tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25313482494712198062024-02-07T17:40:53.335-08:00Ready, Set, meh."Civilization will go on, whether you attend the block party or not."Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-50033772631853452112012-02-25T17:03:00.000-08:002012-02-25T17:03:38.326-08:00Fritalian Chicken If you know anything about my gustatory habits, you probably know that, while I tend to stick to what I know when ordering food at a restaurant (and have been, on occasion, called "picky"), when I actually make a meal... I like to experiment. When I'm eating, a ham sandwich is great; when I'm cooking, a ham sandwich is boring. When, eventually, I end up running my Viking pub, I don't want to just make traditional Scandinavian food, or traditional pub food. I want to make food with Viking spirit. Inventive, powerful, daring food; inspired, not only by my heritage, but by combinations of styles from everywhere the Norse people went (which is a far greater variety of locales than you probably realize). And it was, in this spirit, that I decided that I would attempt to combine food from two very different places, and do something I had never attempted in any way.<br />
<br />
I'd never breaded anything, nor had I ever fried chicken. Breading should be easy: roll something wet in bread crumbs, and the bread crumbs will stick, right? My only lesson in frying chicken was from Minnie Jackson in The Help... Minnie don't burn chicken. In my experience jumping all the way into uncertain waters, it either goes exceptionally well, or exceptionally poorly, and rarely falls on any sort of middle ground... I expected this would be no different, and my girlfriend and her family were very nice to allow me to use them as my guinea pigs.<br />
<br />
<b>What I did:</b> <br />
To start, I bought a whole chicken to butcher. Another thing I'd never tried.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhba3VYj8k0aEKawUf1ccB9X7IHV9CjuGr740fyHqFAOdAsdVOos5V6TagyBxoREG_6zXJMLyJkmUvuFTojy00CEPxUbhocnBUT1zH5cFkKBTvhrsAA4cQGywnXMsY4r1Sf1eOHIFjMaFUR/s1600/05.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhba3VYj8k0aEKawUf1ccB9X7IHV9CjuGr740fyHqFAOdAsdVOos5V6TagyBxoREG_6zXJMLyJkmUvuFTojy00CEPxUbhocnBUT1zH5cFkKBTvhrsAA4cQGywnXMsY4r1Sf1eOHIFjMaFUR/s400/05.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He has no idea what he's in for.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Next, I took fresh rosemary, sage, and oregano leaves (16 oz. each), half a bulb of fresh garlic, and two jars of Best Foods (because, as far as I'm concerned, there aren't any other companies making mayonnaise) Olive Oil mayonnaise, and mixed them in a bowl.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDPAgmduSYInVbSK9p2gqjDlB7ji05WVpMncWzYJRzMHs1x14kCRUCSBZ-E8R_WODhB1xy_Ly-XQjCXWos9O1Xrcd_Em2QavbPHllgU5auKGIVBndMKZVw5qtd0ntV6PDLESNk8kHCnyAW/s1600/03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDPAgmduSYInVbSK9p2gqjDlB7ji05WVpMncWzYJRzMHs1x14kCRUCSBZ-E8R_WODhB1xy_Ly-XQjCXWos9O1Xrcd_Em2QavbPHllgU5auKGIVBndMKZVw5qtd0ntV6PDLESNk8kHCnyAW/s400/03.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
and added a whole bulb of garlic which I'd been roasting in olive oil<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwtzagPvNrwi2v_OEc5wqD79mMJysI6hTZV2UpXACZgmT8l7bpKy4DJmj-J1ZplU2wCc1KNOvHpdi17uom_LYoSOdvbQRKl5_b0Sw5uyA8FmOVRVZdYgz0EtQqVX3IgUzw9OG0y4F2zNno/s1600/02.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwtzagPvNrwi2v_OEc5wqD79mMJysI6hTZV2UpXACZgmT8l7bpKy4DJmj-J1ZplU2wCc1KNOvHpdi17uom_LYoSOdvbQRKl5_b0Sw5uyA8FmOVRVZdYgz0EtQqVX3IgUzw9OG0y4F2zNno/s320/02.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">in case you didn't know what roasting garlic looked like.</td></tr>
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because just one kind of garlic is not enough. Just one bulb of garlic is not enough. (side note... the mayonnaise spread that came out of this experiment is delicious, but I will not be putting it on a sandwich to eat before going to a job interview)<br />
With all the garlic added to the mix, it was time for my girlfriend's adorable immersion blender to join the party.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjsuBd1cckJKCl4lQK6qBFAbmnfYbDajO1jFL_tHV0wKmax3ULtP7opmpkP0OpOjFVJTwx0BTu6kn7sz0UIpvJroX0UB_RKCP4xuGJs0yP_oyoWzd9Hrj4CI1sugbvfVPtmczckBNAmMa/s1600/04.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjsuBd1cckJKCl4lQK6qBFAbmnfYbDajO1jFL_tHV0wKmax3ULtP7opmpkP0OpOjFVJTwx0BTu6kn7sz0UIpvJroX0UB_RKCP4xuGJs0yP_oyoWzd9Hrj4CI1sugbvfVPtmczckBNAmMa/s320/04.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, am I not just super cute right now?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>With the marinade blended, and the whole house smelling like Little Italy (minus the sweat), I put most of it back into the mayonnaise jars (seriously, if you're in the area and want to come over for one of the most delicious sandwiches ever, feel free), and the rest went into a large ziplock bag with the massacred chicken carcass (turns out I'm not a great butcher yet) to sit in the fridge over night.<br />
<br />
The next day, my girlfriend (who is the one I go to with questions like, "We should probably put some vegetables on the plate right?" and, "What kind of food, that never moved of it's own volition, do people eat?") and I went to the store to figure out our side dish. What we settled on was red potatoes, broccoli, zucchini, yellow squash, and asparagus spears. This mixture (cut into slices or chunks) was cooked in a pan with crushed tomatoes and their juices, as well as various seasonings, I think (can you tell I paid slightly less attention to the vegetables than to the meat?).<br />
The chicken was wiped nearly clean of the mayonnaise/spread/marinade, and breaded in Panko Parmesan breadcrumbs, mixed with shredded parmesan cheese because, seriously, there can never be enough parmesan. The wings, drumettes, drumsticks, and thighs were placed in a pan of hot vegetable oil, and fried on medium high heat for ten minutes skin-side down, then flipped and fried for twenty more minutes over medium low heat, while the breasts were baked in a pan at 450ish degrees for 30 minutes, skin-side down, then flipped and baked for another 25 minutes at 500 degrees (meanwhile, the fried pieces were being kept at about 110 degrees in the toaster oven because I hadn't quite thought through the timing). Finally, with everyone on the brink of starvation (partially because it was about 8pm, and partially because the house just smelled so damn good), the food was all ready, and was served with a creamy alfredo/four-cheese alfredo mixture, to which I had added melted goat cheese, more parmesan, and a couple spoonfulls of the Italian seasoning mayonnaise from the fridge. The end result was this beautiful disaster:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZ9Rq_WHH7SSCCXXhPUD_ze77DjWoUgJjRi9c2c5bopmeQ1yoAgtXA2uxgPAXJa3lf5TimjZuha0dxsvFovEBl_gmgxZ6ziIXuy92kZCs1CFISlidkgyNHwLSzJa34bVn0g-Upzn6gPcf/s1600/06.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBZ9Rq_WHH7SSCCXXhPUD_ze77DjWoUgJjRi9c2c5bopmeQ1yoAgtXA2uxgPAXJa3lf5TimjZuha0dxsvFovEBl_gmgxZ6ziIXuy92kZCs1CFISlidkgyNHwLSzJa34bVn0g-Upzn6gPcf/s320/06.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Served with some $11 red wine, because we classy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In the end, the taste was great. The chicken was well cooked, and ridiculously soft and (there needs to be a better word to use here than) moist on the inside, while crispy on the outside. The vegetables were slightly soft, but still had some crunch, and very good flavor. Yes, I actually ate the vegetables... mostly. And the wine was as good as ever (Apothic Red: probably my favorite relatively cheap wine).<br />
<br />
<b>What I will do differently next time:</b><br />
To save myself a fair amount of time and energy, at the expense of a dollar or so, I will buy a pre-butchered chicken. Then I will double the amount of rosemary, sage, and oregano in the marinade, as well as adding half a bulb of fresh garlic... then I will let it marinate for at least two days... perhaps up to five. I will forgo the bread crumbs on the fried chicken, in favor of a flour, buttermilk, parmesan, and Italian seasoning mixture, in hopes of avoiding the problem I had this time with all the breading falling off when I took it out of the pan. Also, instead of vegetable oil, I will use rosemary infused grapeseed oil. Oh, and I'll start baking the breasts half an hour before the rest of the chicken starts frying... and I won't put the frying pan over a high-output burner (or, if I do, I will turn the temperature down slightly) in order to avoid the breading getting burned before the meat has finished cooking.<br />
<br />
<b>In the end:</b><br />
Some (more perfected) version of this recipe will be on my menu... so if you're drooling all over the place, and would get up right now and make it for yourself if not for fear of slipping in the puddle, you are welcome to come in and try it some day.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-48871802100794504532011-09-12T20:37:00.000-07:002011-09-12T20:37:10.852-07:00Plain-oFrom what I've heard, Texas is all about two things. 1)Barbecue, 2)Not being messed with. So, being uncertain about my ability to do the second one of those things, I came to Texas with two goals in mind. One, as usual, was to find and sample local beer. The other, which has taken precedence, to eat authentic Texas Barbecue. So imagine my pleasure, upon arriving at the hotel, to see this right next to where we'll be staying.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7NpNKRX8Rqype2QcLKf98qBzYvPR_5BPvuo5E8nfS557mtnb4g3T-VRH2j59TrOUuoWKq6PJR-knSpbqK5rpEcPX5x7jkyQllDpOxdOREmvLydfomv1BJ5YlO7_5wyl3DQNT6Y6idspn/s1600/Barbecue+01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7NpNKRX8Rqype2QcLKf98qBzYvPR_5BPvuo5E8nfS557mtnb4g3T-VRH2j59TrOUuoWKq6PJR-knSpbqK5rpEcPX5x7jkyQllDpOxdOREmvLydfomv1BJ5YlO7_5wyl3DQNT6Y6idspn/s320/Barbecue+01.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two neon pigs playing guitars? How can it NOT be good?!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Here, I thought, surely here I will find real Texas Barbecue (yes, in Texas, the B is always capitalized in Barbecue. It's the law.). I will find someone from Texas who can explain to me, with the passion I've been lead to believe all Texans have for the subject, why Texas Barbecue is the best in the world... what special trick or treat they have that makes their smoked and fire cooked meat better than any other. I will be able to know, first-hand, the alleged wonder of the Lone Star State's official form of cooking. And, who knows? I might even find some delicious local beer in the process.<br />
<br />
This did not seem like an insurmountable task, and indeed still doesn't, considering that my coworker was actually born in Houston, where his father still lives. <br />
<br />
We went to Red Hot & Blue and sat at the bar. I immediately noticed a lack of Armadillo's in cowboy hats, Cactus' wearing sun-glasses, and cow skulls on the wall, and thought there was something not quite right. The jazz posters and brass instruments adorning the place made it feel more like Tennessee or Louisiana. The waiter pointed out the specials. Ribs, pulled pork, cornbread, pulled chicken... Memphis style. This is not Texas Barbecue. It's Memphis barbecue, in Texas. I wish I had taken a picture of the disappointment on my face so you could all share in it. However, being too lazy to find somewhere else to eat, we stayed. The waiter suggested a beer called "Zinger Bock", which he said was made by the same people as Shiner Bock, from Shiner Texas. I thought, if I can't get real Texas Barbecue, I should at least get real Texas beer.<br />
<br />
I also ordered some Bacon Cheese Fries.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhag8K52O0_8Jym4rmijJ57uHCO0yX-bQBh-IkSBmGG2F3OMWipJQPuKtboOzeOx_7VYymFglcc5fU26E2LlvecqkKAo2TNfmboputtvvcNIgnV45Vb3wBaujuXcGJ3QlSSvp6euEQJAt/s1600/Barbecue+02.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhag8K52O0_8Jym4rmijJ57uHCO0yX-bQBh-IkSBmGG2F3OMWipJQPuKtboOzeOx_7VYymFglcc5fU26E2LlvecqkKAo2TNfmboputtvvcNIgnV45Vb3wBaujuXcGJ3QlSSvp6euEQJAt/s320/Barbecue+02.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I even intentionally ate one or two of those chives.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The beer was a basic brown ale. Nothing particularly notable about it, other than it's blandness... which would have been a big problem if not for the fact that my meal was kind of bland too. Also, a search of the Spoetzl website has not yielded anything called Zinger Bock... so I'm not sure what I was drinking exactly.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA71Yy2kBsUyPX0kXZ8KCB1O4Oa0RTAyGvydCt5VJFXOhCHJNzT_tjSuyeVydpojaAzCjVhk8g45HBgxBs0xakbTtKIMk0-lHwDodD-q1sFV9k8PcwL85yeT1be-T78HYYoquauXSkh8_4/s1600/Barbecue+03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA71Yy2kBsUyPX0kXZ8KCB1O4Oa0RTAyGvydCt5VJFXOhCHJNzT_tjSuyeVydpojaAzCjVhk8g45HBgxBs0xakbTtKIMk0-lHwDodD-q1sFV9k8PcwL85yeT1be-T78HYYoquauXSkh8_4/s320/Barbecue+03.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chopped beef brisket with mojo mild sauce, Grandma's potato salad, and cole slaw.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I find that there is an idea, among unskilled meat-smiths, that barbecue is all about the sauce. The theory behind it being that low quality meat can be compensated for by a generous helping of sauce. I, on the other hand, believe that meat is not a vessel by which the sauce is carried, but that well barbecued meat is flavorful enough that any use of sauce is purely optional. Maybe my taste-buds were over-loaded by the bacon cheddar french fries with ranch, or maybe this was purely mediocre barbecue... but if I can't tell whether I'm eating beef, pork, or chicken, there is a problem somewhere in the line. I was tempted to add some of their "Sufferin' Sweet" sauce, but was determined to actually taste the meat somewhere in my sandwich. Despite my determination, I was unsuccessful. However, since I still have Dallas, Killeen, Austin, and perhaps Houston to visit, there is still hope that I will taste the glory of Texas at some point during my time here. I pray to John Deere that I do.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-91851955458565727672011-08-04T15:53:00.000-07:002011-09-12T19:39:44.520-07:00The Continuing Saga of a Wandering Beer Hound: Flights<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The last time I was in the Denver airport, I noticed a certain restaurant I would have liked to try… however, I also noticed that I was about 100 miles away from my gate, and only had about Forty-five minutes before the plane left. Today, however, was a slightly different story. Because I was a little bit late to the airport in the morning, I was unable to check in for my scheduled flight. Forty-four minutes, apparently, is not enough time to get from the ticket counter, through a very short line at security, and onto the plane. So, instead, I had to be put on a flight that took off for Denver at just about the same time my co-workers would be landing in Arizona… which is to say, with no transportation at my disposal, and no way to check in for a mid-day flight so early in the morning, I got to find a secluded area of the baggage claim, and lay down with my head on my duffle-bag to catch up on sleep I had lost having to wake up so early. Or at least I would have, if not for the “BING! Security is everyone’s responsibility. Please make sure that all luggage and personal items are kept in view at all times, or they will be confiscated by TSA.” alert going off every five minutes. So, I got to lay there wishing I was asleep for the next three hours until I could check in… then I got to sit around for another two hours before my first flight showed up.</div><br />
Due to the fact that Page Arizona is not exactly an international city, I’ll be taking one of the two little “bring your own ear plugs” style flights from here… and have to wait four hours between landing and taking off from Denver. This, as you might have guessed, allowed me more than ample time to go to Denver Chophouse Brewery.<br />
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</div><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6QWFHhyphenhyphen1YdJCXl_I8JeyFOhwkXD5rqVmTLDt9J6xdKWgMRK2oBqSl6Etk9eGXMIDxZ4ZzTFAPAGP4NfGq1uibp9WnX4ZteXTIQkrx50Jg7FMK7UkxkIqXAioVeHVLjqSxl2WXNwOZADBF/s320/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+03.JPG" width="320" /><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was a really nice place, for being in an airport food court. It was small, but had the feel of an upscale steak house, only with reasonable prices (I’m still angry at you, Ruth’s Chris). The selection of beers was not substantial… but what do you really expect from a brewery inside of an airport? The four beers they offered (aside from mass produced swill) were as follows:</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5SGHSCxpkwha7c4k6hM86Haqb_U98x0rXyjiCyStB2wcx8f4QpUQ2eQ6koYBEDA3Wbu8ULZ8vVz9v-EemQVcZIlOai23vVfAYyTZZBMCnWySN7YrWuhzxkbPNucZ5Srf58UEmWSQWWSNF/s1600/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+04.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5SGHSCxpkwha7c4k6hM86Haqb_U98x0rXyjiCyStB2wcx8f4QpUQ2eQ6koYBEDA3Wbu8ULZ8vVz9v-EemQVcZIlOai23vVfAYyTZZBMCnWySN7YrWuhzxkbPNucZ5Srf58UEmWSQWWSNF/s320/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+04.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left to right, Dortmunder Lager, Red Ale, Pale Ale, and Dark Munich Lager</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Dortmunder Lager <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLLgRxeodA9BRgm9XuxiyTDzdW5H-kNw3ptzinMQ4kKhEF0anMFOFY9AjD9kAkr_xT8h4QHMX3_kmw0Vx5b5Ut8ezGpjCydcOCUjlT66wroVMPlvq2kjRUQerUQ5WuVoDu1TB7Kz4t-Ofl/s320/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+06.JPG" width="320" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">this is a blonde lager made in the style from Dortmund Germany. Dortmund is German for Dirt Mound [citation needed]. Featuring German Pilsen, Light Munich, and Cara Helles malts, it smells like Miller High Life mixed with honey apple cider, and has sort of a breakfast cereal taste. However, the Nugget and Mt. Hood hops add a mild bitterness that evens out the over-all flavor. It was very good, as Lagers go, and would perhaps be of good use in converting a Budweiser fan to a craft beer fan.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">At this point, I noticed a couple of young women a few tables away watching as I took pictures and notes and I said hi with a dry hopped bitterness and mild hint of roasted malts. The responded with two thumbs up, and I considered going over and giving them my blog address and telling them to read all about it… but then I remembered that there was untasted beer in front of me, and I had more important things to attend to.</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Red Ale </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFuxz5ge1p2AVtBi3wEoKMG4CNnYxi2tADDJeJFEyPCHBogSmv4GsOICHWJgTVnezel3BH8eBW3FBx0VVmLlhB4ZChiIsdC4BNfQ2CTZ6yaJlzjoCFV3TMX27mEV2qiM3bPnTw-fW-TiAU/s320/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+07.JPG" width="320" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This Irish style ale, while not fantastic or complex, was smooth and had a subtle toffee sweetness. While it may not have been the best of the lot, nor the best red ale I’ve had, it was actually more enjoyable than certain Scottish and Irish red ales I tasted at the San Diego International Beer Festival.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div> Pale Ale <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuT2ldyD7ogNUjXh_Nu6WMIsAjcGK-A6_72U7wUCRgLOcEXC31DLxHr897xGDyBs9EsryC4hgc0jNuD7ueCymSbB1Iq7I3zXa5DaaQXQCO167dBHiCNRRaHZaRUR_9lq6e2ifhY6BowP4A/s320/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+08.JPG" width="320" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This had a very hoppy nose, but was not so strong as to smell bitter. The Simcoe and Amarillo hops were the main elements of the flavor, but were kept well in check by the caramel malt accent. This is not a novice beer drinker’s ale, but should be enjoyable for those with more experience.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Dark Munich Lager </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYnMwmyfH8egnJTn1Y67oKs4zBGD5O1hkkQ-vUx7q6AbgxNUz-CqPWMhsCo_ppGosMkbT4TndlalJhDEtpXabvT9KYFjorVGDs5rPuXTFbcP-uawa7KPIrpB_y-CIj_OWynK7XUcifw3Iw/s320/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+09.JPG" width="320" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Though, in the picture, it looks to be the color of the table, that’s really just because of the low lighting. Really, it was more along the lines of a medium strength Jack & Coke. It had virtually no scent, as far as I could detect, and was somewhat creamy on the tongue and to the taste, with a predominantly toasted malt flavor, and not much hops. Made in the modern Munich Dunkel style, they used European Munich, Crystal, and Chocolate malts, and a small amount of hops for flavor.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitevqxEWzeZoZXoJPPfn3p6lt1jyGo8xd98PQRDItRcVopMOKqZQRRhwViHdQYEw79d1f_nVqsud5rSFwI5UJ3TF7OBesqkoqAsER3ihvFR-ZLcfCiXkUAgMEk9qS9d5WPuSjFsgpyNIa5/s1600/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitevqxEWzeZoZXoJPPfn3p6lt1jyGo8xd98PQRDItRcVopMOKqZQRRhwViHdQYEw79d1f_nVqsud5rSFwI5UJ3TF7OBesqkoqAsER3ihvFR-ZLcfCiXkUAgMEk9qS9d5WPuSjFsgpyNIa5/s320/Denver+Layover+8-3-11+10.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>To wash it all down, I had a bison burger on a toasted brioche bun, with hickory smoked bacon and cheddar cheese. It was soft, tender, and smoky. In fact, it tasted more like beef than beef does, and is better for you. It was excellent with all four beers, but the Pale Ale most of all.<br />
