Showing posts tagged rye
    RYE APOCOLYPSE Laughing Dog Rocket Dog Rye IPA Cascade RyePA Torrents of bleeding mascara blacken the inner thighs of the city’s roadways as Halloween denizens and skanks roam the cloudbursted avenues in search of darker, drier air. Whether you’ve been a sexy pumpkin or a pervy French mime, there’s a “place” you can go to dry off. The Land of Rye.  All things hoppy in yer brain can be shed momentarily. We’ll return there momentarily.  The tannic grindstone of flavor you’ll soon be sampling (true) is the grain of rye. Straight outta Iowa or Nebraska like a beery field of dreams. We are so often negligent with the ugly cousin of malt and barley. This cousin is much older and always brings a dusty, earthen cough to the party. Just give it another cool glass of V8 to cover that hack. That’s Cascade’s approach. Or perhaps a funky aromatic nose-bath of hops? Codify the rods of rye into mere stirring sticks and whisk the leftover IPA you’ve gathered in yer cooler. Or wash yer lonely spritzer bottle into the dry hopping bag and wait for the magic. Chuckles the Pooch and his brew crew choose this. There’s nothing robust about Rye’s but the arid feeling in yer maw after the Cascade might leave the unaccustomed bewildered. In the interests of time and quantity guzzle every last drop of LD’s liquid perfection

    RYE APOCOLYPSE

    Laughing Dog Rocket Dog Rye IPA

    Cascade RyePA

    Torrents of bleeding mascara blacken the inner thighs of the city’s roadways as Halloween denizens and skanks roam the cloudbursted avenues in search of darker, drier air. Whether you’ve been a sexy pumpkin or a pervy French mime, there’s a “place” you can go to dry off. The Land of Rye. 

    All things hoppy in yer brain can be shed momentarily. We’ll return there momentarily.  The tannic grindstone of flavor you’ll soon be sampling (true) is the grain of rye. Straight outta Iowa or Nebraska like a beery field of dreams. We are so often negligent with the ugly cousin of malt and barley. This cousin is much older and always brings a dusty, earthen cough to the party. Just give it another cool glass of V8 to cover that hack. That’s Cascade’s approach.

    Or perhaps a funky aromatic nose-bath of hops? Codify the rods of rye into mere stirring sticks and whisk the leftover IPA you’ve gathered in yer cooler. Or wash yer lonely spritzer bottle into the dry hopping bag and wait for the magic. Chuckles the Pooch and his brew crew choose this.

    There’s nothing robust about Rye’s but the arid feeling in yer maw after the Cascade might leave the unaccustomed bewildered. In the interests of time and quantity guzzle every last drop of LD’s liquid perfection

    • 1 year ago
    Laurelwood Wry Pale Ale Deep in the heart of ancient woods, modern instrumentalists are devising songs of  grandeur and epic scale. Wielding axe-and-hammer melodies like the bards of Sherwood Forest, the band Midlake takes a set brake. They gnaw dried meat and gaze forlorn into the glowering fog of midmorning. You are stunned by their significant musical contribution to this ethereal setting but recover enough to offer them an appropriate thirst quencher—this wry ale from the woods of Laurel. Hundreds of years later, skeptics will say anecdotal evidence suggests there may or may not have actually been beer. Or musicians.  Or forests. Rather dower, no? Thankfully, future archaeologists will rescue our groggy, sobering culture by unearthing historical kegs, labeled “LAURELWOOD” in fading, rusty orange. Huzzah! A clear and tasty indication of rye, malts, heavy carbonation and fruit juice flavors. All consumptive observations perfectly consistent with the (badly) written records of early 21st century. Damn the skeptics! A final note from the future: though limited in the scale of its geographic distribution, the ale seemed to have positively engulfed all cultures it contacted with beguiling inventiveness and pleasantly warm syrup feelings. That and the ability to consume many Wry Pale Ale’s in one sitting. -Pedro Wooly

    Laurelwood Wry Pale Ale

    Deep in the heart of ancient woods, modern instrumentalists are devising songs of  grandeur and epic scale. Wielding axe-and-hammer melodies like the bards of Sherwood Forest, the band Midlake takes a set brake. They gnaw dried meat and gaze forlorn into the glowering fog of midmorning. You are stunned by their significant musical contribution to this ethereal setting but recover enough to offer them an appropriate thirst quencher—this wry ale from the woods of Laurel.

