• Beer Fridge
  • Home
    • December, 1919
  • Me?

Literature and Libation

Menu

  • How To
  • Libation
  • Literature
  • Other
  • Writing
  • Join 14,874 other followers

Browsing Tags maryland

Beer Review: Flying Dog Dead Rise Old Bay Summer Ale

May 21, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

Wooden mallets strike claws, sending fissures through crabby chitin, exposing the sweet, seasoned flesh beneath. Soft hands meet sharp shells, poking, probing, splitting, snapping; a modest labor for a morsel of meat. Twelve spices form a homogeneous cocktail with light lager and briny boil, resulting in a liquid unique to the summers of the Chesapeake watershed. The crustacean covered newspapers lining the tables tell a new story now, a story that to the outsider sounds like barbaric ritual, but to the native sounds like hallowed tradition.

Despite my international birth, I’m a Marylander. All of my education – from Jones Lane to Johns Hopkins – unfolded in the Old Line state, and I’ve called the marshy lands north of the Potomac home for nearly 25 years. There are those in other parts of the country who don’t understand Maryland’s insistence on maintaining a unique identity; those who find such cultural fervor from a small state cute, or quaint, or some combination there of. But the people of Ocean City, Baltimore, Annapolis, and Salisbury don’t just mindlessly crab and boil or Raven and Oriole, they hold high their state standard, proud that 9th smallest state boasts one of the biggest personalities.

A veteran of the picking art shows a tourist where and how to lift the plate to get at the blue gold in the body, like the master teaching the neophyte who reached the peak all the simple secrets of life. A little girl takes her time, building a mini-mountain of crab to eat all at once, while her older brother yanks white chunks out of cartilage lined crevices with the only tool he needs: his teeth. Corn on the cob sits cooked but idle, waiting for the pile of dusted red delight to give up the spotlight.

Maryland suffers from poorly built sandwich syndrome; its thin landmass pressed between the top bun of Pittsburgh, Gettysburg, Lancaster, and Philadelphia, and the bottom bun of DC, Shenandoah, Richmond, and Norfolk. New York City is only a 4 hour drive from our naval-steeped capital, and a brief jaunt south would have you in North Carolina before the sun fully lowered itself into a western bed. There’s a lot of artisanal bread for Maryland’s meat to contend with, and it knows it needs to taste damn good to get any attention when someone takes a bite of the East Coast.

The notes that haunt the humid air are distant but familiar – bluegrass, country, possibly Jimmy Buffet. The giant stock pot – already full of potatoes and garlic and onions – sits on open flame, slowly rising to boil as a bushel awaits fate. On the shore, seagulls have taken note of the feast, and caw their dinner bells to nearby friends, hoping to snag some scraps after the lungs, mustard, and empty shells have been tossed. As the sun begins to set, the hiss of bottle cap sighs fade into the backdrop of ten thousand cicadas.

You might expect a beer brewed with Maryland’s favorite crab seasoning to be nothing more than a well-marketed gimmick. But Flying Dog, after moving to Frederick after a few years in Denver, is one of the oldest functional breweries in the state. Like Heavy Seas and their nautical flair, Flying Dog understands what it means to be in this state, but also what it means to live in Maryland. What it means to wear purple during football season. What it’s like to contend with a parade of transient traffic as I-95 shuttles people to states external. What it’s like to pay a tax on rain.

Deposits of seasoning get stuck under your fingernails. Little cuts from shards and spikes sting when hands meet soap. The entire process means a lot of work and a lot of clean up, but the rewards, tangible and tantalizing, make the effort seem minor. Those who partake in the rituals of the bay go to bed satisfied, dreaming of food and friends and family and future.

