My super awesome friend from Massachusetts flew across the Big Ol’ U.S. of A. to visit me.  He helped me title this blog, he helped me make music, he is a consistent support.  So, when he decided he was going to visit I anticipated it would be the perfect opportunity to share with him my sentimental beer of choice, Boulevard Wheat.  I always wanted to when we were neighbors but I could never find it on the East Coast.

Sharing this beer is a big deal to me, mostly because I make it one, but also because of the emotional and logistical memories the beer conjures.   I will call it a coming of drinking age beer for me.  And in a sense, to know it is to know and become a part of my beer drinking journey.   I’m not going to drink it with you and not tell you why it’s important, and I’m not going to forget the experience of sharing it with you.

I started drinking Boulevard Wheat during college at The University of Kansas in Lawrence, KS.  Having moved from another state, it helped me connect with my new friends and surroundings.  The beer is made in Kansas City, so drinking it made me feel like a local, and proudly so.  This pride expanded through my peers as well and helped establish the beer’s popularity as a college beer at KU.  Also it is palatable and more complex than PBR, so drinking it made me feel sophisticated.

Now that I have tried a variety of actually complex artisanal beers, I still enjoy Boulevard Wheat, but it is because drinking it reminds me of people and moments along my life’s journey.  It’s not just Kansas that Boulevard Wheat connotes.  I’ve shared it in Arkansas too.  And since I can now find it in Washington State I wanted to share it with my friend when he came.  I felt it would include him in my story with the beer, so that when I drank it I could be reminded of him and honor him too.

The problem with all the weight I put on sharing the beer showed itself as an inability to do so when the time for doing so actually came.  My friend stayed a week, which meant I wasn’t going to be able to escape my life entirely to participate in his trip.  Instead, I incorporated him into my life.  And, as my weeks are continuing to be marked with change both emotionally and physically, he was incorporated almost as much as anything.

Except with resistance.  The resistance lasted a while and I realized after it dissipated that I’d been holding up walls because I knew his presence was temporary and I didn’t want to feel hurt when he left.  I actually didn’t want to be reminded of the people and places I’d left when I moved to Seattle either.

Fortunately because of the natural way in which we delightfully connect, the walls didn’t stay up forever.  We did end up having a great time, but by the time I opened up, we’d run out of time to share the beer in a way that would satisfy my creative needs.  Unexpectedly, we found another beer that made itself sentimentally special for us, and I now want to share it with you.

To find this beer, we took a jaunt to Snoqualmie, WA.  Arriving early for a music show, we visited the Snoqualmie Brewery where we made our own sentimental beer out of the Snoqualmie Copperhead American Pale Ale.  We enjoyed it with pizza and a few rounds of Slap Jack.  My friend said it was the best beer he tried on his trip and I must agree.  I haven’t been back to describe it on tap, but here is a semi poetic description based on my experience with the bottled Copperhead I picked up in Seattle.

Snoqualmie Copperhead American Pale Ale

Arrives with A lightly delicate bubbly head that quickly vanishes

Gives The Smell of Innocence

is Packed with flavor Hops

Is Liquid smoothness.  Does Not have an actual bubbly mouthfeel but the flavor feels bubbly on the tongue

A little bit thick but the hops kick through it.  Hops are the first distinctor of the beverage.

Very well balanced with, complimentary of, the malt.

The malt supports the hops very generously.  Is there another way to say this?

It’s an Assertive beer.  Not abusive, certainly Not Passive… but clearly present.

And depending on when your last meal was… possibly a bit surprising!

I hope you visit the brewery and enjoy this delicious beer!

Recently an X boyfriend of mine recommended I try Stone IPA. Though I doubt he meant for me to use it as an emotional pacifier, thanks to him I had it on hand when the need for one arose. In an attempt for self preservation, last night I drank two of them. I thought some distraction from my loneliness resulting from two recent break-ups might be helpful. I also needed some consolation and thought maybe the gargoyle on the label could help me out. I’d hoped it would say something reassuring to my tired heart but, like the recent men in my life, its message was disappointing.