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Next time I have four hours to waste in the Denver airport, I am definitely stopping by Denver Chophouse Brewery again. I think it was a much better choice than the McDonald’s and Panda Express that are across the way.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-55294536415083109412011-07-30T22:24:00.000-07:002011-09-12T19:40:15.669-07:00The Continuing Saga of a Wandering Beer Hound: The Mountain Goat Weed.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It’s very strange, being away from home, and away from San Diego, but still being so close. With all the out of state travel lately, I’ve started to think of being Californian as a novelty. When asking locals what there is to do, or where I might find good local beer, they ask where I’m from. Lately, the response has been “Oh, I’m from California.”… but this week finds me in Mount Shasta, California, and my response now has to be more specific. It’s strange to feel like a foreigner in your home state. I’m not quite accustomed to moving around so much, but it has presented me with an enjoyable opportunity. I don’t care to find the local night-life, or find and talk to the natives… but I do like tasting local beer and barbecue. Which is why I was excited when one of my co-workers (whom I had not worked with before) said he liked, “I don’t know… all kinds of beer. Blue Moon, Fat Tire, Stella, I like dark beers, strong beers, light beers… just not Budweiser, Miller, Coors, or any of that kind of crap”.</div><br />
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Our first day in Mount Shasta was long and tiring, as most of them tend to be, so we asked the employees of the store that we were working on, “Is there anywhere around here where we can get really good local beer?” “Well… there aren’t really any bars around here… It’s a pretty small town.” I told them I had heard there was a place called Mount Shasta Brewing Company, and asked if they knew anything about it. “Oh, Yeah… well that’s not right here in town. If you go about fifteen minutes North you’ll get to Mount Shasta Brewing, if you go about fifteen minutes South you’ll get to Dunsmuir Brewery Works. They’re both really good. But if you’re talking about stuff here in town, your best bet is The Billy Goat Tavern.”<br />
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The co-worker I just met (who is snoring in the next bed as I type this) had to leave early, to take care of some prescriptions or something, so Jared and I decided to go to the tavern without him. It was a nice little place, but I won’t waste too much time on it because the real beer adventure comes later. I started out with a glass of Boont Amber Ale, by Anderson Valley Brewing, in Mendocino county, and a carnitas style pulled pork sandwich with sweet spicy mustard and bacon on top. <img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkXLumiz5x6cuOmQuaGOlS4mWH-TQ4hrhhss2S95z2Ua8yZuLGhyphenhyphenvK1pfFaHYTBOeyLACL-_RPIMgGMZ01jN3R2HBC99mQ9MkHeVO_DIFH6En4N9JZRmmtdwa9ya62IT8DEvWDJuVsPQb/s320/Shasta+05.JPG" width="320" /><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The ale was decent, and had some sweetness from the malt and wheat, but the flavor and mouth feel were slightly watery to me. I moved on to Raging Rapids ale, by Feather River in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. It was a dark golden color, and clear. It tasted like sweet, delicate, flowers dipped in honey. The taste hung around in my mouth for a long time, and I was not at all upset about that. It made my sandwich taste better. The ceiling was covered with over 200 decorative taps, which are put there when they’re not in use.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuKVz6tm0p9GXdMPRBtyEmkmL1Ry15K7tFWDR74xXmmLBsqVXSVu6dq5pjEQwuQENby0UnyVTVXm7a7W7zFBRzY9G_auxO5-_lnpcYWA_NrY7YSABKPJ4k5r5hNiezqTW-4SBzyPMdkga/s320/Shasta+06.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The whole “vibe” (to steal a work from these mountain hippies) of the place was comfortable and relaxed… but it would not have suffered from the use of an Air Conditioner or a fan.</div><br />
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So, the next day, when our other co-worker rejoined us, it was settled. We would be going to Mount Shasta Brewing Company after work for a couple of drinks, and maybe some food if they had it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3YokYnqM9BCLM69s2a7BZ984zPKe1-zNVkLouzOy97y3kCQz5nLmG3pcLWJPMqbvOLzkBTmZA5FIeeFfH3jZwq6D0FaUFFVYsH6fHzSuh_1uUo5_TOZOCQYW9V1Lf8gnkTvc-Vaw9Ofo2/s320/Shasta+22.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Mount Shasta Brewing Company operates out of what had been the abandoned Medo-Bel Creamery, and doesn’t seem to have changed much about the building as far as appearance. The Brewery itself inhabits a large room adjacent to the bar, and can be seen through a set of large windows.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDDsZyoFFRDsCFAx4zfvYX2IxV-JERoUECiP8KeuAmiyTvYoi-WTfi2jj4Zy6SwmMlr22KdnmnsfOsa38WgQBP4AfD7XPQ2Tjnskc9dC9ZQo3hprWRdNycSKTEVpnAUbLblvqAZQ3pTc87/s320/Shasta+21.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I would like to come back some time when they’re brewing to get the full experience, and maybe meet the brewers.</div><br />
I was honestly a little surprised by the beer selection. Since it’s kind of a small operation, I expected they might have two or three varieties on tap, and then perhaps a sampling of other relatively local beers, since it’s not just a brewery, but an Alehouse and restaurant. However, when I looked at the eight taps behind the bar, I found that every one had a different Mount Shasta beer, and no other Brewery was represented. Faced with such a spectrum of potential delights, all made locally, I really only had one option: Try them all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfC8HLP1aP60tI52QK-H7Zeavry6hOKTeRiA-BD3KEfA6GqtsadpC3StxHDDCIWlIVxizJN5VimVh9NRJXBJYMXOyxbbdwceaDsWp6LNmbao4-abAW4s0qUxCHfJENk_ItrwIoMC-y7_ke/s320/Shasta+23.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Challenge accepted</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Tour de Weed. Clockwise, from the front: We have their Seasonal “Stout of Jefferson”, “Skip and Go Naked” specialty lager, “Lemurian” golden lager, “ Weed” golden ale, “Shastafarian” porter, “Abner Weed” amber ale, “Mountain High” IPA, and Jalapeno ale. I’m sure you can guess which one I was least excited about trying.</div><br />
Oh, and I also got a ham and swiss panini with sliced black olives, and honey dijon mustard and tortilla chips. Though I didn’t think it warranted a picture, it still deserves mention because it was delicious. I had to work at not eating it all before I finished my beer, because I wanted to not only see how good their beer is, but how well it pairs with their food.<br />
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I decided on the order in which I would taste them, lightest to darkest, leaving the jalapeno ale for last for fear of it being so spicy that it would ruin the flavor of everything else. However, for the purposes of simplicity, I will tell you about them in the order they were listed above.<br />
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Stout of Jefferson: As you can see, and should assume, because it’s a stout, this was a thick dark colored beer. Since I decided not to look at their descriptions on the menu, so my impression wouldn’t be tainted, I expected this to be like Guinness, or Murphy’s, and feel like a dark beer… I expected it to have a sort of roasted coffee bean taste… so I was surprised when it tasted kind of like a cone of soft-serve ice cream where the vanilla and chocolate are swirled together. I was impressed with how it managed to be sweet and dark without being syrupy or cloying. I think it would go well with blueberry scones, or raspberry lemon tarts. It’s sweetness, apparently, comes from the use of local apples and pears.<br />
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Skip and Go Naked specialty lager: When the bar tender (who kind of looked like if Ed McMahon had a baby with the bar tender from Boondock Saints, complete with sporadic and random facial twitches) brought my tray over and told me which was which, he simply called this “Skip and Go Naked”. When I asked him what kind of beer it was he looked at me for a moment with a surprised expression… as if no one had ever asked him about beer styles before, and he’d never thought to wonder. Then he said, “Well, I think it’s a lager. I don’t know… I don’t really like that one.” If you ever go, and he’s there, you should ask for his opinion on what to order, and then get something other than what he tells you. This was, perhaps, the best lager I’ve ever tasted. It smelled like cinnamon and honey, and had a slightly spicy taste. While it was crisp, like you’d expect a lager to be, it was by no means weak or watery, but did not err in the other direction by being too flavorful. I would enjoy this with honey-baked ham, Christmas cookies, or a cold juicy apple while laying in a hammock under a shady tree on a warm day.<br />
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Lemurian golden lager: This was the first one I tasted, and it’s a good thing too, since it would have tasted weak after the Skip and Go Naked (I’m interested to see what Google AdSense does, with me saying “Naked” so many times in this entry). I’m not sure why, but this pilsner is named for Lemuria, a theoretical continent (which never actually existed) that people used to believe had sunk into either the Indian or Pacific ocean, depending on who you talk to. It had a very warm flavor from the yeast. I would drink it before getting to the main course at a barbecue… with sweet corn on the cob, potato salad, hawaiian rolls, fruit salad, or baked beans. More than that, however, I would like to drink this while eating a ham sandwich, sitting atop Mount Shasta in spring time, looking out over this whole beautiful landscape.<br />
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Weed golden ale: Named after Weed, California, which you probably remember best from the first chapter of John Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men”, where it’s mentioned that George and Lenny had recently worked on a farm there, but had been chased off because Lenny was accused of rape. This ale was nothing like that, and really doesn’t have anything to do with that though… but it does bring to mind images of vast golden wheat fields surrounded by rolling hills which steadily grow greener as they climb up into the sky and become tree covered mountain spires and rocky snow covered peaks. It had a zesty scent, and a crisp, delicate flavor. Perhaps I should have started with this one. This would go well with a cold turkey club, or something of the like.<br />
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Shastafarian porter: Named after Ras Trent, this had a predictably coffee-like scent, and a subtle chocolate malt flavor. It would probably pair well with special brownies, Bob Marley, and/or The Dark Side of Oz.<br />
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Abner Weed amber ale: Contrary to popular opinion, the town of Weed is not named after weeds, or marijuana, or even Jeremiah Weed (the alcoholic beverages)… it is actually named after Abner Weed, once California Governor and founder of the town. This ale, which bears his name, honors him more than the actual town does, I believe. It had a sweet, hoppy scent, and a caramel flavor. It tasted a bit like an Irish red ale mixed with Newcastle brown ale. This is a good backbone drink for the brewery. It’s a good representation of its type, which they could produce in large quantities, to fund some of their more experimental beers. I would pair this with the panini I was eating, or maybe some baked beans, or a beef burrito.<br />
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Mountain High IPA: So named because the town is surrounded by mountains… and since it is in Weed, they like making drug references. It was deceptively light tasting for being 7%abv. the hoppy flavor was somewhat muted at first, but had a pleasant tangy kick afterward, and the flavor stuck around for a while, which made my sandwich even more enjoyable. I would have this with pizza, or chicken wings, or garlic bread… or all three of those things.<br />
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And finally…..<br />
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Jalapeno ale: It smelled exactly like you’d expect it to… like tabasco sauce. Yet (and if you knew either of the guys I was there with, you could ask them), I actually did try it. At first, it tasted like tomato vines smell… but that quickly gave way to something more like flamin’ hot cheeto’s with a slight hint of beer flavor. It burned my throat a bit, but was not actually entirely intolerable. I think that anyone who likes spicy food and beer would actually really like this. This was the only one I didn’t finish. I would have this with milk.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I finished my sandwich, finally, and went back to the bar for a pint of Abner Weed, which I enjoyed while briefly talking to my girlfriend before my piece of crap phone died for the second time that day, then went out to the parking lot and talked to a guy from Michigan who had ridden his bike out to Oregon, and was on his way down California to ride back across the southern part of the country before heading back up to Michigan. I told him he needed to go see some giant sequoias while he’s out here, because there’s nothing else quite like them in the world. Sadly, he said, he didn’t have the time… Hopefully, he’ll see some on his way south. It would be a shame to make that kind of a treck and not see them.</div><br />
I do hope to come back here some day, in the not too distant future, when I’m not working. A leisurely trip up though these mountains, without a schedule, would be damn near perfect.<br />
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Picture dump<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOc9ap6_3iGX9g2Af7iCWgmPGcDcThtA4IjV65fClxsuDkFwysC2mFtAaw_lrtUb8QMC8bjqFlayLoj1JIUX59QgoQj36-J5CwNOLiw_Weh249djQVZ-3cpXzjH3iWfF53M3VrCXwpRWHb/s320/Shasta+27.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMK0bRjXPTaY1Pg4NhKev4TiDLeBJ2Ai1jq-b2xzmF-opJ81LLu2jbAbodt6ie4qFvj_vFroL5W-xOdTg9FTtjnb9MWUpL_W5xEd8iPz5got8HEpLL8X-ItbuquAVqejg8BD3SpLo3jb_3/s1600/Shasta+26.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMK0bRjXPTaY1Pg4NhKev4TiDLeBJ2Ai1jq-b2xzmF-opJ81LLu2jbAbodt6ie4qFvj_vFroL5W-xOdTg9FTtjnb9MWUpL_W5xEd8iPz5got8HEpLL8X-ItbuquAVqejg8BD3SpLo3jb_3/s320/Shasta+26.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-62675665427399742192011-07-28T23:51:00.000-07:002011-09-12T19:40:56.477-07:00Tapped Out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7USDSlTc2EoW04bdfOpxdQRJ_FmBtf3WhD__ZrVdwoQX3AhZeRgtCD7kOg4ywPXNN5CiKluZlU7r8URIjvICnq7jOeVv61gbWQJqEpCUi5eBdupkkEBQ_YP9dgP0wDb4AooM-7w5Szh4/s1600/Stone+Fresh+Tap+01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7USDSlTc2EoW04bdfOpxdQRJ_FmBtf3WhD__ZrVdwoQX3AhZeRgtCD7kOg4ywPXNN5CiKluZlU7r8URIjvICnq7jOeVv61gbWQJqEpCUi5eBdupkkEBQ_YP9dgP0wDb4AooM-7w5Szh4/s320/Stone+Fresh+Tap+01.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I had the good fortune, this week, of being in town for a special event at Stone Brewery, which, given my recent work/travel schedule, was surprising. They were having something called a "Fresh Tap Night", which means they were pouring a variety of local beers (not just their own) which had been kegged that very day. In addition to this (and, perhaps, most importantly) they were offering the chance to drink a glass of their 15th Anniversary Imperial Black IPA.... which may be the longest name for a beer that I've yet encountered. The way it works is you buy a token at the bar, which you then redeem in the store before being led through the brewery to the IPA. We bought our tokens, I took the picture you see above, and we went to the store, and started the line for the first group of the night. I was in front, my beautiful girlfriend was behind me, and some woman who insisted on trying to make conversation with the backs of our heads was behind her, followed by two other men. We were led through the gleaming towering brewing equipment, and down an aisle that the tour we'd taken before had not brought us down, actually between all of the fermentors. When my liver dies and goes to Heaven, it will find itself somewhere like this. We were met by a man with a rack full of glasses who, when asked how long he'd been working there, said, "Oh, about five minutes.... oh, you mean years?".<br />
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I was the first person in line, in the first group of people to taste the first batch of this beer.... straight out of the fermentor.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitArbqKJu67xKpZ0zGZBQdaZmV3NcKhTgIkF5xUgqqGBlqNyW2IkYZAae2EN1474oWhfapUfUP8HSLgRqAO6JPYYl-4AA1_8D10GvlVNMn7A4A8bqi5h6m2lmAbefUBRPlgBKtchv46fD9/s1600/Stone+Fresh+Tap+02.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitArbqKJu67xKpZ0zGZBQdaZmV3NcKhTgIkF5xUgqqGBlqNyW2IkYZAae2EN1474oWhfapUfUP8HSLgRqAO6JPYYl-4AA1_8D10GvlVNMn7A4A8bqi5h6m2lmAbefUBRPlgBKtchv46fD9/s320/Stone+Fresh+Tap+02.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Other than the people who actually made the beer, and probably tasted it to make sure it was suitable for sale, I was in line to be the first person to taste it. However, I am a gentleman, and let the two ladies behind me get their glasses filled first.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgodi4u5B2x0Ca9r0X5NlXRLlmCNIXSyWj0LlNPVXzvqSnzPchPyzLX3u38LZYljK8uGU_SIMygySS1FE5rNsf2hop0pbDqdAub46dgSJner-uAzo7KzYAj1Y58tle4HyHuCFqyIaZUYBG0/s1600/Stone+Fresh+Tap+03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgodi4u5B2x0Ca9r0X5NlXRLlmCNIXSyWj0LlNPVXzvqSnzPchPyzLX3u38LZYljK8uGU_SIMygySS1FE5rNsf2hop0pbDqdAub46dgSJner-uAzo7KzYAj1Y58tle4HyHuCFqyIaZUYBG0/s320/Stone+Fresh+Tap+03.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Despite being called a Black IPA, it was more of a dark chocolaty brown. In fact, the color and the feel of it (since it had not even been carbonated yet) reminded me of the river of chocolate in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. I took a sniff, and then a sip, and imagined myself as Augustus Gloop, falling head first into the river... a fate I don't think I'd be bothered by. It was, almost needless to say, strong. It's Stone Brewery after all. It was intense, though not over-powering, hoppy and malty in turns.<br />