The beer isn’t perfect; the smell hits you like a fishy breeze off of a populated wharf, and the Old Bay spikes a flag into your tongue, marking its savory territory despite the summer ale’s crisp attempt to quickly wash it down. But Maryland isn’t perfect either. It’s a hodgepodge of DC politicians and career fisherman, a swampy land swarmed with mosquitoes and mariners. Its weather can be extreme and unpredictable and relatively slow speed limits lead to some of the worst traffic in the country. But it’s a state that knows who it is, where it stands, and what it likes, by virtue of geographic necessity.

Flying dog tried to brew and bottle Maryland itself. Did it work? That ship’s still at sea. Either way, it’s a flattering homage, and I’m willing to bet a lot of Old Bay junkies just found the perfect partner for a summer romance.

"Have you ever watched a crab on the shore crawling backward in search of the Atlantic Ocean, and missing? That's the way the mind of man operates." - H. L. Mencken

“Have you ever watched a crab on the shore crawling backward in search of the Atlantic Ocean, and missing? That’s the way the mind of man operates.” – H. L. Mencken

Maryland Beer Bloggers Meet-up – Heavy Seas Brewery

February 24, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

I could wax social about how great it was to meet John, Jake, Doug, and Sean at the Heavy Seas Brewery this Saturday, but my voice is hoarse so I’ll let my camera do the talking.

270 degree panorama of the brewhouse and new bottling line

270 degree panorama of the brewhouse and new bottling line (clicky for biggy)

203
8
312
130
298
358
295
6
222
5
m10-2313-02-cat-meme-business-cat-02
343
350
093
3
7
4
198
327
181
m10-2313-02-cat-meme-business-cat-02
2
1
287
306

Maryland Represent!

October 11, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

I already gave a pretty thorough Oliver-centric roundup of Maryland beers in Bryan D. Roth’s Six-Pack Project. Those six were what I think the general beer drinking public should try for the sake of variation and exploration when they find themselves stranded, voluntarily or otherwise, near the Chesapeake.

But to honor of my fellow Marylanders out in the weird, highly-elevated wilderness of Denver, Colorado at the GABF, I put together a list of what I think are objectively the best beers from each of the breweries repping the Old Line State. Not just those few that I subjectively like, but those I think have been brewed with care and quality, that practically leap off the shelf and into your mouth, that stand a real chance of snatching a shiny medal.

Note: I am totally jealous and wish I could be there and this post is my poor attempt to participate from very far away.

mdbeers

1. Full Tilt Baltimore Pale Ale

This is the newest of the bunch for me, probably because it’s from one of the newest breweries in Maryland. Owned by cousins Nick Fertig and Dan Baumiller, Full Tilt brews its beer as part of a brewing co-op at Peabody Heights Brewing, which is only few flaps of a raven’s wings away from Johns Hopkins University.

Baltimore Pale Ale is impressive given that these guys (who graduated high school one year before me in 2002) only took up homebrewing in 2008, and released the beer to the public in December, 2012. For a mere five years of practice, it’s impressively balanced, harnessing Nugget, Columbus, Summit, and Crystal hops to create a piney aroma that entices, but doesn’t dominate the nose. At 6.3% ABV it’s a bit stronger than you’d expect from the incredibly clear amber ale, but any minor alcohol taste is covered by some well placed bittering hops and a puckeringly dry finish.

This american pale falls closer to an IPA in taste and hoppage than a traditional pale, but it’s still a damn fine beer. If Nick and Dan can keep up the quality, I expect great things from these guys in the future.

2. Flying Dog Raging Bitch Belgia-Style IPA

Flying Dog must have to overcome some nostalgia every time they head to GABF, as their original 50-gallon setup was located in Denver before they moved to the foothills of the Appalachians in Frederick, Maryland, in 2008. Even though the headquarters is still based in Colorado, all of the brewing is done in Maryland, and they’ve built quite a following with their local events and brewpubs. They have a long GABF history, first winning “The Best Pale Ale in America” for their Doggie Style Pale Ale in 1991.