 
As I read it, the beer’s label upped my hopes by telling me gargoyles have “powers to ward off evil spirits.” I got excited anticipating that the evil spirits mentioned might be those of children disguised as adult males. Instead I was informed that this particular gargoyle wanted to protect me from, not jerks, but chemical preservatives. Needless to say, I did not get comfort from the label, though I did enjoy drinking the beer.

 
Usually I drink for pleasure and engage in more introspective activities when I’m feeling troubled. I associate drinking with fun and friends and usually put my turbulent emotions into art making or meditation. However last night I was on the edge of calling an X and I thought drinking might help distract me and subdue my anxious desires.

 
For the record, and because I think it’s worth saying, I’m not actually opposed to calling X boyfriends. They just need to be X boyfriends who have in equal measure moved on from our shared experience and break up. X Boyfriends who I do have a fondness for and can remember sharing loving times with but again, who I have moved on from. Done sparingly, this practice can be therapeutic as it provides some re-assurance that I am lovable. It also shows me that I have and again will move on.

 
In a mix of fortune I’ve jumped time zones by three hours from the last place I lived (for 3 years). The time difference makes a ten p.m. plea for help on the West coast a one a.m. rude awakening on the East. So in the case of last night I was reliant upon my own facilities for support which include the ability to connect with someone through drinking a beer they recommended.

 
Now I can recommend this Stone IPA to you! It’s tasty and noteworthy and Even though I can’t claim it saved me directly from making any regrettable mistakes, I will say it kept potential detriment at bay long enough for my dear roommate, the true gargoyle of the evening, to come home.

 
Cheers!

This time I will start with the beer I drank, so that it doesn’t get lost in the mix, or so that you, gentile reader, don’t mistake this beer blog for my journal and give up on reading it.

My roommate and I have a new apartment.  If you already know me, you have already heard this, and if you keep reading, you will hear it again.  On my first trip over to clean it I stop into QFC (Quality Food Centers) for a six pack.  This QFC on Broadway in Capitol Hill is ginormous.  It’s so big that I previously mistook it for two separate stores.  The inside is stocked with a lot of many things including ice cream with local gelatos, kitchen paraphernalia with Bodum French presses, and an exciting beer selection full of new-to-me brews just hopping for me to try.

To accompany my cleaning I choose Panorama Wheat Beer by Two Beers Brewing Co. in cans.  I think it’s the first artisanal beer I’ve had in a can and I’m hoping that breaking it out in the new apartment will make up for my missing the Two Beers Fresh Hop beer release that happened…weeks ago.  I choose this beer for two other reasons.  They are, the compelling title which will direct my writing, and the fact that wheat beers usually keep my energy moving along, which is what cleaning is all about…moving things along.

During the process of cleaning, as the dust is stirred, so are my memories and emotions.  I have so much hope for this place and I already love it dearly.  I’m also surprised by it.  As I work through the space of it, I have unexpected responses which demand I pause for reflection.

Not only have I just landed a fabulous dream-come-true apartment, I’ve also just landed in a fabulous city where my dream-come-true life is evolving.  And I’m in the middle of a million transitions.  The ideas, to-dos, and memories of my life flash evasively about my psyche, revealing images that provoke desire, anxiety, longing… Sometimes these pieces propel me, sometimes I get stuck.  Either way, sitting allows me to observe them, and writing helps me organize them and move forward.  So, in the middle of this cleaning session, swelling with emotion, I sit down and write about what is happening with me in this new place.

I don’t often free write with an intended direction, but my reason number two for choosing my beer, its title, encourages one.  Having just moved to Seattle, my life’s pieces feel mentally scattered about and disconnected like an un-stitched collection of photographs.  I need to put them together in a Panorama and I’m trusting that this apartment will provide a vantage point for me to do so.

As I sit and write, here are my observations from the living room floor;

Stopping to pause and reflect.  To write, to read, to SEE the situation.  This apartment is like an overlook along the cyclical highway, forgive me, of life.  It’s the Kodak Moment from where I stand to see the world, to see my life both internally and externally.  It’s the place I will return to, my castle on the hill, my cave in the mountain.  I am my own Zen master.  My journey up this hill is complete, only to begin again.

