By: Chasse Gunter
I know it could be in poor taste to write an excuse into a beer review, but I have excuses fit for print (and ten fingers to point with). You know how big of a pain it is to move, right? It’s a universally shared annoyance un-equaled by even the ringing ears that follow a good slap to the face or being hungover and working at the same time. Though moving is as annoying as I said, if you’ve never moved you have bigger issues my friend and should stop reading now to pack your bags: the world’s much bigger than [your street here] of [your home here] , [your state here]. Anyways, multiply the single amass-able ass pain of one big move by six and you got my situation. For a more accurate ass-pain equation, add in a car engine explosion, a break up and several unexpected deaths.
Alchemists wasted hundreds of years trying to turn lead into gold and my only dream is to meld excuses into high numbers with plus and dollar signs sandwiching them. Bottom line here is a glass half full approach—which, upon further digging, is a uniquely First World metaphor: we have glasses and water to put in them. Frankly, most of the world does not have either, so all are glasses are half full. I have places to pack all my luxuries in and move into, albeit annoyingly often. And, I had a car and loved ones to lose in the first place. I’ve been trying to bring you close to my point of anguish so that we may raise fists to the sky at an affliction that effects all the planets inhabitants, in various degrees (literally) and calender dates (geographically). Lets pour one out and sit in a moment of angry silence in observance of summer time’s untimely death. The only thing I’ve been putting off more than unpacking and selling my car for scrap is reviewing a fall beer. I wish I had bigger problems so this one wouldn’t crush me so—actually, I don’t.
Though reluctant, I’ll admit, there are some downright amazing autumn craft beers—especially in Washington (the state, not the one with the white building in it). Looking though my diamond plated first-world beer goggles: at least I have something tasty to drink indoors while the stupid leaves outside fall to the cold ground and turn stupider colors than they started out as. I guess I’ll drink to that.
First Impression: For the first time ever, I bought a single beer from a six-pack to see if I could. And you can. Also, I’m not allowed to drink at my current housing location, and a single beer is much easier to sneak in and out (as they have nothing to clank against). I turn the sink on to cover the sound of bottle opening and shove my nose to the top of the freshly opened bottle and sniff in hard, attempting to smell though my congested nose. Nothing. I clear my nose and and try again. I finally catch the scent—it smells of the wafting odor the escapes the flesh wound of a freshly sliced Jack-o-Lantern to be. The best of the worst times is approaching. There is also a hint of caramel and nutmeg.
Pour: I dump some out on a plate for some idea of the color. A beautiful amber-orange color. I swish a wallop in my mouth, sensing an immediate toasted pumpkin flavor and lingering hints of nutmeg and clove. I was pleased that this beer did not have either the pure pumpkin puree-like flavor or the artificial taste (I haven’t actually ran into anything fake tasting this year). I can taste the highly boasted of seven pumpkins per barrel.
Final impression: (while shaking fist at sky) I express contentedness loud enough out of my mouth to probably be heard over the running sink. This is the alcoholic liquid version of pumpkin pie. I ask the beer god of summer what he has even close to that. I take the absence of a reply as nada with a capital N. By the last sip it did leave something to be desired—another five bottles. Sorry, I get corny during the harvest season.