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.

An answer to an age-old question

When I had left home on Friday Madison was fairly green. Some trees were fully in bloom while many others were almost at that point. Up north at the Chippewa Moraine Rec Area it seemed that they were a couple weeks behind us. This was completely expected as Osseo was much the same. I got there a bit after 9 and hit the trail after a brief stop at the interpretive center.

It was a gorgeous morning, sunny with a slight chill still hanging in the air. Perfect conditions to take a stroll in the woods in search of Waldeinsamkeit.

Although the trees were still largely bare, I was afforded the opportunity to get unobstructed views of many lakes that had been obscured by leaves on previous visits. It's a trade-off: beautiful foliage or lake views.

Despite being able to see the lovely lakes as never before, I still chose to obstruct the view on occasion.

Having learned that Walden Pond is not, in fact, a pond, but rather a kettle lake and that the lakes here at the Chippewa Moraine Rec Area are all kettle lakes, I consider this place to be my Walden West. No offense, Mr. Derleth.

Since I didn't have much in the way of colorful foliage at my disposal, my eyes took a different photographic tack and looked to reflections on the water.

And, with the sun blazing in the sky, I found some nice spots where it was illuminating the forest. I loved how the pines looked in the sun, their green needles aglow as if they were finally getting their due for having provided color throughout the barren winter.

I am unsure what flowers these are but they looked very pretty and their pure white petals really stood out amongst the preponderance of bare branches as they soaked in the sun.

As my legs carried me along the path between the lakes, my mind wandered down its own trails. At times I was enraptured by the intense beauty around me while at others my mind was occupied by dark thoughts of my divorce. It was immanent. Barring any cruel twist of fate, I would become an ex-husband by the end of the month. While there are a few financial matters that will keep my wife and I tethered for a short time after the judge declares null & void the legal ties that have bound us for 10+ years, it is my hope that the divorce being finalized will accelerate the process of effacing my wife's malignant presence from my mind as far as possible.

Granted, I do not expect her to ever be fully erased as if I had undergone the treatment in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind but it is my hope that she fades further from memory, that her presence casts an ever shrinking shadow over my life.

I logged into a largely disused email account of mine the other day and found a cache of email exchanges between my wife and me that went back as far as the day of our first date back in 2004. I read a couple and they overflowed with joy and a nervous excitement. Words carefully chosen to impress and entice amidst the blooming and buzzing confusion of a newfound attraction. One email my wife sent me had the subject "fuck, i love you". Now, of course, the middle two words no longer apply and would be omitted.

A couple dips into the dim and distant past were enough and I deleted the emails so as to continue the process of effacing her from my life.

Down the path I continued.

One of the great joys of my hike was the near constant presence of woodpeckers. I rarely saw them but heard their calls and, less frequently, heard them pecking. However, I lucked out and was able to get a moderately decent photo of one.

Walking along I heard on several occasions a splash in the water. When I looked in the direction the sound came from I usually saw a bare log and eventually cottoned on that the splash had come from turtles jumping into the water to avoid being seen by the human. Those turtles have good hearing. But I found that, if I stood still for a minute, the turtles would often hop back onto the log and resume sunning themselves.

At one point I heard the rustling of leaves just off the trail. Expecting a squirrel somewhere nearby I instead saw a garter snake. Presumably it saw me coming and slithered to safety. It remained just a foot or so off the path and was happy to remain still for a fine photo op.

I am unsure what type of bird we have here.

Is it an oriole?

I loved all of the shadows cast by the trees and how they fell across the trail.

At one point I came across this and got a definitive answer to an age old question. Ha!

This trip I committed to memory that starting my hike by going east at the trailhead is my preferred way to go. Going in this direction means that my two favorite spots on the trail that have bridges come towards the end, as if they are a reward for the previous 4 miles of walking.

The first spot has a bridge that crosses this micro-strait that connects two of the lakes and, when you get to the other side of it, there's a Leopold bench next to an evergreen. I simply adore this spot!

I took off my backpack and grabbed a drink of water before sitting down on the bench where I could enjoy a little shade. I don't know what it is about this view that grabs me, that commands my attention. You can see two lakes from this vantage point and I just love the tree. The scene has a certain symmetry to it with a lake on either side.