Raging Bitch, including the PG-13 name, is a different breed of IPA. In a sea of hyper-bitter, hyper-hopped IPAs that lean heavily on the alpha acids and lupulin for taste, this “Belgian-style” IPA brings in a stronger bread and yeasty profile while still paying homage to the aggressive hopping of a true IPA.

It has that distinctive Belgian funk to it, partly medicinal, partly herbaceous. At 8.3% ABV I think “Belgian-influnced” may be slightly more appropriate than “Belgian-Style” as it’s missing the spicy sour of something I’d truly equate with a Brusselian masterpiece. Either way, it’s different and proud, which is sort of the modus operandi of Flying Dog at large.

3. Heavy Seas Loose Cannon IPA

I’m sort of a Heavy Seas fanboy. This pirate-themed brand is brewed by Clipper City Brewing, adding another name to the fine line-up of Charm City born beer. I live only a few miles from the brewery, have met the owner, Hugh Sisson (and a lot of his wonderful brewing staff), and by ratio, drink more beer from Heavy Seas than any other brewery (thanks to on-tap availability and the joys of Davy Jones Lager). I’ll try to remain as partial as possible.

Loose Cannon is the first Heavy Seas that ever bounced around that space between tongue and palate, back when I first found its regal purple label peeking out from the shelves of my local bottle shop. The official name is “Heavy Seas Loose Cannon – American Hop3 Ale” because they use a three pound mixture of Simcoe, Palisade, and Centennial hops per batch. The result is bitter, hoppy monster, that is delightfully complex and refreshing.

At 7.25% ABV it’s right where you’d expect a full-flavored IPA to fall, and any phenols from the extra alcohol are masked by the resinous pine of the hop triad. It’s a very dry, very drinkable beer that I often recommend to people who are looking for something approachable and still decidedly different from the boring, ABInBev gruel.

4. Evolution Brewing Lot No.3 IPA

I love Loose Cannon, but think No.3 has dug it claws into my little heart, firmly latching on like a hop-coated symbiote. The brewery – a transplant from Delmar, Delaware to the hometown of my undergrad alma mater, Salisbury, Maryland – is attached to a full service restaurant and cask-lined tasting room. In an interesting twist, Evolution produces no commercial lagers, instead focusing on various ales like their Rise Up Stout and this beautiful, buttery IPA.

Lot No. 3 throws a two pound mix of Columbus, Centennial, Cascade, Chinook, Amarillo at your face, resulting in an incredible citrus burst that somehow, despite the overwhelming eau de hop, does not destroy your tongue. The Centennials and Cascades steal the show when it comes to smell, but the Chinooks bring in the rear with a piney, spicy taste as soon as the mouth takes over for the nose.

There is something about this particular combination of hops and 2-row malts, sitting at a very drinkable 5.9% ABV, that sets my senses ablaze. Maybe it’s that local East Coast water. Maybe it’s Geoff DeBisschop’s master touch. Either way, this beer deserves recognition outside of the Delmarva scene.

5. Union Brewing Duckpin Pale Ale

The only canned exclusive on my list does not disappoint, squat aluminum be damned. This came at the recommendation of Doug at Baltimore Bistros and Beer during the Six Pack Project, and I’m so pleased he turned me onto this traditional pale ale from the third (and final) Baltimore-based brewery at the GABF. I’d been drinking their Balt Altbier, but have now seen the light, and know the real prize of Jones Falls hides inside the red and silver can.

Duckpin Pale Ale (brewed by Union Craft Brewing) is named after the oddly popular duckpin bowling – a variation on traditional bowling with smaller pins and a ball with no finger holes – which is popular up and down the East coast. There are very few (if any) duckpin bowling centers located West of the Mississippi. Weird.

This orange and amber colored ale, while not a “session beer” by purist standards, is incredibly drinkable. A righteous smoothness rides on the back of citrusy hops and a steady malt, while clocking in at a “let’s throw balls at pins all day” 5.5% ABV. I keep this in my fridge for when I have “non-beer” friends over (the list of who is dwindling, dramatically). I’ve converted more than one Miller Lite fan armed only with some bratwurst and a few cans of Duckpin.