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We took our glasses out to the patio while another lucky group was led in. I wanted to savor my drink, so I sipped on it while we waited for a waiter to come around. Besides, I thought, this is much too heavy of a drink for someone to just guzzle down.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFUp3RRbRcI0MA6fhwvSXQuS40o3Apn28VVjrr6JGCvB07Rg77xEFreH06f33yUcH4N9nrLXM0oBn9CGwneO6ysfL8orasBmsVxQWgWXISP8eARo9L7uRpfYIcBXvy6n2mhJuz8jMG2ZY/s1600/Stone+Fresh+Tap+05.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFUp3RRbRcI0MA6fhwvSXQuS40o3Apn28VVjrr6JGCvB07Rg77xEFreH06f33yUcH4N9nrLXM0oBn9CGwneO6ysfL8orasBmsVxQWgWXISP8eARo9L7uRpfYIcBXvy6n2mhJuz8jMG2ZY/s320/Stone+Fresh+Tap+05.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or so I thought, Erika.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We ordered some tacos (I got barbecued duck) and chips, and spud buds. And Erika, not content with the strong beer she'd just chugged down, ordered two glasses of Cali Belgique (though she will tell you an entirely different version of the story which will include some nonsense about the waiter taking too long, and the bartender giving her an extra one or something)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2fSM5B1_2PfcVyiKudycCOPuBk6Jdd4KLg5rGCwX4EN_ix55s0dAzlYAwSgWxRi1eue_HsH23L8IS6qtZ5-5JhL6hZiLRrv11cdA9XNhDN2iJliLN9xLjXTkUDJss2k-CoqDpK_TFNT3/s1600/Stone+Fresh+Tap+06.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2fSM5B1_2PfcVyiKudycCOPuBk6Jdd4KLg5rGCwX4EN_ix55s0dAzlYAwSgWxRi1eue_HsH23L8IS6qtZ5-5JhL6hZiLRrv11cdA9XNhDN2iJliLN9xLjXTkUDJss2k-CoqDpK_TFNT3/s320/Stone+Fresh+Tap+06.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The girl in the background is whispering to her friend about Erika being an alcoholic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Food and beer were all delicious, and you should all be very jealous. The thing about Stone is this. This is the thing: Their beer is very strong, and their food is very spicy. I've heard Stone accused, a number of times, of relying too heavily on hops for character, and I believe the same could be said of their use of spice in the food. It's almost as if they designed their food so you could still taste it over their taste-bud numbing beers... or they designed their beer so that it could over-power the intense burning sensation nearly every item on their menu causes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8QZJ7crp9z6vPI6G-rQGrVPZetLBgILhRQ-QCK-3aju72BAw9odkASnWS41QZYCYVY1oaXk8xN8-bDAGmj_sk9zFbkjWE2l2HehVs3HhyG70NhqnGdGMK5uofEy2-IkcbH9Kd7XaHWjQ/s1600/Stone+Fresh+Tap+10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8QZJ7crp9z6vPI6G-rQGrVPZetLBgILhRQ-QCK-3aju72BAw9odkASnWS41QZYCYVY1oaXk8xN8-bDAGmj_sk9zFbkjWE2l2HehVs3HhyG70NhqnGdGMK5uofEy2-IkcbH9Kd7XaHWjQ/s320/Stone+Fresh+Tap+10.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictured: Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, fire chili death chips.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The moral of the story, though, is that no one should ever let Erika near their brewing equipment, because she will drink those tanks dry.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVnE2z_h0OqDPLMxjnubfuLSsN1Ar9ZZSVwzIjdrhdskk37yt0aX5wQYCILiYVfSWNVGV_5PKYHw_NM99msvT2dkrp7Uwr4a2qNVk4IF21_H7tKOdSoG4db7mZDDoQEg6VThv2AOL1P3Q/s1600/Stone+Fresh+Tap+11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVnE2z_h0OqDPLMxjnubfuLSsN1Ar9ZZSVwzIjdrhdskk37yt0aX5wQYCILiYVfSWNVGV_5PKYHw_NM99msvT2dkrp7Uwr4a2qNVk4IF21_H7tKOdSoG4db7mZDDoQEg6VThv2AOL1P3Q/s320/Stone+Fresh+Tap+11.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-56114628130041460482011-07-25T16:02:00.000-07:002011-07-25T16:02:19.001-07:00The truth revealedMany people have probably wondered, at some point, why Kirsten Dunst is such a terrible actress. Admit it. You don't understand why anyone puts her in movies, do you? You may also have wondered why she has such a weird face and voice. If you haven't, you should have... because she's absolutely terrible. However, I have the answer to those questions, so you don't have to wonder any more. The reason that Kirsten Dunst looks and sounds so bad, and is so terrible at acting.... is......<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYTad6YIVhtUmUCjjeTAAaTdxPW2VHUz7IpT-l5v4RUCZDsMT2dyBKy_OnwO514SR3qUuSKIiChUWEAQBaGYLb2RGT5sttShqlaR5UMJ5g6dWR7bsy7NdV_apAcnqxkSpF7dGNwOYBQ8I/s1600/Billy+Corgan+is.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYTad6YIVhtUmUCjjeTAAaTdxPW2VHUz7IpT-l5v4RUCZDsMT2dyBKy_OnwO514SR3qUuSKIiChUWEAQBaGYLb2RGT5sttShqlaR5UMJ5g6dWR7bsy7NdV_apAcnqxkSpF7dGNwOYBQ8I/s320/Billy+Corgan+is.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Please, spread the word.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-89967699943392298012011-07-12T00:11:00.000-07:002011-09-12T19:41:42.582-07:00Colorado Springs Eternal<dl><dd><i>Hope springs eternal in the human breast;</i></dd><dd><i>Man never Is, but always To be blest:</i></dd><dd><i>The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,</i></dd><dd><i>Rests and expatiates in a life to come. - </i>Alexander Pope</dd><dd></dd><dd></dd><dd></dd><dd>I am now in Colorado Springs, as you may have guessed by the title of this installment. While it has only been a few days, it does feel like it's been longer (though not actually eternal. That is exaggeration). I would like, very much, to be done here and get back to my girlfriend, and/or see my family, but I can't do either yet. There is still work to be done. However... instead of boring you with information about work (since I basically do the same thing every day... except that I got to do some painting today), I will devote this particular blog entry to my experience at the bar tonight.</dd><dd></dd><dd>Across the street from the hotel we are staying in here, is a grill and bar called Buffalo Wild Wings, which my roommate (we'll call him Jared, for legal reasons) said was "a pretty chill bar. They've got a decent beer selection, and basic bar food"... which is really all that I need. Raymondo decided to stay back at the hotel for the most part (he stopped by the bar for about 30 seconds, and miraculously vanished.), so it was me, Jared, and Rick (which, I imagine, is short for Ricardo) whose beer horizons I am intent on broadening. I was confident I could convert him from Bud Light and Corona until the other day when I ordered a Fat Tire with my lunch and he cringed. CRINGED! literally winced, and pulled back, as if the thought of Fat Tire was so repulsive that his body could not stand to be near the words. After that, my confidence in his likelihood to change has waned, and I am less determined, though I will still, whenever possible, show him how much I am enjoying my delicious beer for it's taste first, and it's inebriating properties second.</dd><dd></dd><dd>Today, after work, we stopped by Wal*Mart. I bought a six pack of Shock Top to bring back to the hotel. Perhaps my fan in Maryland will understand my aggravation here... and perhaps have even felt it to a stronger degree... though most others may not. I got back to the van and looked at the label, and found that this particular variety (though otherwise marked the same as any other) was only 3.2% abv. I was told at this point, since the rest of the crew has been here before, about a difference between Colorado and California. Whereas California Grocery Stores and Liquor Stores sell the same alcohol (though not always the same brands or varieties necessarily), Colorado Grocery Stores and Gas Stations cannot sell beer that is higher than around 3.5% abv. For those of you who don't know what that means, in California, an average beer will be around 5.5% abv (alcohol by volume), wine tends to hover around 14%, though both can often be found in higher percentages. This means that Colorado Grocery Store beer is less potent than cough syrup, which is often around 4-5%.</dd><dd></dd><dd>Knowing that we would be going out, I wasn't too upset about the beer. Besides, it would be a good experiment. Does changing the alcohol percentage in a beer effect the flavor of the beer in any noticeable way? They don't water it down (I'm guessing) to change the alcohol percent, so the recipe should be about the same... yet, and I can't exactly place what it was, the flavor was different. It was, somehow, less interesting, less flavorful. Fortunately, as I finished the bottle, I was on my way out.</dd><dd></dd><dd>The bar section of Buffalo Wild Wings wasn't exceptionally large (though it had an inordinate number of tv screens, all of which were showing sports of some kind), and didn't have an unusually vast beer selection, but it did have a surprising number of beers I had never heard of, let alone tasted. I ordered a plate of ribs and popcorn shrimp, and a 16 ounce glass of Agave Wheat beer. I chose 16 ounces instead of 20, because I wanted to make sure I had room for everything I wanted to try. Agave Wheat is made by Breckenridge Brewery, here in Colorado, and is an American Hefeweizen. It was cloudy all the way through, and about the color of good honey. Rick, who was drinking a bud light, said, "what is that?! Look, you can see through my beer all the way, but I can't even see through any of yours." That, Rick, is because your beer is crap, and mine is delicious.... though there's probably a more scientific reason for it. Honestly though, if I ever went to a bar that only had three beers to choose from, and those three were Widmer Hefeweizen, Franziskaner weisbier (the two great beers of which it most reminded me) and Agave Wheat... I would choose Agave Wheat all night. The only thing that kept me from revisiting it was the number of beers I'd never tried.</dd><dd></dd><dd>So, I reluctantly soldiered forth... and had an IPA from Compass. In my time as an amateur beer connoisseur (an expensive thing to be an amateur at, admittedly), I have tasted a fair number of great IPA's... but I may have found my favorite. Maybe it was the way it complimented the honey barbecue sauce on my ribs, or maybe it was the fact that it was powerful enough to distract from the burning sensation from the peppercorn and garlic on my popcorn shrimp... or maybe it was the fact that it could pair with the sweet tangy sauce, and be strong enough for the spicy shrimp... but this hoppy beer would prove a hard act to follow. It had a floral aroma, was roughly as intense as any California IPA I've had, and followed with a very distinct lemon and lime zest after-taste.</dd><dd></dd><dd>Moving down the line, and still snacking on french fries and popcorn shrimp (having sucked every bit of sauce and flesh off of the bones of the ribs), I ordered a Barrel 5 Pale Ale. Not as strong as an IPA (since IPA's originally had to be strong and bitter to last through the voyage from India to England), this was, certainly out of order. Had it gone between the hef and the IPA, I'm sure this would have been more than acceptable... but following the IPA left the flavor of the Pale Ale wanting desperately.</dd><dd></dd><dd>At Jared's suggestion, I tried the 1554 Black Ale from New Belgium, another Colorado company. This, at the risk of sounding like an alcoholic, is definitely a beer I would suggest you drink with breakfast. Or, breakfast-for-dinner. It was like Fat Tire, Guinness, and a little bit of coffee got mixed together. Very smooth, not thick or syrupy and it kept it's head.</dd><dd></dd><dd>Intrigued by the tap design (it had a picture of a dog on it), my next order was a glass of Laughing Lab. This Dark Scottish Ale is not only local in that it's brewed in Colorado, but it's local in that it's brewed by Bristol Brewing, here in Colorado Springs. It was not exceptional, but was an extremely fair representation of Scottish Ale. It is dark red in color, both bitter and sweet... but it lost it's head faster than any subject of the Queen of Hearts. At this point, I thought I'd order a glass of water, since I have work in the morning, and it is (apparently) a good idea to be hang-over free while doing construction.</dd><dd></dd><dd>At this point, a young black woman came in and sat up at the bar, and ordered take-out, and a Blue Moon. She and my co-workers made conversation which caused me to think about how little I envy single people. Granted, I'm not married, but I'm also not looking for love (or whatever people look for) in all the wrong places. She wanted to get home, because she had a bag of food, which her room-mate was waiting for her to bring back, but Rick said, "You don't have to rush home to bed.", "Well, my bed's pretty cold, so I'm not rushing." She said, looking at Jared. I can't even imagine how demoralizing, degrading, and depressing it must be to go out looking for a cheap hook-up, for someone to show you some kind of affection... and it makes me even more glad to have the meaningful, committed, and respectful love that I have with my girlfriend, even if I am far away from her.</dd><dd></dd><dd>Since I was still working on my water, and my Laughing Lab, but wanted to know more about the one remaining untested beer on tap, I asked the bartender, "What is that one with the Bison head?" Oh, that's Buffalo Sweat. "Which is?...." It''s made by Tall Grass Brewing Company, and is ridiculously dark. Like... if Guinness had a baby with Emperor Palpatine... and very smooth. Like a real ale. It had a very promising thick head, but that faded to a thin film within a minute. It reminded me of Mikkeler, and a Stone beer (the name of which I can't remember)... the one they serve with the ice cream on people's birthdays, only not as heavy and with a slight caramel flavor. It would make a fantastic beer float if you dropped some French Vanilla ice cream in it.</dd><dd></dd><dd>I've been reluctant to refer to myself as a "Craft Beer Enthusiast". Partly because I find the idea of enthusiasm somewhat laughable, and partly because it kind of sounds like a self aggrandizing way of saying I like to drink beer, and have instead just referred to myself as a beer drinker... But I have realized there is a difference. A craft beer enthusiast has a love and appreciation for the art, and science, and variety of beer. A beer drinker wants to get drunk, but doesn't like hard liquor. I spent a few hours drinking seven different beers, and never intended to get drunk. I didn't get drunk. By the time I paid my bill I wasn't even buzzed. I don't know whether to thank or curse my genetics and BMI. I am not a beer drinker. I.... am a craft beer enthusiast.</dd></dl>Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-65780182696595638602011-07-07T22:27:00.000-07:002011-09-12T19:42:01.192-07:00Rocky Mountain High HopesAs many of you know, I recently started working for a company that specializes in retail construction. Our clients are corporations with a multitude of locations, which they pay us to make presentable.<br />
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As soon as I filled out the paperwork and accepted the job offer, I was nervous. I've never done retail construction... I've mostly worked within an hour of home. Now, I have a job where I never actually meet the client (hell, I have yet to actually meet my boss), and am states away from home. My preparation for this first venture out was one day of work an hour and a half away from where I'm living, with two guys I'd never met, one of whom had to leave halfway through the day for a company meeting about how to deal with new hires who are having trouble keeping pace with people who've been working there for a while. It seems that almost everyone I'm working with specializes in painting... which kind of sucks for me because I, allegedly, specialize in finish carpentry, but painting is easier. So, while I'm building framing for store signs and figuring out how to fit these signs over pre-existing shelving units without leaving any of the mounting visible, the guys who have been working here longer will be rolling paint on the walls and helping me while it dries.<br />
This is not to say I'm the only carpenter. Actually, I've been, for the past few days, sort of assigned to follow one of the guys who everyone seems to go to for answers. A Mexican Wizard of Oz of retail construction, if you will. But this brings me back to my first day of work. Actually, it brings me back to a few days before my first day of work. To protect the (possibly) innocent, I will slightly change his name. When I turned in my paperwork, and was given my work assignments for the coming weeks, the women in the office told me I would be working under this guy, and that I would have to pay attention (which, if you know me well, you will know is my strong suit.... getting distracted and thinking about how awesome it would be if I could shoot spider webs out of my wrists is not), because he would just do his work and expect me to learn. The guys in Hemet, where I spent my first sweat drenched day told me, "Oh, you're working with Raymondo? Haha... watch out, he will work right over you. He doesn't stop to explain what he's doing."... so... I was obviously excited to chase after Raymondo trying to figure out what he was doing and why, so I could duplicate it on the next job. Add to this the fact that Raymondo tells me, "Every job is different, so you have to always figure things out as you go, but do it the same way.", and perhaps understand how desperately I am trying to convince everyone (including myself) that I know what I'm doing.<br />
I admit, this all sounds more dramatic than it actually is. The work is really not as stressful as it seems, and it's not like the work that I'm used to, where (if I do something wrong) people could perhaps die, or be injured, or have their house flooded or burned down. Basically, what we do is fix as many things as the corporate office (of whichever store we're working in) thinks necessary in order to please as many customers as possible, while spending as little money as they can. "Oh, a thousand linoleum tiles are cracked or severely stained and need replaced, and it will take a week to get that all done?... well, how about you replace the cracked ones with whatever color tile you have as long as it's close enough and we call it good?". My work is to what needs done as lipstick is to pig.<br />
They had told me, also, when I was turning in my paperwork, that there was the option of going to either Colorado or Arizona. Having been to Arizona, I knew two things: 1) It's July, Arizona is going to be somewhere near the temperature of 95% of a Hot Pocket fresh out of the microwave (but not the 5% in the middle which is somehow still frozen after two minutes on high), and 2) going somewhere I've already been won't give me the chance to shade in another state on my map of America. I told them I'd take Colorado, and began researching Colorado breweries that weren't Coors as soon as I got back to my computer. I decided that I would go to at least two breweries while I was here, possibly three if time allowed. 1) Great Divide Brewery whose Yeti Imperial Stout is ranked #44 on the American Home Brewer's Association's list of the best beers in America for 2011, 2) Breckenridge Brewery, which I have heard very good things about (http://bitesnbrews.com/2011/07/breckenridge-foods/ here), and possibly 3) Oskar Blue's brewery whose Dale's IPa and Ten Fiddy Imperial Stout ranked 16th and 31st, respectively. I also thought, time permitting, I would like to get close enough at least to touch part of the rocky mountains. While I do not care to taste the Rockies (if they taste anything like that bland, fizzy, yellow beer that defiles their image), I would very much like to see and feel and smell them.<br />
The first day we were here was spent at two different stores, and we did not get back to the hotel until after nine. Just enough time to heat up some dinner (purchased at Walmart), take a shower, call some people (you know who you are), and go to bed. After having flown out here at 6:35 am, I was all too eager to get to bed. Today, the second day, we stayed in one store, trying to finish as much of it as possible. What with waking (alliteration is fun) up at 6 to get the free hotel breakfast and get to home depot, and all the rain flooding the streets... oh, and the fact that I don't actually have my own transportation... today turned out to be a bad day to try out any of those breweries. And, since I've found out that tonight is our last night in Denver before moving on to Fountain, and Colorado Springs, I'm guessing that I won't be able to try those beers in the brewery where they were made, and cross them off of my list. All is not lost, however, in my quest to taste good beer in Colorado. After getting to the hotel at a decent hour tonight, we decided to go to a little bar across the street for dinner and much deserved drinks. Though it's close enough to walk, we chose to drive because none of us counted on all of this rain, and failed to bring anything waterproof. Raylondo doesn't drink, so he stayed at the hotel and watched futbol while the other three of us went out. The guy I'm rooming with is young... and white (since I know you're all wondering if I only work with Mexicans)... and appreciates craft beer. The other guy likes Bud Light, and Corona; and as my room-mate for the weeks said, "People who like that stuff.... they'll never learn what good beer is.". At the bar, I had a bacon cheeseburger calzone (so damn good), a pint of some beer called "hazed and infused", which the bartender told me was "a really nice ale which is dry hopped, so it's more like an IPA", a pint of O'Dell's IPA, and a pint of "Colorado Native" Lager. The bartender told me that Colorado Native is brewed by Coors (which is not entirely true. It's brewed by AC Golden Brewing, a micro-brewery owned by Coors which operates out of Coors' headquarters). With the knowledge that Colorado Native is brewed by Coors, I immediately decided not to drink it. That is until my room mate had one and said it was really good. I had one. Then another. It's a lager, which I generally don't like... but somehow it tastes more like an amber ale got mixed with a honey wheat ale. It's really very delicious. I kind of wish that Coors would stop making it's signature lager and just start making this, but then I would have to like Coors, and I'm not ready to do that. Afterward, when my co-workers wanted to go out to another place, I (being the party animal that I am) opted instead to go next door to the liquor store to see if they had any interesting Colorado beers, and walk back to my hotel room... where I am now blogging. The liquor store had cans of Oskar Blue's Dale's IPA, which I bought and plan to share with my co-workers (it is my mission to convert the Corona Drinker to a Craft Beer drinker). While I have not been able to do all of the things I would like to do here in Denver, I am content in the fact that I was able to taste O'Dell's IPA (22nd on the top beer list), buy a pack of the 16th best beer in America in the state where it was made, and find a good beer made by a bad beer company. Perhaps the rest of the week in Colorado will bring more excitement. And maybe, if they ever have me come back out here (as I'm told is likely), I will have enough time beforehand to drive here myself and camp in the Rocky Mountains, and go experience these breweries which are trying to redeem Colorado's name in the beer drinking world.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-82870605555287026972011-05-19T17:54:00.000-07:002011-05-19T23:19:43.757-07:00Anti-Gun nuts take aimI am not what most people would call political. I generally believe that political discussions and debates among common people are fruitless and unnecessary, and I do my best to avoid them. While I also believe that the Government serves the people better as it inserts itself into their lives less, I am no conspiracy theorist. I don't believe that vapor trails from airplanes are the result of the Government spraying drugs into the atmosphere to make us docile (if they are, they need stronger drugs because these ones aren't working), or that every person who runs for office does so with villainous intent (It's probably only about 75% of them)... but I do believe that something needs to be said about what certain politicians are doing to actively and intentionally strip American citizens of their freedoms. Specifically, the restrictions being placed of people's ability to carry guns in this state.<br />
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I am not a gun nut, I am not a member of the NRA (though that is mostly because I have other things to spend my money on). I am not some asshole who likes guns because he thinks it means he's bad-ass, nor am I paranoid or afraid that I might be attacked by criminals at any moment.<br />