We just got an apartment, We Just transferred some boxes.  I’m cleaning, and singing loudly because the acoustics are so fantastic.  The walls of the apartment don’t just return the music to my eardrums; they send it on a journey through the space.  As I sing, my voice pours down the hallway, expanding to fill the living room before streaming below the underbellies of uplifted window panes into the damp air that gently hugs our apartment.  I feel opened in this space.  I even believe the nine months of rain will be joyful here.

It feels good to commit to a place I care about because In order to take leaps, I need solid ground.  This means no slippery bits under my feet, a routine, and having a place where I can be at peace with myself and with my friends.  I’ve always had a room to feel safe and reflected in, now this whole apartment is my ground.  And I get to share it with someone who I’m happy to see every day.   I support this space and I love it.  I love it by marveling over its details.  I love it by cleaning it and letting energy flow through it.  I admire the white textured walls, the smooth ceiling, and the wooden honey wheat floors that encourage movement and support stillness throughout the space.   So much can be accomplished here.  I trust these floors.

As for preparing it, it’s bigger than I realized.  I have too many other desires and responsibilities outside of the apartment to be a manic cleaner of necessary caliber so I’m taking it room by room.  I’m saving the bedroom for last because it perplexes me.  It’s like a giant question mark in the back of the apartment and I can’t ignore it.  But I also don’t know how to approach it.

What draws me into that room truly lies beyond it so that after entering I’m either stuck at the window looking out upon a delightful overgrown hill of possibility, or spinning around trying to imagine what the room itself might turn into.  Its square shaped, and I pretty much don’t know how to move through a square.

One clue for cleaning it lies piled up by the door.  In the bedroom, my roommate and I were gifted a token hill of dust.  I’m not sure if it is an intentional gift, but it feels like one as I carefully carry it over to the white plastic trash bag hunched on the floor, waiting offensively to swallow it up and destroy its mystique.  I feel like the pile is a gift because it was left by the dear former tenant who gave the apartment over to us.  She has a since of the significance of things, and to me the pile clearly signifies out with the old.  As I carry it over, I realize I’m not ready to say goodbye to the old.

So I stop writing.  I stop cleaning.  I leave the apartment to do other things.  I do lots of other things.  I write this literary photograph.  I add it to this panoramic blog.  And I move on.

Thank you former tenant whose name I won’t reveal, who allowed us this glorious apartment.  Thank you Two Beers Brewery for naming your yummy wheat ale, Panorama, allowing me to connect my true life with my true blog.  Thank you, reader, for the opportunity to write for an audience and be read by one.

I hope you enjoyed this rather introspective entry.

And please, do tell.

How do you choose your beers?

What thoughts about your life are evoked by the beer you drink?

Where are you in your life right now?

What does your Panorama look like?

Dear Snoqualmie Falls Harvest Moon Ale~abandoned in my ex-Lover’s Refrigerator Door,

I am so sorry.  I drank the first bottle of you with ardour.  I don’t exactly remember your flavor or mouthfeel as I consumed you amidst conversation and movement, but I distinctly remember being delightedly satisfied.  There was no disappointment.  My hopes and expectations were exceeded as you proved to be a beer worthy of toasting the moon.  Now that the harvest moon has passed, so has its seasonal gift.  And I am left only with the memory of you to refer to, alongside the knowledge that part of you still lives in that house.  I would love to try you again but I must sacrifice you instead, in order to make my escape.

Dear Hunters Moon,

Was it you who caused this heartfelt breakup?  Was it you who shot the arrow?  Was it you who popped my balloon?

Or was it you, Dear Moons of Plenty?

Were all of you involved?  Were all of you aligning to save me with your beaming light that brings present-moment awareness?  Were all of you ensuring that the sun’s love would continue to reach me?

If so, thank you for keeping me safe.  Thank you for keeping my loved ones safe.  They are continually supporting me and reassuring my heart.

Oh Dear Bottle of Beer,

I really would have loved to drink you.  I took a risk by leaving you at someone’s house where, for how long I was unsure I’d be welcome.  Thank you for signifying my hope of return.  Thank you for representing me in someone else’s space both as a possession and as a gift.  Thank you for being a token of my love that I am sorry to have lost.  I will not know your fate but I can wish for you to be noticed in a meaningful way.  And if that can’t come true, I at least hope you will be enjoyed joyfully by a neutral guest.