Sitting at this spot is the only time I ever don headphones and listen to music on a hike. Assuming it's not raining, I will sit on the bench here and dedicate 5 minutes to listening to a fan remix of "Silent Sorrow in Empty Boats" by Genesis. There's something ethereal about the washes of that Mellotron chorus sound that takes me away, makes me feel as if I have been transported to some kind of boreal Arcadia. The wind caresses my face as the aroma of the forest, of the earth heightens my sensory experience and seems to call me home.

This is a magical place.

The other spot is more like an isthmus with a bridge taking the place of a missing bit of earth.

This spot is wonderful because A) it is lined with pines and B) it's a fairly lengthy stretch were you have a lake close to you on either side. There are lots of blues and greens and all of the pines give me a cozy, snug feeling. And the views are spectacular.

From here it wasn't far back to the trailhead. The very last part of the trail is fairly steep as you ascend an ice-walled-lake plain. But getting to the top felt really good. Both my body and mind felt exhilarated. I think I had pondered my life just enough and opened a door to a path away from anger. After a brief bit of relaxation, I took off and headed to a brewpub I'd been meaning to try for a few years - Heart of the North Brewing Co.

At one point as I was driving, a large bird flew across the road and perched atop a dead tree. I pulled over and found that it was a turkey vulture.

Heart of the North is in Ladysmith and I cannot recall the last time I'd visited that fair town. Maybe sometime in the early 1980s. Although I drove past the brewpub initially, I circled back and found it.

While not packed to the gills, there were a fair number of people there enjoying a drink and pizza. I found a seat at the bar and ordered a salt and lime ale which was their lowest A.B.V. offering and just sounded like the most refreshing brew on the menu. I asked the bartender if it was a sour beer as I have seen many a Gose with added salt and lime.

Upon hearing my query, the woman next to me said, "No! It's just tastes like lime and is really refreshing. It's what I'm drinkin'." Her comment was said a bit emphatically and with a tone of incredulity, as if I had asked a silly question.

The bartender said that it was not a sour brew. Indeed it wasn't. It seemed to be a blonde ale with a bit of lime flavoring and sea salt. Having sweated more than a little as the day grew warmer, I welcomed the salt. The lime was, well, lime flavoring, but it was mostly unoffensive to the tongue even if it was more so to my sense of propriety which dictates that craft beer should use whole, natural ingredients.

The brewpub shares space with a greenhouse and so the setting was marvelous.

A few people left and a few more people arrived. Some of the new folks had finished shopping for plants and wanted a libation before heading home. Others seemed to simply want to enjoy the beautiful sunny day with a drink and the company of family and/or friends. The place had a definite local watering hole vibe.

For my second brew, I ordered their hefeweizen.

It was excellent. And doesn't it just look like a glass full of summer? Plenty of esters to give luscious banana-like flavors which were complemented by a light body and a firm fizz. Just quite tasty and refreshing. Once downed, I hit the road for my hotel. Or was it a motel?

Driving into Bloomer I saw a sign for one Mark Hollister who was running for some local office and I then recalled the name of that fellow that Jason and I went to high school with but whose name we couldn't recall the previous day. It occurred to me that he wasn't gay but did dress to the nines and thusly I had conflated a couple schoolmates.

I checked in, took a shower, and went to a local Mexican restaurant for dinner. My phone had been left in my room to charge so no photos. The waitress was a beautiful young Hispanic woman who was very friendly and provided good service. My fajita salad was tasty and filling and a nice change from your more typical fare up north of burgers, pizza, and fried fish.

After dinner I kicked back on my bed and made good on my promise to myself of getting some reading done. In particular, my goal was to get an issue of County Highway done and dusted as I was 2 issues behind with the latest not far off from landing in my mailbox.

An article on the front page made me chuckle and shake my head.

For a short time my wife expressed great agitation at my reading County Highway as Walter Kirn is editor-at-large. In another attempt to verify that I was thinking only her approved, correct thoughts, she retrieved an issue from our mailbox and proceeded to vet its creators. It seems she scoured Kirn's Twitter/X feed and found that he was apparently friends with RFK or supported some of his initiatives as Secretary of Health and Human Services.