So good luck to all my Maryland brewers out there! Bring home some gold!

The Six-Pack Project: Maryland

June 26, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

6pack logo

Maryland. The seventh state. That tommy gun shaped piece of land stuck between Virginia and Pennsylvania and Delaware. The state that gives the Chesapeake Bay a big, perpetual hug. The land of a million blue crabs and powdery mountains of Old Bay. Neither North nor South. Rural, urban, disturbingly suburban. My home.

Bryan over at This Is Why I’m Drunk tasked me with creating a collection of Maryland beer to be part of his Six-Pack Project. Most who intimately know Maryland summers think of Corona for their crab or Natty Boh for their, um, masochistic self-loathing rituals, but I have taken it upon myself to show you, visitors of our City by the Ocean, lore-seekers to our myriad Civil War ruins, what beer you should drink when you’re adventuring around the Old Line State.

I also had to beer-spar with Doug at Baltimore Bistros and Beer, in a Maryland, no-holds-barred, beer choosing free-for-all. I’m pretty sure he won, but I did OK. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t understand sports, especially not football. Check out his post for a full(er) description of the Fantasy-Beer draft process.

The other bloggers (who you should definitely go check out, because they are awesome) in this round are:

Lacey @ Once Upon a Stein – New York
Tom @ Queen City Drinks – Ohio
Douglas @ Baltimore Bistros and Beer – Maryland
Grant @ Hop Brained – Illinois
Tom and Carla @ Hoperatives – Kentucky
Max @ The Beginners Brew – California

1. Flying Dog Old Scratch Amber – Frederick, MD

oldscatchlagerDo you like Yeungling? Do you wish it was something more? Something bold and flavorful and confident in its grain bill? Have no fear, Flying Dog Brewing of Frederick, Maryland has you covered. Old Scratch Amber is everything Yuengs is – amber, light, easy to drink – while also being so many things it’s not – deliciously malty, slightly citrusy in its hoppage, mellow with no sour aftertaste.

Old Scratch isn’t going to send your socks flying from your feet with its taste or hops, but at 5.5% ABV, this is a smooth, refreshing lager, that you should definitely have around for those wild, humid Eastern Shore nights. It’s a perfect BBQ or lounge-on-your-neighbor’s-porch-on-a-perfect-summer-evening beer.

This amber has packed all its crap into boxes and moved full time into my fridge. You can find it pretty much anywhere in MD that carries Flying Dog. Definitely a go-to beer for me. Shit, I’m drinking one while I type this!

2. DuClaw Bare Ass Blonde – Bel Air, MD

bareassblonde

No list of Maryland beer would be worth anything without a DuClaw bubbler gracing its bulleted numbers. DuClaw, of Bel Air, just northeast of Baltimore, has a pretty impressive line up that includes some pretty unorthodox beers. A spiced Belgian. A toffee nut brown. The infamous Peanut Butter porter. And then there is this little gem, hiding behind a cheeky name and an understated appearance.

Duclaw is not shy with the malt. Bare Ass blonde is bare in color only; it carries an incredibly decadent malt flavor that comes through in the nose and taste of the beer. Seriously, so grainy. It’s like walking, mouth open, through a field of barley during harvest as a thresher hacks it all up.

This pale blonde ale is like Old Scratch in that it won’t come at you with any aggressive hopping; its Fuggle and Goldings are barely there. But it’s amazingly refreshing for a beer that rocks so much cereal flavor, making it a great beach brew. At 5% ABV you can drink a few and not be worried about being caught with your pants down.

3. Evolution #3 IPA – Salisbury, MD

"Natural selection, as it has operated in human history, favors not only the clever but the murderous." -Barbara Ehrenreich

I went to Salisbury University for my undergrad (SU English majors, holla!), but graduated well before Evolution set up shop a few miles from campus. It’s probably a good thing. A craft brewery basically in my back yard would not have been good for my GPA.