Please do not pass on any ill karma.  The intention set for you was love.  I do not want this nasty turn to taint you, as I do not want it to taint my heart.

Lastly may I say, thank you Harvest Moon Ale for playing this role in my life.  I will not forget you.

In Full Sincerity,

Moi.

P.S. Cheers to next year’s harvest treat and to whatever next will come!

In my opening quest for all things beer, last Wednesday night I attended a lecture on prohibition at the Naked City Brewery in Greenwood, Seattle.  The lecture was sponsored by Humanities Washington and given jointly by Charles Finkel, Founder of The Pike Brewing Co. in Seattle, and William Rorabaugh, author of The Alcoholic Republic and professor at The University of Washington.

These men shared a lot of information and I did a lot of fidgeting.  I realized I was more interested in meeting people than collecting facts as I looked around at my neighbors, anticipating the personal connections that I hoped would follow.

Before trapping myself in the front row, I spotted a parent of one of my students, hey hey, and was disappointed when I found he’d left before the thing was over.  The only other obvious people to approach were the speakers, so I bombarded them like the press as soon as they dismounted the stage.  Charles Finkel gave me his business card and we discussed our artistic inclinations.  The other guy said hi, and then I bolted out to catch my bus, feeling a little unsatisfied and unsure about the immediate value of the adventure.

Once seated on the bus, I gave up on socializing and comforted myself with headphones.  I considered the need for my auditory sense as I didn’t know the when or the where of my first stop but I chose to comfort myself anyways and to rely on intuition.  I was fine without my hearing until I got off the bus in downtown Seattle where I needed to make a transfer.  It was dark, I was tired, I just wanted to be home, and as I ran across Denny to the #8 bus stop, with my headphones still on, I failed to hear my 9 quarters of bus fare hit the pavement.  This could have been my undoing had someone not intervened.

Initially I tried to ignore the homeless man flailing his arms at me.  I had neither the energy to wave my man deflecting stick nor the compassion to politely say no to charity requests.  So I proactively turned away, expecting him to leave me alone, but he didn’t.  Instead he ran right up to me, holding a bunch of coins in his hand.

“Sweetie, you dropped this.  I’m just trying to see if you need it.”

I felt like I was being woken from a dream.  I was annoyed with him and the night and my response reflected it.  “I’m just trying to make this night worth having,” I retorted.

He noted the impairing quality of my headphones and again asked me if I needed the money.  Tit for tat.  I knew the headphones were a problem.  This guy knew I was being a jerk and slowly I was figuring it out too.  Even though he clearly needed the money more than I did for the long run he collected it off the busy street, fought my resistance, and was still trying to give it to me for the short.  And he was right; I did need it right then, to get home.

“I go by Shadow,” he told me, and then he pointed out his home to me, on the corner across the street.  We negotiated the problem.  I was grateful by this time, feeling more awake, a little guilty, and way less selfish.  I decided the best thing to do was to take the quarters, give him the cash that was also trying to escape my pocket, and say thank you to the compassionate man who unexpectedly saved my evening.  Shadow got me home.  He gave me the human connection I was seeking.  And, he helped me reaffirm my purpose in writing this blog.

Even though I didn’t drink any beer (I ordered wine by mistake) or learn anything about prohibition, I gained a better sense of this city and the wonderful people in it.  I’m so excited to continue this journey and hope you will come along!

P.S.  The wine I drank, which I thought would be beer since it was on tap, was Proletariat white wine made in Walla Wall Washington.  It was delicious and you should drink it too.  And then you should tell me what you think!

Are you ever so late that you feel like you need to give up on what should have happened in the past, in order to catch up with what is going on in the present?

Right Now I feel like the blog bus left and I’m here waiting for the next one, holding an expired ticket. I would like to post what I so brilliantly started in notebooks, and perhaps that will happen, but for now I really just need to thread the needle, so to speak, in order to start sewing this blog. Which IS, by the way, about BEER and A Lot of OTHER THINGS.

With that said, Thank you for reading and being an integral part of this beer blogging journey. And Cheers! Because Now, We can begin!

P.S. I’m drinking Gale Force IPA made by Scuttlebutt brewing Co. in Everett, Washington, U.S.A.

Have you tried it? Tell me what you think!