She would text me screenshots of tweets she deemed offensive and one morning launched into a tirade at the foot of the stairs while I was working about how Kirn was evil and County Highway was a propaganda rag for Trump, et cetera and so on. This episode was really depressing because A) Trump doesn't get mentioned in County Highway much and B) my wife would never even say good morning to me when she arose and I was upstairs working yet she was keen to yell up the stairs at me about how Walter Kirn is basically a minion of Satan bent on killing her personally.

At one point I told her that Trump is very rarely mentioned in County Highway because the paper is more interested in articles about people living off the grid in the New Mexico desert, a town fighting the government who wants to build a dam and flood a big chunk of land that these residents would prefer remain unsubmerged, The Eagles residency at the Sphere in Vegas, Wisconsin supper clubs, et al.

Her reply was both confounding and insulting. She told me that County Highway will eventually start publishing pro-Trump propaganda and, since I have become accustomed to reading the paper and its general vibe, I will just blindly accept whatever they print as gospel and go MAGA. Or something like that.

I guess it was her way of saying that she felt I was stupid. But this also flummoxed me because she'd often become frustrated with me for wanting to know more about various things before passing judgement. She even mocked me once for my proclivity of wanting evidence.

We'd be sitting around the living room and she'd doomscroll until she found something that profoundly offended her. Moving full steam ahead in a foul mood and determined to share it, she'd tell me about whatever someone who was likely a bot had said and I'd agree it sounds horrible but also slightly suspicious and so I'd like to know more about the context before castigating anyone. This was a problem because my wife simply wanted me to jump on her bandwagon of hate and denounce the offender unconditionally. Thinking for myself was not a good thing; uncritically accepting her view was what she wanted.

For example, she'd read something on social media about how J.K. Rowling was crucifying trans people in her front garden, tell me about it, and expect me to unquestioningly go along with her suggestion that Rowling's mansion be nuked from orbit. When I didn't she would grow even more visibly agitated.

Thusly her hypothesis that my irritating habit of wanting more than a tweet for evidence, to have a fuller picture before heaping opprobrium on someone would magically disappear at some point and be turned into affection for Trump mystified me.

Wowzers! I did not mean to prattle on that long.

I chuckled because the article was about a socialist. A socialist who wrote The Iron Heel, a novel that my wife had read about the United States succumbing to fascism, something that I think she felt was immanent. She may still, for all I know. The Iron Heel and It Can Happen Here seemed to justify her apocalyptic predictions regarding Donald Trump as well as feed her Cassandra complex.

This issue of County Highway also featured a jeremiad entitled "Stop Interrrrupting!" In it the author notes how often our phones interrupt us and that scientific studies show that it takes a long time for our monkey brains to focus once again on the important things in life after a bing! from our phones throw us off. The solution?

Because our humanity is at stake.

A fine rant for a publication that is print-only.

Simplify, simplify.

Afterglow 53

A few? several? months ago I heard? read? something by Louise Perry about a newer holiday. Or she was inveighing against newer holidays generally. Her gripe was that celebrations/commemorations of a more recent vintage have shallow roots, they don't have years of tradition behind them to bolster their potency by imbuing them with meanings honed through the ages and handed down to us moderns. It seemed a very silly complaint to lodge. I mean, traditions have to start somewhere; they weren't floating around in the ether waiting on human beings to grasp them; they were purposely created by people at some point to speak to the times in which they arose.

It seemed to be a case of chronological snobbery where new traditions were assumed to be inferior because...well, because. She didn't really offer an explanation and I felt her performance in the piece or podcast or whatever it was to be weak sauce in contrast to her usual thoughtful commentary. I think this was around the time she had converted to Christianity and so she was likely speaking with the zeal of the convert. New holidays, especially those that aren't Christian in nature, don't deserve our attention - their meanings and practices be damned. Age and Jebus are all the count. If her attitude had been more widespread back in the day, her beloved Christian holidays would never have gained traction. Imagine a 4th century Louise Perry arguing against this new-fangled Christmas holiday and instead lecturing people on the great virtues of Saturnalia.