I didn't own a gun at all until I was 28, unless you count the b.b. gun I had as a kid, and still don't own a pistol (yet). I am just a man who likes the idea of self reliance and believes, as the authors of the Constitution did, that the Government should be ruled by the people, not the other way around.<br />
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The United States Constitution says, in no uncertain terms (or so I would think if not for the fact that so many people seem uncertain about them), "A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed." Now, there seems to be some confusion about what this means, so I will attempt to break it down. The translation, if not into plain English then at least into more specifically defined terms, is this:<br />
Because a thoroughly, and carefully, maintained and ordered group of citizen soldiers is essential for the protection and defense of an undominated and self directed political organization or group of people of a specific character or occupying a certain territory, the just claim of every person to be able and allowed to retain possession of and bring, carry, convey, transport, or have weapons on or with them will not and must not be violated or encroached upon.<br />
So, to simplify... because freedom belongs, by right, to every human being, no person or group can (nor should) force another person to go unarmed, nor hinder them from doings so if they choose.<br />
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What is interesting to me about this is that they didn't say, "...being necessary, at this time,...", they said it is necessary... That self government can not exist if people are not equipped to protect themselves.<br />
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Yet, just the other day, Assembly members in California voted in favor of a bill to ban open carry of an unloaded fire arm in public (not their first infringement either, by the way). What that means, for those unfamiliar with the terms, is that they would make it illegal for otherwise law abiding citizens to have, carry, or transport a clearly visible gun, even without bullets in it, anywhere except in the privacy of their own homes. Now, if that doesn't count as infringement, I don't know what does.<br />
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Proponents of the bill say it's not a second amendment issue, but a public safety issue, or a peace of mind issue, or an economic issue. They say that people shouldn't carry guns in public because things will end badly if armed people lose their tempers (because this is the old west and we all believe the best way to win an argument is with gunfire), They say that people shouldn't carry guns in public because seeing them makes other people scared. They say that people shouldn't carry guns in public because those scared people call the police, and it is a waste of time and money for officers to investigate.<br />
I agree. These are problems, the danger posed by people with guns, the fear in common people who just wanted to go out for coffee, the wasted time and tax payer money spent on investigating non-crimes... but the problem is not that people carry guns in public. The problem is that people are too easily frightened, and don't think logically.<br />
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*A criminal is going to carry their gun where you can't see it so you don't know they're a criminal, and you don't know they have a gun (a fair number of law abiding citizens would do this too, and save you the needless fear, if it was really possible to get a concealed weapons permit in California). So, the man with a pistol on one hip and a magazine with bullets on the other means you no harm. You are not in danger from him.<br />
* If you ever have the courage and opportunity to speak with a convicted violent criminal, ask them when they would be more likely to commit a crime... when there are people around who have guns, or when there are not? Actually, don't bother. Just think about it. Would you get violent if you knew someone in the area had a gun and was willing to use it to subdue you? You are, theoretically, safer in the presence of openly armed citizens than you are anywhere else, short of a meeting of the Justice League.<br />
* Police resources and tax payer dollars are wasted every time someone ignores the previous two points and calls 911... It's not because someone has a gun. It's because someone else doesn't think clearly.<br />
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To make it illegal for people to carry guns in public is a bit like saying people are allowed to say whatever they want, as long as no one else can hear them. It is stealing from them their fundamental rights, given to them not by the founding fathers but by the simple merit of having been born human.<br />
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And somehow, a room full of supposedly well educated State Assembly members failed or neglected to see this, and voted the bill through to the senate... which will hopefully see the tyranny, fear mongering, and flawed logic behind it and vote it down.<br />
Though, if it passes in the senate, and and the governor signs it into law, they will have to issue concealed a weapons permit to any law abiding citizen who wants one, in order to pretend the law is constitutional. So, just try not to think about all the people who will be carrying guns you can't see.<br />
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This rare political rant (rare in that I don't often make them, and also in that it was founded on and filled with sound reasoning as political rants almost never are) really didn't even need to be made, I suppose. Even if nothing else I said were true... even if the second amendment didn't promise and defend the human right to protect ourselves, and to carry a gun if we choose to, one statement (the origin of which I am uncertain) is all that should be necessary to stop all of this "gun control" nonsense. Even if you take nothing else away from this blog post, consider the truth of this, "If you make it a crime to carry a gun, the only people carrying guns will be criminals."<br />
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I encourage your comments.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-54714268095513778272011-05-02T22:27:00.000-07:002011-05-05T23:40:36.627-07:00Walden Weekends: Wine and DineThis weekend’s story all started a few months ago, when I went up to my family’s cabin in Twain Hart to drop off some firewood and clear out some brush. I cut up a bunch of Manzanita from the property and took it home, hoping it would be good to use for smoking. After I got home, I did research… by which I mean I typed “smoking with manzanita” into google. As with just about everything I try to research online, most of the results that came back were links to various blogs, message boards, and forums related to the subject, all of which are filled with the smartest people the world has ever known, who have the only opinion on any subject that is worth having. Anyone who disagrees with them is obviously inexperienced, or a moron. What I did, however, learn from researching manzanita on it’s own, without regard to smoking, is that it (and it’s big brother, Madrone) are in the same family as Mesquite… which, as roughly ¼ of the people in internet forums and anyone from the great country of Texas will tell you, is the only wood worth using in your smoker. I would like to get some of these people, smoke one meal with apple, one with mesquite, and see if they can tell which is which.<br />
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So it was, with this fresh supply of free hard wood, that I started thinking of a meal to smoke it with. Having made a previous foray into the world of smoking ( http://jakeripper.blogspot.com/2010/11/adventures-in-smoking.html ) and emerged victorious, but realizing that the only thing which had been missing was my girlfriend, I began working on a recipe of sorts, and decided to try it out the first time that she would be in town during warm weather.<br />
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To keep with the theme of my weekends lately, and to really show her how beautiful it is up in the mountains around here, I planned a rvery nice day for us, starting with a walk through Big Basin, wine tasting with my mom, older brother, and brother-out-law at Savannah Chanelle winery,<br />
<a href="http://s67.photobucket.com/albums/h300/AntisocialJ/?action=view&current=Apr-30-11-06.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="300" src="http://i67.photobucket.com/albums/h300/AntisocialJ/Apr-30-11-06.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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then more wine at Mountain Winery,<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s67.photobucket.com/albums/h300/AntisocialJ/?action=view&current=Apr-30-11-16.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="300" src="http://i67.photobucket.com/albums/h300/AntisocialJ/Apr-30-11-16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountain Winery: Now with more Douchey-ness</td></tr>
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and capping it off with chicken smoked over free manzanita (and madrone that I may or may not have stolen from a turn out along the road inside the state park).<br />
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The chicken, as I’m sure you’d remember was the case with the pork even if I hadn’t linked it for you to read about up there, was entirely experimental, and I had my family bring other dishes to go along with it just in case it turned out horribly. They were my guinea pigs. I figured I’d try it out on them before I bring some to a guy I know who competes in barbecue contests every year, and another guy I know who owns Blue Rock BBQ and judges barbecue contests. If my family liked it/didn’t get sick, that would be good, but if two barbecue experts like it, that’s a horse of a different color. (I have since given them each half of a chicken, and am awaiting their responses).<br />
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If you don’t care about the ingredients or smoking method, skip until just after the picture of the chickens where I’ll tell you how it turned out. Or, if you’re one of those weirdo’s who reads the end of the book first, skip down there and then come back. It’s ok. I’ll wait.<br />
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Ok, ready?<br />
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On Tuesday, I went to Los Gatos Meats (because I like the idea of buying meat from an old fashioned butcher shop, instead of a big super-market chain. Safeway’s good and all, but Los Gatos Meats is just a little more local, so……) and bought three whole chickens (plucked, beheaded, gutted, sans feet. It’s a butcher shop, not an asian market), and brought them home to marinate. The recipe, which I hope you won’t steal and make money off of, because I plan to use it at my pub some day is as follows:<br />
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*Put chickens in a bag or other air-tight/water-tight container<br />
*Peel the skin away as much as you can without tearing it, rub between skin and meat with crushed rosemary, garlic salt, lemon pepper, onion powder, mint, and paprika to taste.<br />
*Douse in extra virgin olive oil, but not to the point where they’re swimming. You don’t need as much if they’re in a bag.<br />
*Smash up a handful of mint leaves and throw them in, under the skin, inside the body. All over.<br />
* Cut open and juice a lemon and an orange, pour in juice, and throw the rest in the bag for good measure.<br />
That was Tuesday. I let it sit in the bag, in the refrigerator, til Saturday, making sure to flip the bag over twice a day so the olive oil mixture would soak in evenly. Meanwhile, because I had planned for the day to be so full, and knew I wouldn’t have much time to smoke the birds slowly, I soaked some of the manzanita in a bucket of water. That way, after I have the heat going, and some of the wood smoking, the wet wood would be making steam, which would help keep the chicken from drying out. Instead of 12 to 18 hours at 140 to 200 degrees, I would be doing about 4 hours at 250 to 300.<br />
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On saturday, I prepared the chickens for glory by rubbing their skin with non-iodized salt (because I was afraid the iodine would turn them pink) to help the skin crisp without burning, tying the wings down (and sticking in some sprigs of rosemary) and filled two soda cans with ShockTop (a Belgian style wheat beer with hints of citrus and coriander), and another with water mixed with more lemon and orange juice (because, believe it or not, there are people in this world who don’t like the taste of beer, even if it’s just a minor element among a multitude of others in their food). This not only added a hint of flavor, but helped keep the chicken moist (I’m sorry. I know, you probably hate that word as much as I do) and tender. But this was all in theory. Again, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I was merely going off of what I guessed would work, and hoped for the best.<br />
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Here they are, ready to fly or fail.<br />
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<a href="http://s67.photobucket.com/albums/h300/AntisocialJ/?action=view&current=Apr-30-11-19.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="300" src="http://i67.photobucket.com/albums/h300/AntisocialJ/Apr-30-11-19.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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It would, perhaps, serve you better to talk to the other people who were there, if you know them, to find out if the experiment was a success. The consensus was overwhelmingly positive on both the beer-butt and orange-lemon-water-butt chicken, and I agree that it was good, but I didn’t fully enjoy it because I was concentrating on what I would add more of, or take away a bit of from the recipe. I think that more mint and lemon pepper are in order next time, as are lower heat and longer cooking time. However, nobody threw up that I know of, and everyone seemed to enjoy it. Even Lucky said it was the best chicken she’d had all day… but, considering that the only other chicken she’d had was frozen solid, and she licks her own privates on a regular basis, I don’t tend to take her advice on culinary matters. I prefer to listen to the human guests who said things like, “this is really delicious” or “I think this is actually the best chicken I’ve ever had” or better yet, nothing at all because they were too busy enjoying the meal.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-53688064034729189812011-04-25T00:04:00.000-07:002011-04-25T00:06:15.956-07:00Walden Weekends: Boulder and bolderFirst, a few notes on last weekend. On Saturday, I went hiking again at Castle Rock, and went farther than I usually do… which, unfortunately, means I had to hike farther on my way back. I found the back-packing camp that’s out there, and kept going further still.<br />Sunday, I took Silas up to the rocks for which Castle Rock park is named. Let me tell you (or don’t, I don’t care. I’m mostly doing this for my own sake anyway), if I thought hiking with a three year old was difficult, I had obviously never taken one rock climbing. He was a bit scared at first to go up on top of some of the smaller rocks (roughly the size of a VW Bug stacked on top of another), but gradually I got him up on top of rocks that were more than 35 feet tall. Granted, most of the time I would climb to somewhere stable, grab him, and stick him higher up, then climb ahead and repeat the process. It was difficult, and tiring, but totally worth it. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere but I don’t really care to root it out at the moment. You may do so if you choose.<br /><br />This weekend:<br /><br />As I stood atop a small tree stump, at the outset of my hike, I was reminded of the Lorax, as he climbed out of a hole in a freshly chopped trufula stump. I thought how adorable it would be to dress my kid up as the Lorax for Halloween some day. This, by the way, is just about the only kind of planning for the future I ever do. Then I thought, “What if the kid doesn’t want to dress as the Lorax? Eh, who cares what the kid wants? I’ll be the parent, they’ll dress as what I tell them to dress as because I’m in charge, gosh darn it!”.<br />I thought about environmentalists, and all manner of extremists, who force their children to do things the child doesn’t understand, or teach them what to think instead of how to use logic and reasoning. It is, I believe, a desire common to all people throughout history (if not every person) to impose their own will. We seek to subjugate, to form the world around us into a shape that fits our use for it. We try to force others to view things the way we do, to believe as we believe. I’m speaking of the human race in general… You may feel free to say to me, “I don’t seek to impose my will on anyone or anything.”, but it would obviously be your will that I believe it, and arguing your point would prove it invalid. We put roads where there once were prairies, train tunnels where mountains had been living for a thousand years before. This is not a condemnation, but a statement: Humans attempt to rule. And, in fact, why shouldn’t we? God gave us dominion over all the animals. He told us that it would be our duty to work the land. We are the middle-management of Earth. In creating us, He placed us at the top of the hierarchy of the material world. It is not only our duty, but our divine right to hold power over the world. (I know this because the lady of the lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite told me so)<br /><br />But what does that mean, power? Power can mean a lot of things, and have a lot of implications, depending on who you ask. What I mean by power is not control, but the ability to cause action, to inflict a result… but I believe it comes with the responsibility to do so with wisdom and prudence. Somewhat like Peter Parker’s uncle Ben said, power and responsibility are directly relational. If a person is placed in a position of power, like the President of the United States, they have a much greater responsibility to the people than someone who is elected treasurer of the homecoming committee. But that power doesn’t mean domination. He’s called the leader of the free world, not the ruler. His job is not to tell people what to do, or make them do what he wants them to, but to influence people’s thinking, and act based on their demands.<br /><br />And so it is with the relationship between every person and the world around them. We, as humans, have the power to impact the world greatly, but the responsibility to do what is right, and to do it in the right way. It seems we have always had this idea that there is an eternal struggle between man and nature. It’s one of the great themes of fiction. One small person battling against the elements, straining for victory over the wild. We aim to conquer the wilderness, and bring it under our control. We’ve done a decent job of it too in most places. Huge expanses of paved roads stretching from coast to coast protect us from the perils and inconveniences of trying to make our way on foot; we have structures built to keep the sun, wind, rain, animals, and dirt out, and insulate ourselves from even the mildest displeasure this big scary planet of ours might be waiting to unleash on us… but, as anyone who’s ever tried to take a decent picture of a small lizard will tell you (I know, there are thousands of such people. Small lizard photography is very popular), nature doesn’t do what you want it to… it merely lets you do what you want until it’s tired of you. We can build walls to keep the ocean back, but nature doesn’t pay attention to “keep out” signs. We put in sidewalks, but weeds break through. We put up manicured hedgerows and a squirrel plants an oak tree in the middle of them. We plant a lawn, and a mole builds a subway. Our control is only an illusion. The world is wild, and can’t be held back forever. To quote Dr. Ian Malcolm, “Life finds a way”.<br /><br />This is God’s wild kingdom, we’re just looking after it.<br /><br />This leads me to a question which, perhaps, one of you out there can answer for me. Who owns the state and national parks? Who says I’m not allowed to go off the trails, or stay there after sunset? Whose land is this? Because it seems to me that if these parks belong to “the government”, and this is a government of the people, by the people, and for the people… the people have a right to use their communal property whenever they want. Right? Honestly, correct me if I’m wrong. I’d like to hear your take on this. The people in power have the responsibility to make sure we (the people) use it responsibly, but it doesn’t seem they have the right to tell us when we can be there, or where we can go. They’re not the President’s parks, Congress’s parks, the government’s parks, or the ranger’s parks. They are the National and State parks, and belong to the people of the nation and the state, to use and care for.<br /><br />I don’t know about you, but I’ve noticed a theme running through human history… real change is not usually accomplished by force. Sure, there are a great number of times when force in the form of violence has been and is necessary, and used to accomplish a goal of ridding the world of one villain or another, but nobody ever says, “well, you are obviously stronger than I am, I now understand that what I was doing was wrong.”, they say, “You beat me, I’ll do what you want me to do.”