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Review: Fordham Copperhead

March 1, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

It was in that pub, appropriately old and charismatic, that they decided to meet, meet and rekindle a friendship that had long ago been extinguished by the complication and tribulation of growing to adult from child. For years he’d held an image of her in his head: eighteen, dirty-blonde hair tangled in the sea breeze, a simple smile against the backdrop of summer sand, a swirl of love and lust.

He’d held onto this perfect version of her for so long that the twenty-five years between memory and present seemed inconsequential. To think she had remained a pristine object of juvenile attraction was ridiculous, as he saw in himself almost no resemblance to the teenager he had been. He no longer chased an idealistic boyhood dream, but instead settled into the comfort of events expected. He’d made his career accidentally, falling from one unplanned, unwanted success to another, until he had reached a position too deeply buried in the expectations of those around him to ever pull himself free.

He arrived early, emotions flaring in his stomach, nervous in a way he hadn’t known since first held-hands, first tongue-kisses, and first pseudo-romance. His work had instilled in him an almost necessary fearlessness, but this was no corporate merger or board meeting or greedy executive to be manipulated. For once, he did not have the upper hand. For once, he would be on the defensive.

He ordered a beer.

Stealing furtive glances at the door did not help calm his mind. He agonized over what he’d say, how he’d sound, how his hair looked. Their fates had slipped apart long ago, each taking a path completely unlike the other, each eventually finding happiness in a world where those hushed promises, whispers in the backseat of an old truck, were nothing but fragments of another forgotten reality.

As the halfs lurched into hours, his nervousness dissolved into disappointment. The bottom of his glass felt like the bottom of his heart, nearly empty, the fizz of excitement all but spent and released into the nothingness of the night. He checked to make sure he hadn’t come to the wrong place or come on the wrong day. He checked for missed calls or an overlooked text. He checked to make sure he hadn’t missed her sitting at the bar nursing a glass of chardonnay, waiting on him like he was waiting on her.

He ordered another beer.

For weeks he’d known this was a bad idea, a stupid flailing grasp to reclaim some part of his youth in the same way some men buy sports cars or divorce a perfectly amazing woman to marry an amazingly imperfect one. But he’d agreed and she’d agreed and he’d convinced himself a shared drink and a few hours wouldn’t tear open the wound he’d spent decades stitching back together.

The abandonment reared, hissing forked tongue insults of I-told-you-so. Loneliness, a pit viper hidden behind blue eyes, sunk its teeth into his heart, replacing the pumping red of life with corroded copper acid. He had lived with so much regret over her that it seemed fitting to leave with a little bit more.

As he swung his jacket around his shoulders and downed the rest of his orange painkiller, he turned to pay his tab. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something: forty-three, dirty-blonde streaked with subtle grey, a simple smile against the backdrop of barren bar, a swirl of longing and lament.

"At the innermost core of all loneliness is a deep and powerful yearning for union with one's lost self."

“At the innermost core of all loneliness is a deep and powerful yearning for union with one’s lost self.”

Review: Dogfish Head My Antonia

August 16, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

This post is dedicated to Ed at The Dogs of Beer. He’s a passionate pub-patron crawling the local Delaware beer scene, and you should really go read his blog. It’s funny and full of expert opinions on local craft.

(As a side note, I really think Ed should know that Googling, “Dogs of Beer” comes up with this link before his blog. Awesome.)

Because Ed’s ‘hood is our country’s first state, I opted to review a native Delawarian beer. I love Fordham Brewing (of Dover), but I couldn’t find the right beer to do Ed justice. I settled on large “pint-and-then-some” bottle from everyone’s favorite beach brewery, Dogfish Head.

Dogfish Head – My Antonia (an inner monologue of an exhausted, overworked grad student):

Get home late from Monday night class. Could go for a beer. Should also take pictures for a blog post. Also very, very hungry. Sleepy, too. Conflicting baser priorities!

Wife is out of the country. She’s usually really helpful with this whole “being an adult” thing. Could just eat some frosted flakes and go to bed, but somehow that seems barbaric. Even slightly cavemanish.

OK, beer first. No, food. No, sleep. Wait, where’s the camera? Screw this, multitasking.

Bread! Bread is good. This bread is pretty stale. Oh well, slice it up anyway. Or just crumble it into pieces. Whatever.

The bread needs something. Hummus? Yea, hummus. Smells kinda really bad. Beer kills germs, right? Just dip the hunks of rock-bread into the hummus like crackers. No one is here to judge you except the cat. Stop judging me, cat.

Rock-bread should be called thirst-bread. Crack the beer, pour into the glass. Lots of hops! This is a continually hopped imperial pilsner that smells like a pale ale and is the same color as the birch wood of my IKEA table. I’m OK with it. Take a hearty swig to wet my whistle. Tongue and throat are overwhelmed with flavor. Head spins with fatigue and delight.

There is a heavy, sweet aftertaste. Hummus goes well with it, but something is missing. Dig around in the fridge. Half-rotten cucumber? Nah. Some day-old spaghetti still sitting in the strainer? Um, no. A not-expired package of thinly sliced Hillshire Farms honey roasted turkey breast? Score! Go meat!

When the cat’s away, the mice will barely be able to clothe and feed themselves. They will also sleep through their alarms and be late for work.

Mmmm, turkey goes well with stale bread and questionable hummus. Even better with the cascade of noble hops that come from my next sip of My Antonia. Decide to fill the glass to the brim, because let’s not kid ourselves, I’m going to drink all of this right now.

Beer fizzes enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically. Starts to near top of glass. No signs of slowing. Suck foam off of top in a vain attempt to prevent overflow and spillage of precious beer. Spill beer, scare cats. Swear. Find paper towels and clean up mess.

TV? I guess. Futurama! Shit yea! This assortment of flavors is actually really tasty. My Antonia is a flavor enhancer. Write that down. Take pictures before you drink it all, moron.

Slight buzz + long day + very tired = thinking my photos are the height of modern art.

Pictures look good. Getting pretty tired. Should probably sleep. Nice taste in my mouth to go to bed: hops, honey, hummus.

I think Ed would like this beer. I should write a blog post about that. It’s like a pilsner and an IPA had delicious brew-babies. Write that down.

9.5 out of 10.

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