This came to mind last Friday while I was driving north as it was Beltane. 1 May. While I'd rather have been standing around a bonfire marking the Wheel of the Year rather than sitting behind the Wheel of the Mazda, I at least had the consolation of meeting an old friend at the end of my journey. While I am unsure how Beltane celebrations today compare with those of ancient Celts, it really doesn't matter. The important thing is to enjoy all the flora you can as buds become leaves and the great outdoors simply becomes ever more verdant; to enjoy the warmer weather and prepare for planting as the last freeze date nears; and, if possible, linger near a fire. For me Beltane is the fulfillment of the promise of the vernal equinox. And a good excuse to send my friend in Milwaukee a card with a bunch of cats dancing around a bonfire.

In addition to defending Kwanzaa from Christianity, I listened to some podcasts (I'm looking at you here, Danièle Cybulskie) and thought about my divorce. My feelings on the end of my marriage were largely those of anger and I wanted to change that. But contemplating my divorce encompasses a lot more than just the process of ending marital bonds or doing the same old forensics on the decline of my marriage. Now questions like "How shall I prepare to grow old now that I am unmarried?" rear their heads.

I will be better prepared to tackle those types of questions at some point after my divorce is finalized.

It was late evening when I got to Osseo and I checked into my hotel first thing. It had apparently changed hands since I was last there and the new owners had done some remodeling. Some new paint, a completely reorganized lobby, and fancy new door locks with attendant card readers. The woman behind the counter showed me to my room - such service! - and demonstrated the use of the room cards as well as sensors for exterior doors that merely require the wave of a hand to unlock.

I asked her about all the changes and remarked that, despite them, the place still had that 1960's vibe, especially the ribbed concrete(?) walls. I also thought, but didn't say aloud, that it had retained the feel of a motel where guests are not allowed to have guests in their rooms, if you take my meaning.

She replied, "Yeah, it's not too different from when I spent my second wedding night here back in 1993."

Her remark seemed odd to me at first - who would honeymoon in Osseo? - but my mind was quickly gripped by the Baader-Meinhof effect which dictates that, once you are in throes of divorce, it seems like most people have been through it too or are, at least, having marital problems and seem to be heading towards separation. See! Even the hotel clerk has been divorced. No one stays together anymore.

Eventually I made it to my room where I was able to relax for a short time before my friend Jason texted to say he was on his way to Burly-N-Bucks. Sadly the Northwoods Brewpub, our usual meeting spot, was no more. While I grant you that their beer quality was inconsistent, I still have great affection for their Rowdy Rye, a mighty fine rye ale.

I arrived to find my friend conspicuously absent so I ordered a beer and waited. It wasn't long before he stepped in the door and the bartender greeted him by name. Apparently the kid played baseball and Jason was his coach at one time. My hug did not adequately express how good it was to finally see my old friend. Heading north to visit him followed by some hiking had been an annual vacation for me for a few years but I failed to make the trip last year. My life was occupied with a failing marriage, being served divorce papers, moving into an apartment, depression, and a desire to keep a day or two of vacation time in reserve for potential court appearances. It's not that any single one of these things kept me from making the trip but rather, in concert, they threw me into a mode of "I'll sneak the trip later in the year." and I could just never seem to sneak it in.

We caught up on one another's lives. His family was well and his daughter is to marry next year. Being in our 50s, we talked about health issues. An old classmate or two came into the conversation including one whose name we couldn't recall. I just remembered that he was always dressed to the nines and was gay. Jason and I both could picture a face but his name remained on the tips of our tongues. We also tossed around ideas for an off-anniversary class reunion. It was a mixed bag of topics. Oh, and baseball. Baseball is life for Jason.

About an hour in it occurred to me that one reason I enjoy his company so much is that he is genuine and doesn't hide behind a facade of irony and sarcasm. Not that he isn't ironic and sarcastic at times but he hasn't adopted these attitudes as a lifestyle unto themselves. In addition he hasn't become a grumpy old man. Not yet, anyway. He isn't angry and cynical like some of the people I know in my age cohort (I am thinking of my wife here, especially.); instead he is good-natured and gladsome. It must be all the clean country livin'.