. My point is that we have the power to cause change… to impact the future of this world and this planet, but we need to be smart about how we use that power. We cannot force people to change. In my experience, the more you force something, the more likely it is to break. To cause change we cannot use might, but our minds.<br /><br />Now, if you’re thinking that I’m going to go join the Sierra Club, I’m a little offended. If I was going to join a conservation society, it would not be the Sierra Club, but the NRA. I don’t exactly ascribe to the “Take only memories, leave only footprints” philosophy. I don’t think that every rock, stick, and plant is a leaveitright (as they called it at the science camp I went to in elementary school. “You find a stick, rock, or plant, leaveitright where you found it”). If you’re out in the wild and find a flower you want to press, or put in a vase, go ahead. More will still grow. Just don’t pick all of them because I want to see them too. But I think everyone could benefit from a little more nature in their lives. <br />Still, anyone can enjoy the beauty of God’s green earth on a screen in their living room, but that’s not good enough for me. For me… this is my living room. This is my church, my library, my theater. This is life, and it’s being stamped out by progress. I wish every person would take advantage of it and fill themselves with it’s beauty… as long as they don’t try to do it at the same time, and in the same place that I am. It amazes me how hard it is to hear the voice of the almighty God over the voices of those created in His image. (there’s another lesson there which I’ll let you find for yourself)<br /><br />It strikes me that life as a flower would be much easier. Every little flower, as it opens up and turns it’s face toward the sun every day, is fulfilling it’s God-given calling. It is doing exactly what it’s Creator asks of it, and every remote little one of them would keep on doing so for all of its days even if no human eye ever noticed… Nature relentlessly serves and glorifies God just by being what it is, and we should consider ourselves blessed to be part of that worship service. But how much easier it is for flowers, to not have to wonder if they’re doing what they’re supposed to… to not ask God what His greater plan for them is… They simply exist, and that’s enough. But, I suppose there is some consolation in knowing that responsibility and reward are directly relational like power and responsibility are. The greater your responsibility, the greater your reward will be if you live up to what is required of you. While a butterfly fulfills it’s calling by drinking from any flower it chooses, it also doesn’t gain much by doing so. <br /><br />Perhaps our calling as God’s children isn’t so different from that of flowers. Turn your face toward the light, and Glorify God every day of your life.<br />I wish everyone prayed in this chapel of mine.<br /><br />This is me trying to impose my will.<br /><br /><br />Post Script: I’m sorry for this being so disjointed. These were the thoughts going through my head while I hiked. I had a brilliant essay written in my head, but when I got to the camp ground and sat down to write it, I found I had neglected to pack a note pad… by the time I got to my computer, I had forgotten how it went.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-52024375041703543012011-04-10T23:46:00.000-07:002011-04-10T23:50:24.240-07:00Walden Weekends: Busier Than Usual and My Philosophy of Hiking.<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJacob%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJacob%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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class="MsoNormal">The first weekend was hard, not using the internet, not checking facebook… I found myself having to make conscious efforts to stay disconnected. I kept wanting to know what the people I know were up to, if anyone had commented on my status, or left a comment on my wall. But, in an effort to be present, I resisted. I decided that every time I thought about going online, I would instead pray for guidance, or for a job in San Diego, and that distracted me well enough until the desire passed for the time. That was last weekend. This is week two.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yesterday I drove Benjamin and Jaason to the airport, drove to south San Jose in search of a free barbecue smoker I’d seen an ad for on Craigslist on Friday (without an exact address). I found the place, but no barbecue. “Someone else got that this morning. We’ve sold a bunch of stuff for really good prices… and then somebody stole our money box.” “Wow, I’m sorry about that. That really sucks.” I said, secretly cursing them for putting “12 to 3” on their ad when they obviously intended on opening things up much earlier. So I went home, sad about not having a smoker that I would not have any space for when I move anyway, and continued working on my pipe. The pipe has turned out well so far… though it’s a little rough. You can see some places where the chisel gouged into it, so I might go back over it with a sander and smooth it out. It should look really nice if the warmth from the bowl, and the oils from my hand, give the wood a slight red tint like I believe they will. It was a lengthy process though. If I were selling it, and only charging for it what my normal hourly wage would be, the pipe would cost roughly $130… but it was a Saturday, so I’d be charging time and a half.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Today was hiking up at Castle Rock, and helping Joseph and Laurel get a new couch (which I learned after I got home was located between here and Castle Rock).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are a few things about hiking (and, I suppose, the wilderness in general) which I’m less than happy about… but there is one thing, especially problematic in spring and summer, which is enough of a problem that it causes me to question whether I want to go out anymore. More than the possibility of sunburn, insect bites, poison oak rashes, pain, injury, animal attack, and getting lost (which are, at best, irritating and inconvenient, and at worst… deadly, in the case of animal attacks. Though… death is really only a mild inconvenience for the person it comes to), people are the one thing that makes me consider not hiking. During spring and summer, there are entirely too many other people hiking. I imagine this will only be the case until I fall and hurt myself, and need help… then there will not be a person for a hundred miles of course.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My philosophy (if we’re using the word in the typical sense, where “philosophy” is not the art of thinking, or the method by which we come to a conclusion, but rather the conclusion which that thinking has lead us to) on hiking is two-fold. First: Show some respect. Second: Eyes and ears open, mouth shut. I wonder what it is that causes a person to go hiking when they have so little respect for nature that they just drop their garbage wherever they lost use for it. Why, if you don’t care about any of the beautiful things around you, would you deign to be there? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wonder what causes a person with so little reverence for this great open cathedral that they would spoil it with their complaintive and selfish conversations to choose this out of all the peaceful places to disturb.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the way, I passed a couple of young women who had stopped to take a picture. As it is my custom when hiking to not say hello unless someone else has said it (because I know that, for many people, hiking is meditative, and I don’t want to break someone else’s concentration), they said hello and I replied as I passed by. I increased my pace to make sure I had enough space to stop occasionally without being overtaken, because I want to be able to look around and observe the beauty before me without interruption. But it seemed that every time I stopped they were behind me, complaining about colleagues, or classes, or God knows what... in reality, they were a hundred feet or more behind me, but that’s the nature of open places and shrill voices. I came to a fork in the road. One way said “ridge trail” the other “to camp grounds”. Guessing that the ridge trail would offer more scenic views, I bet my pursuers would take that, and I opted for the camp trail. I chose poorly. After about twenty more minutes of trying in vain to get out of ear shot, I decided that it was close enough to the time I would need to turn back, and stopped and waited for them to pass. I was tempted to stop them as they went by, to ask if they had noticed the hawks soaring a couple hundred feet above the tree tops and a hundred feet below us, or if they’d seen what an amazing living patchwork quilt the world is in places like this where groves of madrone and oak and pine and redwood wrap around and through one another… but they were far too busy talking about coworkers and Stanford to be bothered, so I let them go by in peace.</p> <span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:11pt;" >In the fall and winter these trails are much like the thick grove in the Degoba swamp (I know you nerds know what I’m talking about). Luke asks, “What’s in there?”, and Yoda replies, “Only what you bring with you.”. But now that it’s warming up, it’s hard to find ten seconds where you can’t hear another person, or see a discarded bag of sunflower seeds. What is drawing these people out here instead of to a public park, or coffee shop, or any number of places with trash cans and conversational atmosphere provided? Why, when I try to escape from the aggravations of what is allegedly the civilized world does all the worst of it insist on following me? I’m considering making a patch to put on my backpack (and would have stickers made if putting them on trail signs wasn’t considered defacing public property) that say “Eyes and ears open. Mouth shut.”… also, I’ll be looking for less populous trails.</span>Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-11123309980861563232011-03-26T18:45:00.000-07:002011-03-26T19:43:11.902-07:00Walden Weekends: PrefaceNot too long ago, I decided that I would try to go hiking about once a week - I know, the phrasing there indicated a very strong commitment - and get myself out of the more populated areas as much as I could. My impetus for this decision was purely physical, I thought. I considered that, in the more than probable (to my mind) event of some sort of zombie/robot/nuclear apocalypse, or massive natural disaster, I was not in the kind of shape I would need to be in to get away to relative safety and bring with me at least the minimum I would need for survival, let alone any amount of comfort. I have a tent and sleeping bag, a camp ax, some bottled water, and some air-tight packages of food (granola bars, raisins, I think there’s some beef jerky in there) as well as a sweat shirt and a change of jeans in my truck in case of emergency… but what if the nuclear explosion melts my tires, or the robots steal my gas… or the zombies get confused and start eating my beef jerky? What will I do then?<br /><br />So I got a back pack and some other supplies, and started hiking every weekend that I could. Physical training. I had, of course, no idea that this would affect me mentally or spiritually. It turns out that going off into the forest, alone, gives you a beautiful opportunity to think about things, to listen to God whispering to you, and to free yourself from the constant stream of input that you get from the world around you. Solitude is simplicity, simplicity is clarity. Not that I’m out there becoming a sage or anything… my ventures have yet to give me the wisdom of C.S. Lewis or Theodore Roosevelt, who also knew the benefits of subtracting themselves from the world, and came to understand it better thereby… If nothing else, I am being constantly reminded of the power nature has over human beings, and the power human beings have over nature, and the responsibility we have to treat those powers with respect. I wish that the wild was more accessible to more people, and that more of the people who access it could be trusted not to destroy it.<br /><br />It was with this desire to go outside the world that I decided to institute Walden Weekends for myself, starting next weekend. The idea is something of an experiment. I don’t really have any goal for this, no specific desired outcome, just to take myself away from the internet and video games, and generally being lazy and useless (for two days a week anyway… I plan to continue being lazy and useless Monday through Friday) and see what happens. It’s not a complete abandonment of society, but a distillation of sorts. Similar, in a way, to when I was in the Joshua Wilderness Institute at Hume Lake. We were outside of our normal lives, and separate from the rest of the world, but they required that we read newspapers and magazines to ensure that we stayed connected. It wasn’t a community of hermits after all… though, honestly, of all the things they required us to do, that may have been the one that was most difficult for me. So maybe it will be the same with this. Maybe the difficulty won’t be in keeping myself from wanting to go online (The Chive doesn’t really post much on weekends anyway), but in keeping myself from running off into the forest and staying there. I suppose that only time will tell.<br /><br /><br />So, starting next weekend, I will not be accessible via facebook, email, or words with friends, and will instead be spending that time hiking, reading, writing, (not doing ‘rithmetic) or working on other various projects. I plan to carve a pipe out of madrone, make a couple of left-handed knife sheaths, and work on some barbecue/smoking recipes I’ve been thinking of (provided the weather clears up), and perhaps blogging about my adventures, when I think they're entertaining enough, during the following week. If you have suggestions of books I should read, or projects I could do, please feel free to send them my way.<br /><br />Thank you for spending the time to read all of this.<br />Sincerely,<br />Jac<span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="passiveName">øb</span></span>Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-56528270215418556332010-12-22T13:06:00.000-08:002010-12-22T23:18:32.852-08:00Yule BlogDuring this time of peace on earth, goodwill t'ward men, love, charity, and togetherness, I think it's important that we look back and remember the foundation of this most joyous holiday... where our traditions come from, what they really mean... why we celebrate the way we do.<br /><br />I figure I'll start out with everyone's favorite Christmas song, the 12 Days of Christmas. I'm sure, like myself, many of you have often wondered what the hell this song was about, why anyone would give all of these things to anyone, and why, after being given the gift of three french hens, anyone would continue calling the giver "my true love". You have also probably wondered why we only celebrate one day of Christmas, when there are allegedly 11 more floating around.<br />The twelve days of Christmas, as it turns out, start on Christmas day, and end on January 5th. This is, according to tradition, when the three wise-men showed up and gave their gifts to Jesus... though you Bible scholars and historians all probably already know that there may or may not have been only three wise-men, and that they probably showed up considerably later than 12 days after Jesus was born. The song itself was written in England some time between the late 1500's and the early 1800's, during a time when it was illegal to be Catholic. So, if you find this song as irritating as I do, thank King Henry. Because Catholics (much like Jews in Germany, or early Christians in Rome) were scared of being punished should they be found, in this case by being hanged, drawn, and quartered (you've seen the end of Braveheart, right? Well they left off the worst part, where they tie your hands and feet to horses and have them run in different directions, while you're still alive, tearing you limb from limb) they had to come up with a way for children to remember the tenets of their faith without being able to write it down. So, the song was born, with each gift representing an important element. The "true love" would of course be God, and the "me" would be all of us.<br />The rest:<br />1 Partridge in a pear tree: Jesus. A mother partridge will feign injury to protect her young.<br />2 Turtledoves: The Old and New Testaments<br />3 French hens: The virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity<br />4 Calling birds: The four Gospels, and/or the four evangelists<br />5 GOLDEN RIIIIIIINGS!: The Pentateuch (the first five books of the Bible).<br />6 Geese a-laying: The six days of creation (and on the seventh day He rested)<br />7 Swans a-swimming: The seven gifts of the Holy Spirit (wisdom, understanding, counsel, courage, knowledge, reverence, fear of the Lord) or the Seven Sacraments, which are rites in which God is uniquely active, or "visible signs of the invisible at work" (Baptism, Eucharist, Reconciliation, Confirmation, Marriage, Holy Orders, Anointing of the sick)<br />8 Maids a-milking: The 8 beatitudes (you know, that whole "blessed are the meak, for they will inherit the earth..." bit)<br />9 Ladies dancing: the 9 visible attributes of the Christian life which comprise the Fruit of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control)<br />10 Lords a-leaping: The ten commandments (which I won't recount because I'm sure everyone here has them memorized).<br />11 Pipers piping: The eleven faithful apostles (screw you, Judas, you don't get to be in our song).<br />12 Drummers drumming: the twelves points of the apostle's creed (look it up. I'm lazy and this is already going to be a long post).<br /><br />You got all that? Good, because you will be tested on this.... eventually.<br /><br />Now, with that out of the way, let's move on to lighter fare.<br /><br />For most people, what is the one symbol of Christmas that most fully embodies the warmth, joy, peace, and love this season is supposed to be full of? More than Santa Claus (who I'm not even going to go into because I'm sure you all know the story already) or the common yet inaccurate picture of Christ in the manger in a barn, with Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, friendly beasts, and angels all around. It's something that often shows up on the outskirts of that manger scene... even though, to my knowledge, it isn't even native to the area. If you haven't guessed it yet, I'm talking about the Christmas tree. That evergreen unchanging whose relatives nearest to Bethlehem would probably be the cedars of Lebanon, which don't look anything like the trees we cut down and cover with trinkets and gaudy lights every year. It might surprise you... though, if you know anything at all about human history, it really shouldn't... to know that this Christian tradition was stolen from the pagans.<br /><br />When Christian missionaries got up the courage to march into the frozen wilderness in what we now call northwestern Europe and tell the French and Germans that everything they believed and did was wrong, they may or may not have been surprised to find them somewhere on the screw-you side of the receptiveness scale... so these missionaries decided that the best way to get the pagans to change sides was to convince them that we're just like them, only better.<br /><br />Being up that far North in the winter is probably scary for anyone, especially if you come from a particularly superstitious people... so when your corner of the earth starts moving away from the sun, and the days become increasingly short, and the nights increasingly dark, you won't be too surprised if someone in the crowd says, "the sun is tired of us, and is probably not coming back... so we need to do something about that, or freeze to death.". So, believing that all life on earth depended on their ability to coax the sun back into the area, they would head out around the winter solstice to find the biggest, strongest sign of life in the area... which just happened to be an evergreen tree. They would build fires, and cover the trees and their houses with all sorts of reflective objects and lights as if to say, "hey Sun, come back, there's still light here! See? This is a fun place for light and warmth to hang out!"<br /><br />So, the early Christians were like, "hey look, we do that too. You can come be one of us and keep your quaint little traditions!", kind of like they did with the adoption of December 25th as Jesus' official birthday when they made it to Rome and found a bunch of people celebrating the god Mithra on that day... so they showed the northern pagans they had a winter solstice holiday with lights and trees. However, being from the Mediterranean area, they were somewhat more inclined to bring the fire and the trees inside than to march out into a frozen forest.