded as I swallowed leaving a hoppiness that had become more herbal tasting to provide a modicum of bitterness and dryness. Through it all, a hint of dark chocolate poked its slightly bitter head out.

My expectations were totally upended - this was a good beer. Perhaps on the homebrew writ large side, but tasty nonetheless. I appreciated that the sweetness was not overpowering yet the caramelized, woody, vanillay flavor of the maple syrup was out front. I've had maple beers that are sticky, cloying messes that seemed to have been brewed by Mrs. Butterworth as well as those that have so little maple syrup in them, that you'd never know it was an ingredient if the label didn't say so and even then I didn't believe it. Rollercoaster hit that sweet spot (pun intended) right in the middle.

Junk food pairing: You can't go wrong with pizza flavored fare and MoonRidge brews. Ergo, I recommend Pizza Pringles to accompany your Rollercoaster.