Would have been great for my IPA, though. I first bought Lot #3 on a whim; the green label caught my eye and I like things that are green. Imagine my surprise when I was hit with rapturous wafts of Columbus, Centenial, Cascade, Chinook, Amarillo that are so well balanced in the heart of this golden IPA.

This brew is so well done, I’m loathe to describe it, as I’m worried I won’t do it justice. The smell is one that will haunt you in the best way, like the perfume of your date hanging in the air long after she’s gone home. The luxurious head sticks around even after a calm pour, adding a smooth, opulent texture that I can only compare to a freshly buttered croissant. In Paris. While sitting across from a very attractive French person. Who is saying very sexy sounding things you don’t understand.

It’s very good and you should drink it.

4. Heavy Seas Small Craft Warning Uber Pils – Baltimore, MD

heavyseasEveryone – aside from those punk-ass ninjas – loves pirates. Everyone. They’re jolly and rambunctious and constantly living life to the fullest, even if it means they getting shot by a cannon or eaten by a massive, ornery octopus.

It’s appropriate that Heavy Seas (brewed by Clipper City brewing) is from Baltimore, a city sunken in nautical lore. All of their beers are a play off some sort of pirate theme (like Peg Leg Imperial Stout and Loose Cannon IPA), playful cartoon label art included.

But pirates take their booze seriously. It wards off scurvy and instills confidence where perhaps discretion is a better idea. They go all out. Small Craft Uber Pils is the embodiment of that cannon-balls to the wall mentality. Unlike its pale-golden Czech and German brethren, all content with sort of tasting the same except for a few minor tweaks, Small Craft unfurls its flavors like three sheets in the wind of a coming hurricane. It’s bold and hoppy, but appropriate for the style, reminding me a lot of Victory Prima Pils and Sam Adams Noble pils, just decidedly more…piratical.

Remember, it’s not the size of the pilser in in the glass, it’s the motion of the flavor ocean.

5. Pub Dog Hoppy Dog Ale – Columbia, MD

hoppy dog

There is some magical voodoo surrounding pizza and beer. When the spell of salt hits the potion of pale ale, fireballs fly across the room at random and things turn into frogs. That’s science. You can’t argue against science.

Pub Dog is part brewery, part pizzeria. As a result, we can agree that these people know a lot about human psychology, and are fully invested in the business of making people happy. They not only brew and serve their own beer (with plenty of options, to boot!) but they bake and serve hot cheese on top of tomato sauce on top of bread, with additional toppings available as requested. Brilliancy.

Hoppy dog, is as it says, hoppy. It’s bitter and angry about life, vexed that at times it has to be a mere sidekick to a pizza-pie. Don’t be mean to the Hoppy Dog though, he just wants to be a happy dog. He is aggressively full of hop flavor, appropriate for those with heads built and aimed towards enjoying hops. This beer can be hard to find outside of the Federal Hill and Columbia brew pubs, but do you really need another excuse to eat a good pizza and drink good beer?

6. Baying Hound Lord Wimsey Mild Ale – Rockville, MD

lordwimsey

I had to include a rookie Maryland brewery. These guys seem to get a bad rap on BeerAdvocate and Ratebeer, but I have yet to be turned off by one of their beers. Sure, they’re not perfect when compared to some of the masters out there, but they are doing some interesting stuff (like not force carbonating and bottle conditioning), are brewing out of Rockville (a place in dire need of a brewery), and have only been brewing since 2010. We all have to start somewhere, right?

I first had Wimsey Mild Ale at an event for the Potomac Riverkeeper, and was pleased at the complexity of the flavors for a pretty standard pale ale. It’s named after the adorable brewery mascot, Wimsey the Bloodhound, who was named after the detective in Dorothy L. Sayer’s mystery lit. I’m a sucker for some anachronistic literature-to-beer allusions.