<br /><br />While out on their travels in the frozen north, the missionaries also came across a friendly little group of people known as Vikings... who they also needed to steal a tradition from if they wanted to make any headway. While it may seem like telling Vikings to stop everything they do and come be nice Christians would be the quickest path to Heaven, the missionaries actually had some fortune with the Norse. You see, this was a group of people who set up shop far away from anywhere that any normal person would choose to live, but they would regularly travel the world to.... gather supplies. As a result, their mytholgy tends to have a lot of influence from other cultures. They would go out and hear stories from all over the world and think, "that kind of sounds like something this god of ours would do" and would tell everyone they knew about this story. Somewhere along the way, it's likely that they heard stories of this Jesus fellow, and decided he sounded a bit like their god Baldur. Baldur was the son of their great god Odin, who sits on his throne in Valhalla and watches the dealings of men, sometimes inserting himself into their lives and directing their fates (sound familiar?). Baldur was the most beloved of all of the gods in Asgard, so it brought no shortage of sorrow when the prediction was told that Baldur would be killed. His mother, when given this news, went all around the world, making every person, animal, vegetable, mineral... everything in existence promise that it would never do any harm to her beloved son. Everything, that is, except Mistletoe, which she decided was too fragile to do him any harm anyway (ironic, considering that mistletoe berries are actually quite poisonous). So she came back to Asgard content that no harm could come to her son, and told him that he was safe. He figured he would test her theory, and all the other gods gathered around and started throwing crap at him to see if it would hurt. Rocks, branches, tables, children... everything just bounced right off of him without a mark. Loki, god of messing everything up for everybody (but usually setting it right again... usually) crept over to Baldur's blind cousin and was like, "why aren't you throwing stuff at Baldur with everybody else?" to which Baldur's blind cousin replied, "um... I'm blind.". So Loki makes an arrow out of mistletoe and puts it in the blind guys hand, and guides his throw to pierce Baldur's heart and kill him. Baldur's mother offered a kiss beneath the mistletoe to anyone who would go to the Hel and bring Baldur back. No one could... but Baldur will return after the great battle at the end of the world, to rule the knew world which will be reborn from the ashes. So, when you kiss someone under the mistletoe, think about death, betrayal, and the end of the world this Christmas...<br /><br />It was, however, actually the Celts who are most responsible for mistletoe becoming a Christmas decoration. They believed that the plant had magical powers, and hung it up in their houses during the Yule festival to protect the home, and cause beautiful dreams during the shadowy dream time of winter, when the dark force of Mean Geimhridh held the light of the sun back. This creepy festival eventually got absorbed into Christmas, giving us still another terrifying "why is that a Christmas tradition" tradition which has, perhaps fortunately, generally been forgone in recent years.<br /><br />The Yule log. This is where the most "wtf?"d line in perhaps any Christmas song comes from. "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmas's long long ago." Who sits around at Christmas telling ghost stories that don't involve Ebenezer Scrooge, and why would they do such a thing? Well, Who: The Irish. Why: They're Irish... it's what they do. Since I'm pretty sure you don't have a Yule log and probably never have, except perhaps as a decoration, I'll fill you in on what exactly the tradition is. You go out into your yard, or perhaps your neighbors yard while they're off Christmas shopping, and find the most beautiful, symmetrical log you can. You absolutely never buy a Yule log at a store because that will just piss off all the sprites and spirits which are apparently just everywhere in Ireland. You place the log in the hearth, where it is lit using a scrap from the previous years Yule log which has been carefully preserved under the bed of the master of the house to keep the house safe from fire and lightning. The lighting of the Yule log must be achieved in the first attempt or else misfortune will befall your family. There is a lot of stress that comes with being the head of the household in Ireland. The task must never be performed with dirty hands because it is a sign of disrespect... and, again, pissed of sprites and spirits. The embers of the Yule log must be kept lit for twelve hours and cannot be tended while eating Christmas eve dinner. After the feast, the family sits around the fire telling ghost stories while watching their shadows on the wall. If any person's shadow is seen to not have a head, it is a sign that this person will be dead within a year. While this could be fun, I suppose, the Irish Christmas tradition that I choose to include in my family celebration is drinking, because I try not to do anything to inadvertently upset mythological or ethereal beings.<br /><br />Yule logs, Mistletoe, and evergreen trees aren't the only pagan plant life to have been taken by Christians to be part of the celebration of the birth of our Lord. Holly, among many groups throughout history, has been seen as a good omen, and represented immortality due to its ability to look good in every season. It was considered sacred by the ancient Romans, and was used as a gift during the festival of Saturnalia, which lasted from December 17th to the 23rd. Holly was thought to be a favorite home to elves and faeries, who must have had very tough skin, or just not minded being stabbed by sharp leaves. Romans would bring holly inside during the winter to protect these poor little creatures from the cold.<br /><br />During the early years of Christianity in Rome, many Christians continued to deck their halls with boughs of holly for fear of being turned into torches in Caesar's palace, or just made fun of for not believing in the pantheon that the Roman's stole from the Greeks. Holly became a Christian symbol when Christianity became the dominant religion in the area, perhaps as an other way of wooing more converts. Eventually it was pretended that holly was a Christian tradition without pagan roots by applying Christian symbolism to the plant. The leaf has sharp pointy edges which represent Jesus' crown of thorns, and red berries which represent the blood He shed on the cross. It is also evergreen, which is taken to represent the eternal life He bestows on all who believe in Him.<br /><br />It really was convenient that the pagans had so many holidays all around the same time, because it made it much easier to decide when to have Christmas. They had Juvenalia, a feast honoring the children of Rome. There was the celebration of Mithra, the god of the unconquerable sun, on December 25th... he was an infant god, and was born of a rock by the way... which was, for some Romans, the most sacred day of the year. They had the Winter solstice. And there was Saturnalia which celebrated Saturn who was (among other things) the Roman god of agriculture. Beginning in the week leading up to Winter solstice and lasting for an entire month, Saturnalia was like Oktoberfest, Mardi Gras, and the Festival of Fools all mixed into one. Food and drink were plentiful, and the normal Roman social order was turned upside down. For one month, slaves would become masters. Peasants were in command of the city. Businesses and schools were even closed so that everyone could join in the revelry. Honestly, who wouldn't want to steal all these holidays and mix them into one? It's a wonder that it took until the fourth century for the Church to decide to institute Christmas as an official holiday.<br /><br />Up til then, Easter was the big deal. The delay, most likely, was due to the fact that the Bible doesn't really mention what time of year Jesus was born... a fact those Grinchy Puritans used in denying the legitimacy of the holiday, bringing frowns to children all over the world. Though there has been evidence cited by some people who may or may not know what they're talking about to indicate that Jesus was born in the Spring time, Pope Julius I (of Orange Julius fame) chose December 25th, probably to absorb these other holidays. Christmas, originally called The Feast of the Nativity, spread to Egypt by 423 a.d. and to England by the end of the sixth century. By the end of the eighth century, it had made its way to Scandinavia. Today, in Greek and Russian orthodox churches, Christmas is celebrated on January 6th, or "Epiphany"/"Three Kings day" (which is convenient for Santa because it means he doesn't have to fly around the whole world in one night) which is, for some reason, the day after the 12 Days of Christmas would end.<br /><br />Having Christmas at the same time as all of these pagan festivals made Christmas more likely to be embraced by other people, but left the Church largely unable to dictate how it would be celebrated. Soon enough, Christianity had done away with Pagan religion, but the absorption of their festivals left the fun parts of paganism intact. On Christmas, believers attended boring church services in the morning, and probably spent the whole time dreaming about all the partying they would do afterward. When they left church, they would go home and celebrated Christmas like Mardi Gras and St. Patrick's day met on Spring Break and had a baby at Carnivale. Each year, a beggar or a student would be crowned "lord of misrule" and people would line up eagerly to play the part of his subjects. Poor people would go a-wassailing (drinking and singing) to the houses of rich people and demand their best food and drink... which I'm guessing usually involved figgy pudding. If the home owners failed to provide, their visitors terrorize them with mischief... kind of like a drunken musical trick-or-treat, which actually sounds like fun to me. Christmas, this way, became a time of year when the upper classes could repay their real or imagined debt to society by entertaining the less fortunate citizens. As for how Christmas went from being about drunkenly helping the drunken less fortunate to wearing bad sweaters and spending too much money, I haven't really done any research on the subject.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-82887837113731811972010-11-14T20:41:00.001-08:002011-05-02T22:49:03.526-07:00Adventures in smoking.Ok, now before all of my fans in Santa Cruz and Arcada get too excited, I'm talking about smoking meat on the barbecue. Ok, now get excited.<br /><br />As you may or may not know, my uncle Pat brought some apple wood with him on our hunting trip, and I took one of the unused chunks home with me. I then chopped it up into small pieces and soaked those pieces in Stone Brewing Company's Sublimely Self-Righteous ale, which you should try. It's delicious. Then I went to Safeway to figure out what kind of meat I wanted to smoke with it. It was between beef and pork, and what it really came down to was which one I could buy more of for less money. Yay economy! I found a 4.5 lb pork roast for about $10, and my decision was basically made for me. What's more, it was organic pork... so that's cool too.<br /><br />After getting the pork home, I marinated it in a little bit of Hornsby's apple cider for around 4 hours, and then poured the cider in with the applewood chips that were still soaking in the Self-Righteous ale. That was a little over a week ago.<br /><br />During the following week, I mentioned this experiment to a few people. One such person is the man whose man-cave we've been building so that he can barbecue any day of the year, regardless of the weather... with his built in gas grill, his detached webber grill, or his big green egg-shaped smoker. This man loves meat so much that he is not willing to settle for store bought bacon. He said, on Monday, "I'm sorry, I'm having a little trouble focusing right now. My bacon is arriving on Friday." I'm sorry... did you say your bacon is... arriving? "Oh, yeah. I have my bacon flown in from Wisconsin."<br />When I went back on Thursday and saw him, I said, "You must be excited, what with your bacon coming in tomorrow." and his face lit up. "Actually... it got in today!" So I asked him what exactly was so special about this Wisconsin bacon. Almost instantly, he was back in the garage, opening the refrigerator door and asking "Do you like your bacon with or without pepper?" Without. I'm facing away from him, applying stain to his front gate, and he is explaining to me that this is the only bacon that Rogue Brewery uses on their bacon cheeseburgers, which I have to try. As he comes up behind me, extolling the virtues of this applewood smoked wonder, I turn to tell him that I intend to go to Rogue some day, and am greeted by a packet of bacon in my face and the instruction, "I demand a full report on this." So, Victor, here is my report:<br /><br />I decided to do a side-by-side comparison with Dailey's bacon, which is what I typically get from Safeway, and have thoroughly enjoyed. I put three strips of Dailey's in one frying pan, and put three strip's of Nueske's in another, and set both on level three heat, which is just below medium, so they don't cook too quickly and crinkle up or get too crispy. Nueske's fills the kitchen with the smell of smoke as soon as I open the package. It sizzles more, and is much darker than Dailey's. Somehow, even though it was thicker than Dailey's, Nueske's even finished cooking a full five minutes sooner. I put them on separate plates. I tried Dailey's first, to remind myself what my typical bacon tastes like before moving on to the real test. To really help you understand (though maybe this will still not be speaking your language... maybe you don't love the same things I love), I'll take another short rabbit trail here. One of my favorite beers is Newcastle brown ale. It's nothing fancy. It's no craft beer. It's reliable. You don't over-think Newcastle, but it's not tinted water, like Budweiser, or Corona, or any of the other mass produced beers you can find it sitting next to in grocery stores. One day, while I was totally not sitting alone in my room drinking beer and watching Spider-man cartoons, if that's what you were thinking, I made the mistake of having Stone Brewery's Ruination (which turned out to be aptly named), and following it with a bottle of Newcastle. By the end of the bottle of Ruination, my taste-buds were accustomed to that level of flavor... and when I moved on to the the Newcastle, it tasted like someone had switched it with Corona... and mixed that Corona with more water. Essentially, this is what happened with this bacon. Dailey's bacon is still delicious. Just like Newcastle, I haven't abandoned it... but this new bacon is just so much more.... bacony. I can understand how the company can have been around since 1933 without changing its methods or recipes. It's still family owned and operated, for the fourth generation in a row. It was like, in the Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle, when the Pevensies all arrive in Aslan's country and notice that it is just like Narnia, only... like they're finally seeing the real Narnia that the one they knew was only a shadow of. This... this is real bacon, and all the bacon I've had up to this point was only a shadow.<br /><br />I even had my mom try a piece of each, without telling her which was which. She voted in favor of Nueske's. Then, tonight, while I was smoking the pork roast, I put three pieces of Dailey's on the grill to see if I could smoke them and get the same result as frying. I could not. After an hour of smoking them at 200 degree's, they were as crispy as should be desired (though I know there are weirdo's out there who prefer burnt bacon), with none of the usual shrinkage you see in the frying pan, and considerably darker than usual. I blotted the grease off of them, and took a bite. After an hour of smoking, Dailey's tasted almost as good as Nueske's, but was thinner, and somehow still felt greasy. Now more than ever, I want to make my own bacon.<br /><br />The pork had been smoking, at a pretty steady 175-200 degrees since 12:30, over plain applewood chunks, Sublimely Self-Righteous applewood chunks, and a small tin into which I had poured the excess Self-Righteous and Apple Cider mixture, and at almost 6 o' clock, the center temperature had finally reached 160 degrees. The Brown sugar/cinnamon rub (with a few dashes of salt) had long since crystallized on the exterior, making a sticky crunchy bark. The baked beans, scalloped potatoes, artichokes, apple sauce, salad, and sweet potatoes were just being set on the table. This mountain of meat was so beautiful I wish I had planned theme music for it to enter to. After letting it relax for a bit (just enough time to hurry through my salad and clear some room on my plate), I cut into this experiment in mixed flavors. The smoke ring was a full 1/4 inch into the meat. I gave a slice to my dad, to Jaason, to my mom and Silas, and finally one for me. I didn't even want to drink my beer (which was Sublimely Self-Righteous ale) for fear it would hide some of the flavor of the meat. I believe I best expressed how it all turned out at dinner, when I said, "Sometimes.... I'm a really big fan of myself.".<br /><br />You could taste the pork, you could taste the applewood smoke, you could taste the ale, you could taste the apple cider, you could taste the brown sugar, and the cinnamon, and none of these flavors overwhelmed the others, each one working in perfect harmony with all the rest, and complimenting each other. It had everything covered. Sweetness, Saltiness, Savoriness, and Spiciness. It was flavorful in a way that you couldn't really over-look, but wasn't demanding. It made you take your time to really enjoy it, instead of just taking it at face value like can sometimes happen when things get smothered in barbecue sauce. This, without sounding too much like I'm praising my own genius (I am) was an intricate marvel of pork perfection. I might need to try more theoretical smoking. Up next, maybe cherry smoked chicken with a rosemary and balsamic vinegar rub, or pecan wood smoked lamb marinated in rosemary garlic lavender mint and lemon thyme olive oil. Thoughts?Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-6449304595182158492010-11-10T21:42:00.000-08:002010-11-10T23:34:09.584-08:00Spooktacular Halloween SpecialAlternate title: "Without a paddle"<br /><br />Day 9, Oct. 31st<br /><br />Happy Halloween. When I asked what everybody else was going to dress as, they said "a hunter", so I think I'll go as a mountain man just to be different.<br /><br />Today is the last day of the hunt. The plan is as follows: Mark and I will walk Hinton Creek bed with the pistol, and hope not to get eaten by a cougar. Papa and Pat will walk opposite hillsides next to the creek, and shoot any elk that we scare out of hiding. It's basically the same plan as before, only in a different location, probably with more water, more danger, and more walking for Papa and Pat. Grandpa will be posted up on a mountain top at first, and then drive down to the road where it meets the creek, and take us back up to camp one at a time. Maybe Mark will carry the cougar spear I made.<br /><br />Now, down into the belly of the beast.<br /><br />Down here in the thick damp creek bed, it's often difficult to gauge your progress... you feel like you're moving quickly and taking forever at the same time. We've determined that it will be best if we occasionally hit a stick against a tree to give the others some frame of reference for where we are, so nobody gets too far ahead of the others. Last night's rain has clung tenaciously to the leaves and branches of every tree and bush down here, but seems to tire of its grasp just as soon as we pass by.<br /><br />Mark and I were fortunate, about ten minutes in (though, again, it's hard to tell when you can't really see the sun, don't have a clock, and have been moving quickly and going nowhere), to catch a rare glimpse of a wild Uncle Pat in its natural habitat. Judging by the size of it's mustache, it must be around 55 or 60 years old, and has most likely sired about 4 bulls by this time in it's life.<br /><br />All of this tromping through thick wet brush has left our pants soaked through, which has left our long johns soaked through, which has left our socks soaked through, which has filled our waterproof boots full of water. We had been told, "there are places where you'll have to climb down waterfalls". We came to the top of one such waterfall, Mark on one side of the creek, I on the other, and I decided (wisely, I believe) that climbing down the rock face in such a wet condition would be an absolutely retarded idea. Mark, apparently, decided the same thing, and we both made for alternate routes. It was only about 20 feet high, but it was only about 20 feet that I didn't want to fall. I quickly found a sizable tree that had fallen into the ravine, which still had branches on it and wasn't too rotten. It was at just such and angle that I was able to put my feet on the remaining branches and climb down them like a ladder, while holding onto the more sturdy of the underbrush with my hand so that if the branches broke away under my feet, I would at least be holding onto something that would keep me from dying or having to go to the hospital. The farther along the creek bed we go, the more I think today would have been a good day to bring a machete.<br /><br />We came to a sort of clearing and stood for a bit, expecting that we were just a little ahead of Pat and Papa so we could rest momentarily. We were flanked by wooded hillsides, and the thick dark creek bed was right behind us. We stood as the lone golden spot within sight. Above us, the clear blue cloud dappled sky. Ahead of us, a mountainous granite cliff, jutting into the sky and dominating the landscape. At the top of this monstrous cliff.... a tiny flash of blaze orange which we both knew to be Grandpa and his hat. He flashed his signal mirror at us and we decided to keep pressing on. No sign of Papa, Pat, or any animals (except one grouse).