    Hundreds of years later, skeptics will say anecdotal evidence suggests there may or may not have actually been beer. Or musicians.  Or forests. Rather dower, no?

    Thankfully, future archaeologists will rescue our groggy, sobering culture by unearthing historical kegs, labeled “LAURELWOOD” in fading, rusty orange. Huzzah! A clear and tasty indication of rye, malts, heavy carbonation and fruit juice flavors. All consumptive observations perfectly consistent with the (badly) written records of early 21st century.

    Damn the skeptics!

    A final note from the future: though limited in the scale of its geographic distribution, the ale seemed to have positively engulfed all cultures it contacted with beguiling inventiveness and pleasantly warm syrup feelings. That and the ability to consume many Wry Pale Ale’s in one sitting.

    -Pedro Wooly

    • 2 years ago
    • 1
    Port Townsend RyPa Any gift is freighted with extra significance when hauled across great distances. When the present is comprised of fermented barley, well, you know you’re in for a real treat. You’re already giddy with anticipation, like a pathetic child on Christmas morning. And when the thing is a growler full of the stuff, you’re probably doing a hell of a lot more than just kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe. You’ve discovered his other big red cherry, and you’re just a little bit too proud of it. You’re a real sick bastard, but that’s neither here nor there. We have more important items to discuss. This beer has traveled many miles, traversed a body of water, evaded the authorities, all just to arrive to your mouth. You ponder this fact before the first sip, but only briefly. You need this. The nostril-fill is sweet and enveloping. This is nice, you say. The tiny hairs in your nasal passage quiver in excitement as the scent wafts up into your skull. You drink. The flavor glides right over your tongue, skipping it entirely, leaving those taste buds wondering what the hell just happened to them.  The flavorful thrust of this beer heads barreling straight toward the back of your throat, smashing into it with an explosion of biting hops. Then, as time itself seems to retard, the liquid very slowly glides down your gullet, as the top of your mouth still tingles. It’s receiving special treatment here, and it’s smug, as it should be. As the liquid hangs — lost somewhere between your mouth and your stomach — you get a little worried, and you ask yourself whether Nicolas Cage will track down this treasure for you. You then realize what a goddamn stupid question that was. Fortunately, before you have time to self-flagellate in atonement, you feel a satisfying splash in your gut. This beer is now in the very capable hands of the dehydrogenase. Rest easy. Less tart than cough syrup, more salubrious than motor oil, this beer is for those who dislike speedy ingestion. All good beers come to those who wait. —Yrethra Franklin

    Port Townsend RyPa

    Any gift is freighted with extra significance when hauled across great distances. When the present is comprised of fermented barley, well, you know you’re in for a real treat. You’re already giddy with anticipation, like a pathetic child on Christmas morning. And when the thing is a growler full of the stuff, you’re probably doing a hell of a lot more than just kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe. You’ve discovered his other big red cherry, and you’re just a little bit too proud of it. You’re a real sick bastard, but that’s neither here nor there. We have more important items to discuss.


    This beer has traveled many miles, traversed a body of water, evaded the authorities, all just to arrive to your mouth. You ponder this fact before the first sip, but only briefly. You need this.


    The nostril-fill is sweet and enveloping. This is nice, you say. The tiny hairs in your nasal passage quiver in excitement as the scent wafts up into your skull. You drink. The flavor glides right over your tongue, skipping it entirely, leaving those taste buds wondering what the hell just happened to them.  The flavorful thrust of this beer heads barreling straight toward the back of your throat, smashing into it with an explosion of biting hops. Then, as time itself seems to retard, the liquid very slowly glides down your gullet, as the top of your mouth still tingles. It’s receiving special treatment here, and it’s smug, as it should be.


    As the liquid hangs — lost somewhere between your mouth and your stomach — you get a little worried, and you ask yourself whether Nicolas Cage will track down this treasure for you. You then realize what a goddamn stupid question that was. Fortunately, before you have time to self-flagellate in atonement, you feel a satisfying splash in your gut. This beer is now in the very capable hands of the dehydrogenase. Rest easy.


    Less tart than cough syrup, more salubrious than motor oil, this beer is for those who dislike speedy ingestion. All good beers come to those who wait.


    —Yrethra Franklin

    • 2 years ago