Having him return to my life after an absence of decades has been wonderful.

At some point a hard day of coaching baseball caught up to Jason and getting up at 4, working, and then driving caught up with me. Before we parted he gave me some fine reading material.

For my part, I made sure he went home with the bag of treats from Fortune Favors that I had brought. I am responsible for his addiction to their candied pecans and I am unrepentant.

I slept well and was up at my usual time which was before I could get a good cup of coffee in town. The brown water from the coffeemaker in my room managed to stave off my cravings just long enough while I did some writing before I showered. A bit after 7 I was off. First stop: The Nickel Barn.

The Nickel Barn wasn't far away from the motel and I could taste the coffee goodness as I made the short drive just to the other side of the interstate. Stepping out of my car I was greeted by an orange cat.

Seeing him or her approach put a big smile on my face. What a great way to begin my day - with pets. I wandered inside where I got a large coffee and a couple souvenirs. Their shelves were a bit on the bare side but I suppose this wasn't surprising considering that it was not yet tourist season. Come Memorial Day weekend, they'll no doubt be fully stocked with bourbon barrel aged maple syrup, chocolates with animal scat names, et al for the visiting hordes from Chicago.

I wandered through the antiques outside the barn for probably the first time.

While there I was joined once more by the curious orange cat who was out to get more pets.

Alas, the time came for me to hit the road and bid a fond farewell to the feline.

I decided that I'd catch Highway 53 just west of Osseo and take it all the way up to New Auburn. Before becoming an expressway through Eau Claire, 53 is a lovely drive through the country at 55, though I prefer to driver more slowly and take in the scenery. For some reason I especially enjoy the stretch from Foster to Brackett as it engenders feelings of nostalgia within me despite the fact that I have no particular memories of that stretch of highway from when I lived in the area. There's just something about it that brings my high school days back with some force.

It is certainly pretty. On one side there are gorgeous rolling hills while trees hug the other. People's homes are tucked into clearings in the woods and an occasional abandoned farm house zips by in a blur as you drive along. This section encapsulates the variety of inhabitants and highlights the beauty of the area as well. Perhaps part of the reason it resonates with me so is because it's close to where I lived yet I don't really have any memories of it. And so it hasn't changed in my mind and thusly gives no hint of all the years that have passed. When I drive down Highway 93 I notice the changes that have occurred over the past 35+ years. But 53 seems almost frozen in time and in my mind it looks essentially like it did in 1988.

I drove through the Eau Claire area and ere long I was truly up north.

Alyssa blends a mean brew

A couple weeks or so ago I was in Appleton and there I made a visit to ACOCA Coffee. While more on the Appleton trip is forthcoming, know that I brought a bag of Alyssa's Blend home.

I cannot recall what varieties are blended here but am leaning towards Southeast Asian with beans from Sumatra, Papua New Guinea, and the like.

And how is it?

Look at my little Mandelbrot swirl!

Very tasty. A little nutty and very roasty. Bitterness is held in check so it has a mellow, almost creamy, thing going on. A fine bean. Cheers, Melissa!

Semi-verdant

It was to be a fairly cool day so I decided to take a walk around Morton Forest this morning. I left the house around 5:30 but it took me a bit less than an hour to get there. The sun had breached the horizon by the time hit the trail but had just risen above the first ridge as I ascended.

Some trees had leaves while others merely had buds. It was semi-verdant, I guess you could say.

The forest was alive with the songs of birds but they largely remained high up in the tree canopies. I could hear the work of woodpeckers everywhere I wandered. While I saw a few as they gracefully swooped through the air, I had no chance of getting them photographed. A robin, however, didn't flee too far in terror.

I followed the "conceptual trail" off of the Brunner(?) field having forgotten that you go down one ridge and ascend the one that the field sits atop of. By the time I got back to my car, my legs and butt were quite sore. I've got to get my hiking legs ready for a trek up north.

Regardless of the aches, it was a great walk and look forward to returning when the trees are in full bloom.