<br /><br />We kept moving, switching back and forth over the creek as paths became too dense on either side. After roughly a year and a half of walking the creek bed, soaked through ten times, and assuming ourselves to be making much too fantastic of time to not be out ahead of the others by at least a mile, we climbed out of the creek, and up onto an open hillside. The funny thing about waterproof boots is that they don't let water in, and they also don't let water out. The funny thing about wearing boots that are full of water is that the water sort of stays warm until you stop and stand around for a minute or so. Then it's time to dump out your boots, wring out your socks, and pull down your pants so that the sun can dry out your long johns, whenever it's gracious enough to come out from behind the clouds.<br /><br />After a while (which was not long or warm enough for anything but my beard to fully dry out), we figure we must have misjudged either our timing, or their locations, and they are likely some distance ahead of us by now. Since it was sort of a "walk this way, and we'll see you when we see you" kind of hunt, and we don't have a walky-talky, we decide the safest, smartest, and driest course of action is to head back to camp, try to find batteries for Mark's walky-talky, and try to let them know not to wait for us. Mark, being in better shape than I am, was kind enough to stop and wait for me every time he got about 1,000 feet ahead of me, until I could catch my breath. I am convinced that distance up hill is longer than distance down hill. We saw more deer on the trek back. The only difference between these deer and ones that we'd seen previously was that I wished I could shoot the deer we saw before, and these ones I merely wanted to ride back to camp.<br /><br />Dead tired, still soaking wet, and wondering if we'd be able to make contact with the rest of the group and let them know not to wait for us at the bottom, we made our way back to camp to find Papa and Uncle Pat already there with a fire going. Pat, it turns out, had been in front of us, and Papa was on top of the adjacent mountain trying to swim through a bog or something. In the time we spent waiting for them and trying to dry out, they had hiked all the way down to the road, and got a ride back up to camp. Grandpa, for some reason, had given his walky-talky to Pat, who already had one, and was still sitting out in the wilderness somewhere. Don't worry, we didn't just leave him there. Mark went out to pick him up. I think he just drove up and down every road until he caught a glimpse of that bright orange hat.<br /><br />We've decoded to break camp a day early (and who could blame us?), head out, and spend a night in a hotel. No elk, but all alive and in one piece. I get to call Erika tonight.<br /><br />I think the French said it best when they said, in Latin, "Venari, ludere, lavari, bibere; Hoc est vivere!" - "To hunt, to play, to wash, to drink; This is to live!"Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-58787280785025846932010-11-09T20:48:00.000-08:002010-11-09T21:43:50.649-08:00SouvenirDay 8. Saturday, Oct. 30th.<br /><br />I burned my thumb on the edge of the stove this morning. Fortunately, I'm a manly man, and I didn't even wince until I was sure no one was looking.<br /><br />Uncle Pat and my dad went up to the elk convention center this morning, hoping to find them all sleeping... or at least just standing around with their fingers up their noses. Grandpa took off with his gun and a chair, and will be sitting somewhere up the road. After we get more firewood cut (provided we can get Gabe's saw started) Mark and I will see if we can scare something up toward Pat and Papa. He refuses to carry the pistol, even though I'm sure he'd be a better shot if we got attacked by a cougar. Maybe, if we see one, I'll get the pistol out of the holster, and it will accidentally slip and land in his hand.<br /><br />With the men-folk gone, Mark and I spent the morning cutting, splitting, and stacking firewood to let it dry, and kept the home fires burning. Mark did the cutting, and brought the wood to me, and I split and stacked it. The only trouble with stacking the wood around the fire is that the wood at the bottom tends to dry out fastest, and is difficult to get to when it needs to be added to the fire. Sometimes it actually catches fire before we can get to it. We got so busy with firewood that the rest of the group came back to camp before we were ready to head up and meet them.<br /><br />In the afternoon, I walked up with Papa to where they'd been in the morning. We followed game trails up behind camp, and over a few hills until the wet ground flattened out and we were in what seemed like the heart of the forest. It was still somewhat cold and dark in there, but you'd catch glimpses of sunlight as it splashed on the ground, and the whole canopy seemed to be glowing green like the sludge that the Ninja Turtles rolled around in. We spread out a bit and took opposite sides of a fallen tree, and I found a small trail heading in the direction we wanted to go, so I followed it. I'm glad I did, because doing so meant I came away with a souvenir. Laying on the ground just off the side of the path, shining in a patch of sunlight as though God in Heaven was displaying it to me, signifying by divine providence that I would be King of the forest if I pulled it out of its resting place... was a mule deer antler. It wasn't quite as beautiful as I'd hoped to find. A year or two of weathering has left small cracks, and turned parts of it green... and it's nowhere near as attractive as a white-tail antler... but it's decent size, has four prongs, and hasn't been chewed to hell by wild rodents. So I'm keeping it, and happy to be doing so. Maybe I'll turn it into a hat rack that I won't be allowed to display in the house when I'm married. That's fine. It'll go better with the theme in my man cave.<br /><br />After sitting at the top of a draw, looking down a drainage (these are technical terms which I have learned to use properly, I think), and across a meadow, and not seeing any elk for roughly 3/4 of eternity, we decided to head back to camp. We made another trip up to the only place where there's ever a hint of cell service, and I was fortunate enough to actually get enough service to make a call... in the rain... on speaker phone, with my phone up over my head so I could get a signal. It was good to be able to talk to Erika for a little bit, but service cut out before I was able to tell her how much I love her and miss her. Stupid rain clouds getting in the way. Oh well, I'm sure she'll be reading this.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-90355524570090352002010-11-08T20:05:00.000-08:002010-11-08T20:59:44.076-08:00Into the whiled: In a RutDay 7. Friday, Oct.29th.<br /><br />One week in and only a few days left. Greeted by another beautiful Oregon morning. 40 degrees and drizzling. The whole panorama seems to be shades of green and grey. The plastic tube on Grandpa's hearing aid has gone missing, which gives us one more thing to hunt. Maybe we'll have more luck with this than with the elk. It's not in the back of the truck where he slept, and none of us noticed him having trouble hearing us last night before he went to bed, so we figure it's got to be around here somewhere.<br />Grandpa assumed correctly, it was back where he'd been sitting yesterday watching for elk. At least we have one successful hunt behind us.<br /><br />We decided to drive up the mountain and walk back down toward camp, Papa and me walking together, and Uncle Pat and Mark walking a little ways off. As we pull the truck up to the head of the trail, what should we see a small herd of, munching on grass up ahead of us but.... more stupid deer. We walked along quietly, stopping occasionally to look for any sort of movement in the forest. Walk. Stop. Walk. Stop. Walk. HOLY CRAP THAT GROUSE ALMOST FLEW RIGHT INTO MY HEAD. Those stupid birds sound like helicopters when they're flying.<br /><br />Uncle Pat and Mark, who had been moving along on our left side, saw a buck that got spooked and darted off, so they crossed behind us and went off to the right. As we're about 50 yards away from a clearing we slow down even more, so that we can be sure not to scare anything off, if anything should happen to be out there... which, given our history, is not entirely likely to be anything but deer, squirrels, and birds. Peering beyond the trees, and across the field... it looks like giant mountains of dry grass are running up the hill. Rolling, as if the field was a blanket being shaken by one end. Finally something encouraging. It's a herd of elk, and they can't be more than 100 yards away. Damn these trees!<br /><br />It's no wonder elk are so hard to find. They're like giant hairy forest ghosts. With a hide the color of dead pine needles and dry grass, legs the color of fallen trees, and antlers that look like branches, they could hide almost anywhere they wanted... and their ability to be standing right in front of you one second and completely out of sight the next kind of helps me understand how more primitive people could think that gods or spirits would sometimes show themselves as animals. We went out into the field and met up with Mark and Pat, who were looking at the ground, noticing how many beds there were, and how fresh all these tracks and droppings looked. They hadn't been fortunate enough to actually see the elk. My dad was just glad that I had seen them too, so he didn't have to question whether it was wishful thinking. It was like a herd of haystacks. Haystacks that disappeared, and could not be found.<br /><br />For the second hunt of the day, Mark and I are walking up a creek bed, trying to force anything that might be down there up the hill toward where the older men are sitting. I am hoping that my 'coon skin cap doesn't look too much like elk. I have Uncle Pat's pistol, my knife, machete, and binoculars... if I happen upon anything, I think I'm prepared. I hope I at least find some antlers.<br />Not successful. It was a good plan though.... or at least it would have been, had there been anything in the creek bed. It was, however, kind of nice to make a trek without wearing my backpack. I'm starting to get used to my boots, still not used to the elevation. Seeing as we were trying to be loud and scare things up the hill, it was a faster and more strenuous hike than any prior. Hopefully the rest of the hikes we do will not be so bad.<br /><br />After meeting up with Uncle Pat and Papa at the top of the hill, Mark and I decide to head back to camp and let them sit up there hoping to see more elk. Time to try and be useful (there's a first time for everything, right?). We drove all over the mountain looking for rocks, which we collected, and filled his truck bed with, then took back to camp to fill the ruts in the (now very muddy) road, so that trucks that are not quite as manly as Mark's truck (ahem, papa's 2 wheel drive Dakota) would have a better chance of making it out of camp. After carefully placing the rocks in the deepest, stickiest of the two ruts, in the tightest jigsaw pattern we could, we figured we could compact them into place a bit, so they wouldn't move around and pop someones tire later. Again... the best laid plans. Every single rock (even one that took two of us to roll and slide into place) simply squished out the side of the rut, along with some tree branches we had put in there earlier. Screw it, we'll just have to floor it on the way out and hope for the best.<br /><br />The other guys found what they described as being something of an elk convention center, with no elk. Kind of like hunting for nerds at the San Diego convention center, the day after ComicCon. The place was absolutely trashed, signs that a ridiculous number of elk had been laying there, and using it as a bathroom, but none of these elk could be found. The plan is to start there tomorrow morning, and hope we get up before they do. After that, we'll walk Hinton creek in the afternoon. Still haven't found any antlers.<br /><br />The stars are so beautiful that it almost makes me sad that I see them like this so rarely. And by "almost" I mean "really". And by "sad" I mean "angry".Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-91350689149890429192010-11-07T20:25:00.000-08:002010-11-07T21:07:45.570-08:00Into the whiled: Mama's BirthdayDay 6, Thursday, Oct. 28th<br /><br />The plan, I believe, is to take a break some time this afternoon to go up to the very top of the mountain, on the side nearest town, to try to catch a bit of a cell phone signal so that we can all call our others. I just hope the elk don't wait until then to come out of hiding. I'm looking forward to calling Erika if she's available, and if I can get a decent signal.<br /><br />We're heading out early so we can try to catch the elk while they're still brushing their teeth and putting on their make-up. It's raining, and 40 degree's. Fortunately, I sprayed my jacket with water-proofing twice, so I should be well covered. My dad got this scent blocker spray called autumn forest or something... and it smells exactly like what I was talking about in my facebook status last month when I said, "Jacob Smith wants cologne that smells like the Sana Cruz mountains. Not Santa Cruz. The Santa Cruz mountains." I may just have to steal it, and wear it around town... that is, if I ever go around town.<br /><br />On our way out to the stock pond, we came upon a clearing and stopped inside the tree line. Papa leaned up against a tree and looked one way, I stood between a couple of trees and looked the other direction. After about a minute of standing still and being quiet (my favorite game), I see some deer coming toward us. I say, "Deer, right behind you.". By this time, they were just a little under 30 feet away, and a few of them stopped when papa turned around... but most of them just kept on like they were going to run right through us. I hesitate for a moment, deciding whether I should reach for my knife on my right hip, or my camera in my left pocket. I decided on my camera, and when I reach for it, the rest of the deer stop and look at us like, "Holy crap! You two were trees a second ago!" The five does bolted off, and were out of sight almost instantly, but the buck stuck around and posed for a few seconds. Long enough for me to get a profile shot of him. He wasn't anything too impressive, just a forked horn, but considering he almost trampled us, I was happy to get a picture. I hope I don't have to be content with that being the only thing I get this week.<br /><br />We got up to the stock pond, and it seems just a little too late. The water was cloudy, and there were no elk around. We sat out of sight for a while, with the rain dripping down, hoping the trees would do a decent job of sheltering us... but it seems they were all too eager to be rid of the water collecting on them, and all too willing to dump it right on us, so we decided to hike back to camp. Along the way, we saw the tail ends of two more white-tail deer bouncing along through the forest about 50 feet ahead of us. Too bad it's not deer season.<br /><br />Mark showed up around lunch time. Papa and Grandpa went up to make calls, but there's only room for two in Grandpa's car, so I'll wait around, and hope Pat goes up to call Jeanine this evening, and I'll be able to go and call Erika. I like being out here away from everything... but the one thing I miss more than anything else... more than a soft bed, more than tv, more than all my internets, is being able to contact her whenever I want.<br /><br />The good thing about rain is that it disguises some of your noise. The bad thing is that my water-proofing didn't work. Second excursion, two more white tails and no elk. Seeing all this sign, and putting forth all of this effort, but not even catching a glimpse of what we're hunting... it's a little hard not to get discouraged. There have been so many near perfect opportunities for us to shoot an elk that only lacked one very important thing.<br /><br />I nearly threw my phone off of a mountain. "More bars in more places" is great, provided that all those bars don't disappear as soon as you hit send. Standing on the top of a mountain, on top of a rock, in the rain, trying to call, or text... holding the phone up above my head, looking like a crazy person. Nothing. As soon as my jacket sleeves were wet enough to wring out, I decided it was time to give up and go back to the camp fire. I'll have to try again later. As miserable as all of that sounds, I really am enjoying myself. The only thing that sucks is that the one person I would most like here with me probably wouldn't enjoy it us much as I am. Really, after a long wet day like today, I'll take a covered campfire over a heated house.<br /><br />By the way, since I wasn't able to call you: Happy birthday, Mama, I hope it was a good one.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-77598021777680625642010-11-06T17:19:00.000-07:002010-11-06T18:02:57.330-07:00Into the whiled: HuntDay 5: Wednesday, Oct. 27th.<br /><br />The snow is still covering everything. If this keeps up, the first day of actual hunting should be pretty easy, since we'll be able to see where they've been recently, and where they were going. Also, we'll be able to see where they've peed, since it apparently looks like anti-freeze. Neon colors tend to stand out well against a solid white backdrop. It's 28 degrees, feels more like 30. The sun is shining and the air is still. Ate breakfast and heard the obligatory dad speech, "anybody have to go before we take off?". The day had already started heating up by the time we got all our snacks, emergency supplies, and weapons packed.<br /><br />We came across some heavy elk tracks just up the road from camp, after crossing the drainage, but it was all muddled up and difficult to make out which way they'd gone, or how recently, so we kept going on the road, instead of following them. Through the barbed wire gate, followed the "leave it like you found it" gate policy, and made our way up to a rock outcropping at the top of a hill nestled between two, more heavily wooded, drainages that we were certain elk would be running through any minute. First wild-life sighting: two little ground squirrels... or maybe chipmunks. I don't know. They stopped their game of tag to look at us for about five minutes and then, presumably, run off and tell all the elk where we were.<br /><br />Sneaking through the snowy forest like we were, my dad in front (because he had a gun, and didn't want to have to aim around me if an elk suddenly came into view) saying things like "We can stop and wait here, or keep moving. Your call.", and occasionally asking if I saw anything, kept reminding me of those levels in Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare where your character is following his C.O. through a snowy forest, trying to make their way past Russian military. Slightly different though because, in the game, both characters have guns... and they're hunting people (and dogs)... and I was wearing a big blue back-pack. So it was kind of CoD4:MW mixed with Monty Python's Holy Grail, with me playing the roll of Patsy, my dad being Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, king of the Britons... and those squirrels being the French guards. In fact, I'm pretty sure I heard one of them call me a silly English Kunigit.<br /><br />We followed a game trail along the creek, through a thicket (I also kept picturing scenes from Bambi all day which, unfortunately, makes me the villain in the scenario), and found more relatively fresh elk signs, but no elk. Why don't they ever just hang out where we can see them easily... and wear blindfolds... and be tied to a tree or something? That would make hunting much more convenient.<br /><br />These boots were not made for walking, but that's just what they'll do. I'm in favor of any sport that includes walking through the forest, sitting for a long time, and not talking much. I should have used the bathroom before we left, like all the Dad's said. Will I never learn?<br /><br />Went back to camp for lunch, and went out on a second excursion. This time we came across a lot of elk tracks and some deer tracks. The elk prints looked like a large bull and a cow. I could tell because my dad told me so. Haven't heard many shots (which is surprising, with it being the first day of the season) so maybe they're still alive and waiting for us somewhere. We followed the tracks to a stock pond that looked pretty well used. Big deep prints in the mud all along the bank, and cloudy water around them makes me think it's been visited recently. There's a good view of the field below from inside the tree line. Even without the binoculars I can see a decent number of beds out there. This will be a good place to start out in the morning. We set it as a way-point on the gps and headed back to camp. Tonight will be another night of sleeping on a mattress of shirts, but it's actually not as bad as it sounds. I don't know what all those homeless people are complaining about all the time.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-50334070329900500072010-11-05T21:47:00.000-07:002010-11-12T00:11:40.624-08:00Into the whiled: Near CatastropheDay 4. Tuesday, Oct. 26<br /><br />There was snow all over the ground when I woke up. It wasn't thick, but it was beautiful. The tarp over the fire pit/seating area was sagging with it, but we got a fire going, and it all melted, and then turned into steam in pretty short order. Left-over beef stew for breakfast.<br /><br />The desire to stay warm has kept us in pretty constant need of more firewood, so we've taken to cutting limbs off of the large dead trees laying on the hillside behind camp, which is mostly done with the axe and hand saw, but we also noticed that there's a dead stand just on the other side of the bathroom. This will require Gabe's chainsaw. Knowing that I have experience cutting down trees (since I had been talking about having done it for a living), the job was given to me. Cut down the tree, and don't smash the bathroom. Pretty simple. It's slightly more nerve wracking to have people watch you while you're cutting it down... especially when they're all mountain men. You don't want to look like an incompetent kid in this company. Aside from starting to cut a little higher than 18" from ground level (I guess that's the forest service maximum for felled tree stumps) all went well, the tree went where I wanted it, the saw didn't bind up, and nobody got cut in half. This is good dry redwood that we can use to dry out the other wood we have stacked around the fire pit. The thermometer says it's 32 degrees, which means it's already warming up.<br /><br />While Papa and Uncle Pat make sure their sights are accurate, by shooting bottles, cans, and empty propane tanks they've set up on some logs, I carve the bottom half of the sapling from yesterday (the top half of which became Erika's walking stick) into a cougar spear. I shaved off all of the bark, and carved the shaft down til it was comfortable to get my hand around, and left a rough ridge around the pointed end so that, if any of us should need to use it, it won't just stab in and pull out. If I have to stab a cougar, I don't want to just piss it off and let it go. After I get it all fire hardened, and carve "Cougar" into the shaft, I think I'll leave it over by the bathroom so that no one gets caught with their pants down, so to speak.<br /><br />Watching my dad and uncle shoot at cans, bottles, and propane tanks, while my grandpa watches them happily, it became apparent to me that boys never really grow up... they just get better toys. I can't really be sure, but I think it might be kind of the same with girls. Maybe we become more responsible (maybe we don't) or self sufficient (or not), but if you get us out of our usual lives, get us into our element, we're still those kids who pretend we're Davey Crockett surrounded by Injuns, or U.S. Marshall's hunting down the James gang... thank God that imaginative and joyful spirit never really leaves us... I think we'd be truly miserable without it.<br /><br />We had piled a bunch of thick branches on the fire because they were full of sap and burned hot, and we were just getting ready for dinner. The water kettle relinquished its usual perch on the swinging grill over the fire to make way for the Dutch Oven, king of camp-fire cooking units, and instead took a place balancing on one of the rocks that made up the fire pit. Having filled the oven with what we were all sure would be another delicious meal, my dad had put it onto the grill and began swinging it back over the flames when, without warning....... his knee bumped into the water kettle, dousing the flames entirely. With very little dry wood around, we all were disheartened, and jumped up to try to figure out a solution. All seemed lost when, just as suddenly as it had gone out, fire jumped up from certain parts of the wood where sap had been oozing out. Steadily the steam turned back into smoke, and smoke into flame, and we were back in business.<br /><br />The snow had melted sometime mid day, but the temperature has dropped again, and flakes are falling again, larger than before, and the wind has certainly picked up.<br />It's strange, out here where I don't have my cell phone or iPod on me (which I usually use in place of a watch), because I don't go by time of day. I wake up when I'm done sleeping, get up when I have to pee, eat when I'm hungry, go to sleep when I'm tired, and never once consider what time it is. Everything revolves around daylight, hunger, and energy. I assume someone must have a clock, or a watch, but I have no need for such things out here.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-2018219518128761532010-11-05T00:14:00.000-07:002010-11-05T16:04:40.969-07:00Into the whiled: HikeDay 3, Monday Oct. 25th<br /><br />This morning, when I was forced out of my nice warm sleeping bag by my insistent bladder, the ground was not nearly as mushy as it had been before. It wasn't that it had dried out... it had frozen solid. There was snow falling gently, the way it does in movies whenever a Christmas miracle is about to happen. The wind, pushing the soft puffs of frosty beauty around in the air like tiny dancing fairies..... or some analogy much more manly. As if fresh snow wasn't enough, we're having bacon with breakfast today. Oh joy, oh rapture. That wasn't meant to sound sarcastic.<br /><br />This is the day we decided it was time to get a toilet built. There is a group of pine trees not far from camp (but far enough that we shouldn't be able to smell the toilet while cooking or eating meals) that we've decided will make the perfect support for our ghetto outhouse (and here you thought regular outhouses were ghetto). Uncle Pat is the primary engineer on this job, and it's a good working environment where the rest of us feel free to make suggestions as we see fit. We cut some pine saplings, 2 to 3 inches across generally, to be the beams the toilet seat would sit on, and screwed them at what seemed a comfortable height onto the trunks of the main trees. Don't worry, hippies, we didn't hurt the environment, we only cut small trees that were growing so close to larger trees that they would either die slowly from lack of water and sunlight, or grow taller and become a fire hazard to more established trees. Our crapper was one way in which we were protecting the forest. As one American Hunter magazine recently noted, "hunters make the best conservationists". After we put the beams and seat over the hole, we each did a dressed rehearsal to see if it was sturdy enough. The front beam sagged a little too much for our liking, so we cut a couple of legs out of some scrap we had left over, and screwed them in place. That seemed to work just fine. We wrapped it with tarps, put the shaved pine boughs on the ground at the foot of the throne (which helped mask the scent a bit, and acted as a visual barrier), and put a can full of ashes next to the seat. I also had brought a strawberry scented candle with this in mind, which I set next to the seat to be lit when the outhouse was in use. We're not complete barbarians.<br /><br />With one of the most important elements of camp all taken care of, we decided to go off on a hike, to get more ideas about where we were hunting. In the fresh snow we saw elk tracks, deer tracks, and cow tracks pretty clearly... some pretty close to camp. We walked down the road a bit (or up, rather... sort of the theme of the day) and hooked off across a field into a heavily wooded area, which is where elk like to hang out. Apparently, animals that are food like to hang out where animals that try to eat them don't like to hang out. The snow is sticking to the ground less now, and the rising sun is dispatching what little had held there in the first place. We've come across a few areas that we can see they've been laying, some game trails, and a scrape (which we've established is much too low to be an elk). If you don't know what a scrape is, watch Bambi... right before we get informed about animals being twitterpated, Bambi makes a scrape on the tree, which rubs the bark off of the tree, and the velvet off of his antlers. It also sharpens them, making them perfect for when he wants to roast a bunch of marshmellows all at once... though that part got cut out of the movie because it took away from the drama of the forest fire scene. We also saw a couple of deer, as they bounced away from the other side of a clearing and into the forest.<br /><br />After making a decent sized loop away from camp, and up to the top of "the bowl" (the valley we're camping in), we decided it was time for snacks. Fortunately, the top compartment on my backpack is stuffed with them. After some refreshments, uncle Pat hands me his 9mm Taurus pistol, and flips the safety into "you sure as hell better not be pointing this at anything you don't intend to shoot" mode, and I take aim at a knot on a tree about 35 feet in front of me and squeeze the trigger. This thing doesn't kick as much as my 30-06 rifle does. Perhaps distracted by the fact that the gun didn't try to jump out of my hands, I didn't see where (if anywhere on the tree) my bullet hit. I turn the gun a bit to the side, to make sure that the safety is off, but neglect to take my finger off the trigger (rookie mistake). This thing really does not take much pressure to get it to fire. The bullet darts off into the forest to my left, and the rest of the company jumps back a bit, except uncle Pat, who probably didn't even hear the gun go off. Lesson learned: the finger stays off the trigger until you mean to shoot.<br /><br />Heading back to camp, we decide to take as straight a path as the trees and the barbed wire fences would allow. It worked out well to have a gps that worked off road... unlike mine. The one we used also doesn't have a russian accent, and doesn't tell you "In 500 feet, turn right." 20 seconds after you were supposed to turn. The thick brush on the way back and the lack of desire to go anywhere other than directly ahead meant it was convenient that I had my machete strapped to my back pack. I successfully chopped my way back to safety.<br /><br />Back at camp, a whole lot of nothing to do.... which is actually fine by me. It gave me time to focus on important things. "What kind of important things?" you ask? The important kind.<br />I took the top of one of the saplings we had cut down (but turned out not to need), and cut off the smooth green bark from most of it, and carved out what I believe to be a perfectly Erika sized walking stick. Since she's not here to use it, I'll have to bring it back with me and give it to her some time. I also cut a notch on the uphill side of the already cut section of the thick part of the stick and made it look like a deer hoof. After fire hardening the whole thing, and actually burning the deer hoof section for color, it's ready for use.<br /><br />The rest of the day was spent perfecting Erika's walking stick, changing something about it every time I look at it, dodging the smoke, eating, and dodging more smoke. Now I'm off to bed before any more of my words run together. Good night, Neverland.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-30489421260433926982010-11-03T23:33:00.000-07:002010-11-11T22:56:48.728-08:00Into the whiled: ScoutingDay 2. Sunday, Oct. 24th.<br /><br />No such luck. Woke up about half an hour into the night on an entirely deflated mattress. I did manage to go back to sleep pretty quickly. The rain has cleared up, which is good because we're taking off on our first hike today, to get an idea of some good places to find elk. We piled into uncle Pat's truck and drove up a few different logging roads. Walking around on the top of Bone Ridge or something, we found a few different game trails to walk and check for elk signs (hoof prints, droppings, beds) I noticed Grandpa was walking off on his own in a different direction than uncle Pat and my dad, so I figured I'd sort of follow him. Something tucked in among the foliage on the forest floor caught my eye. Appeared to be the lower section of a deer leg. At first I figured it was a scrap that fell off of a mountain lion's table, but a closer look showed the leg to have been cut, not torn, which means that it must be human. What's more, the fact that it's still a few weeks before deer season around here means it's poachers. There are a lot of people who give hunters a bad name, but I think poachers might be the worst of them. They don't care about managing herd sizes, or maintaining healthy ecosystems, or any real sort of hunting ethics. They care about getting their trophy, their meat, or their payment, and not getting caught or having to pay. Uncle pat says a lot of poachers will sell their meat to local restaurants or the Indians.<br /><br />We also saw what seemed to be the remains of a turkey, and some elk prints, droppings, and beds. toward the end of our walk I found a big pile of hair, and a hide that looked like a deer had slipped it off and left it on the floor, too lazy to toss it into the laundry bin. Further evidence that poachers just wanted to get in, get some meat to sell, and get out.<br /><br />As the rest of the men stood around a little stock pond, I decided I wanted to do more exploring, so I climbed up on a rock pile and looked off in the distance with my binoculars. Uncle Pat took a picture of me, which I will probably put as my profile picture when I get back. I must say, I look like quite the adventurer.<br /><br />Finally got to see the nearly full moon tonight as it crested the tree tops. Hopefully the skies stay clear.<br /><br />Sitting around the camp fire, with the inconstant wind never making its mind up about where it wants to blow the smoke, is an exercise in patience/not swearing too much in front of your grandpa. It's ridiculous, and I'll probably have lung cancer by the end of the week. Going to try to sleep on a deflated mattress again. Wish me luck.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-29141384618425405892010-11-02T21:19:00.000-07:002010-11-11T22:53:10.969-08:00Into the whiledSo, I recently went on a trip with my dad, up to the Ritter unit of the Umatilla national forest, outside of Dale, Oregon, to hunt elk. I'm blogging the trip now from what I wrote in a notepad while I was up there. I figure this is easier than telling everyone about it individually.<br /><br />Saturday, Oct. 23rd, 2010<br />Day One. The Drive.<br /><br />We left the house at around 3 am or something ridiculous like that. We had to get Mama to the San Fransisco airport, and we had a 13 hour drive ahead of us. We headed up 395, I think, and by breakfast time (or rather, the time our stomach's started growling and our eye lids decided we needed caffeine) we were in Williams, California. You know the place. No Starbuck's in sight (I know. Frowning emoticon) so we stopped at a McDonald's. That's fine, even though I know they're not actually food, I still love Bacon Egg and Cheese McGriddle's. There's a middle aged man and a mid 20's girl in there wearing camoflage, which of course means we're going to talk to them. They're on their way to go duck hunting. We're on our way to go Elk hunting. We're from Los Gatos. They're from Sebastopol (Seb-aa-stuh-poll). She didn't seem to remember my friend, Forrest, (who I figure she went to school with) until I mention that he was approximately 100 feet tall and was a poll vaulter, though he could just as easily have been the poll. Bellies full, eyes open, and back on the road. It's a while before we see any sunlight, but that's fine because it was also a while before we got to anywhere that was really beautiful. In case you were ever considering taking a sight seeing tour straight up the middle of California, don't. As the sun rose, so did our elevation, and we were driving up through the pillared halls of the mountain king, and suddenly through huge grassy flat-lands in mountain valleys, and then back into woodlands and up along winding roads. We'd get to look out, over the valleys as we carved our way along the side of the higher hills, at what must (in the winter) really be like a picture print by Courier and Ives. I really wish my camera was faster, and took higher quality pictures some times, because I can't fully explain how beautiful these areas were. Simultaneously quaint and vast, green and gold, antique and timeless. There are trees up here I'm not sure I've ever seen. The cathedral spires of ever-green trees that hem us in on every side are interrupted occasionally by sparkling explosions of yellow from Valley Oak, Aspen, (maybe) Birch, and Tamarack (the only deciduous conifer I know of)<br /><br />The closer we got to the Oregon border, the more steadily the air grew full of water droplets. The moisture in the air and the angle of the sun gave us the rare opportunity to actually chase a rainbow. Directly to our right at first, and later moving along about 20 feet in front of us was a double rainbow.... all the way across the sky. It was even starting, at one point, to look like a triple rainbow. I couldn't even fully capture it on my camera. It was.... so intense.<br /><br />We saw a pretty large herd of prong horned antelope (which I'd never seen in the wild) laying down in a field. I wanted to throw a rock at them so I could see the fastest land animal on the continent in action, but I didn't have a rock, and they seemed content to just be lazy bastards.<br />We had lunch at a diner in "The tallest town in Oregon", got our elk tag at a little sporting goods store, and made it up to Dale by late afternoon and met Uncle Pat at the turn off for the dirt road into camp. Fortunately, we got there with plenty of light left in the day, and got the tent set up and air mattresses inflated. Mine doesn't seem to be holding air too well, so we'll see how the night goes. It's a good thing everybody brought so much rope, and so many tarps, because we now have a covered kitchen area, and a covered sitting area around the fire in case it rains or snows like the weather report says it will. Speaking of which, tonight is the Hunter's Moon (second full moon of fall), not that we'd be able to tell, what with the clouds being so thick. The temperature's dropping, and all the caffeine's wearing off, so I'm going to crawl into my sleeping bag, put in my ear plugs, and hope I'm not sleeping on the hard ground by morning.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2531348249471219806.post-34350466667565311832010-07-07T17:27:00.000-07:002010-07-08T00:17:15.583-07:00Walk Softly and Carry a Big StickEvery time I go to Home Depot, two things happen. 1) the garden center makes me wish I had my own house, and enough money to buy and plant whichever plants I chose. 2) the tool section makes me wish the Zombie Apocalypse would just hurry up and happen so the world would descend into anarchy and I could go steal the things they have there which would be useful in my attempts to survive and fight off my undead attackers. Here, for your reading and daydreaming pleasure, is a list of things which would be useful and/or necessary for a life on the run from undead predators. Not all of these things can be found at Home Depot, so you might also want to check places like sporting goods stores.<br /><br />For surviving the undead:<br /><br />* metal frame back pack... nothing too cumbersome... to carry your gear while leaving your hands free to fight and protect yourself. http://www.backcountry.com/outdoorgear/JAN0312/JanSport-Scout-Backpack-3850cu-in.html<br />* sturdy, breathable safety gloves to protect your hands from cuts and scratches. http://www.atbshop.co.uk/images/dakine/dakine_crossx_glove_i.jpg<br />* safety glasses for uv protection, and to keep blood out of your eyes.(sunglasses and vision enhancing yellow lenses if possible) http://www.eyesafety.4ursafety.com/kazbek-sk112.jpg yeah, sorry, they're going to make you look like a douche.<br />* machete (many great uses) http://4gwar.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/machete1.jpg<br />* dust masks so blood doesn't get in your mouth on accident. http://talasonline.com/photos/safety/3m_dust_mask.jpg<br />* small bolt cutters because you never know when or where you're going to need to hide. http://laudeman.com/bugimages/tool08.jpg<br />* Estwing 26" vinyl grip campers axe, perfect size, weight, and shape for clubbing and chopping from enough distance to keep you out of reach, as well as being useful for more typical purposes. Has soft grip with shock reduction and ergonomic shape. comes with sheath for easy carry. http://www.campmor.com/estwing-long-handle-campers-axe.shtml<br />* Stanley FatMax Xtreme FUBar Functional Utility Bar. Hammer, pry bar, pipe wrench. Comfortable grip. Multi-tools are great because they save space and increase your ability to maintain safety. http://www.amazon.com/Stanley-55-099-FatMax-Functional-Utility/dp/B000FCGS0Y<br />* Leatherman (or similar multitool) because... well really, what CAN'T you use one of these for? They're like Swiss Army knives only better. It's a good idea to get it with a belt clip. http://www.laserforums.com/forum/attachment.php?attachmentid=664&d=1262435435<br />* Camelbak. Handsfree hydration. When you use water purification tablets or can boil the water without the zombies seeing your fire, this can be one of your greatest allies. https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhik4FL-vmtLwr7LVpQa3LZUb1E3ga1NKD6HSRNG_ejUhDpZO4QHwYFREYNWNddZ5k0uEZlgoqISPbzz3O4e8tKPDyQF67jRhN0mbYnXwprYu563Lgda_BDYylfQgBu0YGK7o9PuGCIuNfM/s320/camelbak.jpg<br />* http://slowrollingforfunandprofit.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/zombie-survival-guide.jpg<br />* The most up to date survival guide you can get your hands on. This should include a list of general survival tools you will need, which should include but not be limited to<br />* waterproof matches.<br />* magnifying glass.<br />* light weight rope.<br />* metal canteen (can hold water as well as be used for boiling).<br />* comfortable, well broken in, running shoes.<br />* Knife sharpener<br />* etc.<br /><br />You may have noticed, I did not include any guns or explosives. While I am a fan of things that go boom in the night, light and noise are likely to attract more zombies. Guns need ammunition, and the idea is to only use those things when absolutely necessary. Be a zombie fighting ninja. Walk softly, and carry a big stick.<br /><br /><br />any specific awesome tools of undead destruction and human survival you think should be added to the list? Leave its name, and a link, in a comment.<br /><br />Edit: Sorry the links didn't post as links. Copy/paste into a different tab to get a better idea of what I'm talking about.Jake the Ripperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07895438661223191140noreply@blogger.com1