It tastes like your best friend’s really good homebrew. You know he’s getting good, and you always want to try what he’s brewing next. It’s a caramel colored ale, a little rough round the edges, but strong and exploding with flavor. Despite four types of hops (Nugget, Columbus, Willamette, and Cascade) it’s not too in your face with the alpha acid, and worth a try, if you find yourself stranded and needing refreshment in Montgomery County.

Brew Fiction: Dogfish Head Sixty-One

May 22, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

The cheer rose to crescendo, hovering in the rarefied air just below the mineralized fibers of the dropped-ceiling tiles, and held there, floating in the blueish glow of muted florescence for a single, glorious second before falling back down to polished wood of the twelve parallel lanes. The other eleven had fallen idle as all attention crowded on Lane 9, where Costello had just sent his purple and green swirled 15-pounder sliding towards the brave pins standing like a perfect set of post-orthodontic teeth, sixty feet away.

The ball hooked hard right then scurried left, spinning in a way that seemed to give the middle finger to the laws of physics, crashing into the gap in the front teeth, sending them scattering into the gutters and each other. The ten-pin, a stubborn molar, wobbled drunkenly, unsure whether he’d fall or stand, collapse or correct. The echo of that last tooth dropping filled every bit of free space in Waterford Lanes. Rumor had it you could even hear the sound of the plastic-on-wood clattering and reverberating in the stalls of the men’s bathroom.

And as soon as it was officially down, and the judges deemed no toe had crossed fault line, and no other bowling etiquette or technicalities stood in the way, the screens flashed like two dozen malfunctioning robots, displaying over and over and over again: 300! The same cheer that had collectively burst from Costello’s fans as he hit that eleventh strike, exploded anew, part scream, part yell, part singing celebration of something that is as statistically unlikely as a rookie golfer sinking a hole-in-one on a par 3.

He stood and stared at the robotic arm sweeping away the corpses of the pins, aware but unbelieving, having courted the high 200s for years and years, thinking perfection was impossible. He cracked his knuckles and turned around to face the little boy in an over-sized shirt that matched his. The boy looked at him like a mortal upon a god, eyes glistening with pride, ears covered by his tiny hands to muffle the deafening exuberation all around him. He threw his eight-year old arms as high around Costello’s legs as they’d go, hugging him with the same zeal as a he’d squeeze a new stuffed bear just to show how much he loves it.

Whistles shot from the back of the crowd and a slow chant started, Costello’s surname rhythmically pumping with the pulse of the alley, like his legend, his perfect game, were now part of the beams and dirt and concrete that gave the alley a form. Old Arkansas, the portly and pleasant owner, came and dropped a tall domestic in his hand. “Ya finally did it you son of a bitch!” 

Costello winced and then smiled. “Hey, hey now. Not in front of the kid.” He rustled the mop of blonde hair that was still firmly attached to his legs. He’d done a good job, he reassured himself. The boy, despite his lack of understanding about anything parental, was doing alright. Sure he was a load or four of laundry and a trip to Hair Cuttery away from being truly presentable. But overall, given the emotional toll of the unexpected and unwelcomed, he was growing up strong and smart.

It took a solid hour for the line of congratulants to clear out, each one wanting to shake the hand of the first man to toss a 300 in this place since Chuck Werner did it in ’66. The mob of after-party had dwindled into a few stragglers too drunk to drive, but the energy still buzzed in the air, as real as the Alan Jackson tunes that floated lazily from the dated speakers mounted in the walls. Costello sat with the boy, slowly drinking his beer, letting the silky bubbles roll around his tongue and slide between his teeth before finally swallowing. It was late, even for him, and the little eyes on the little face next to him kept popping open and then slowly closing, defiantly trying to stay awake and hang with the grow-ups.

Midnight chimed it’s inevitable arrival. Costello knew the days of hanging in the alley with Jessica or Cathy or Angela until 3:00 A.M. were over, so he finished his beer and tried to pay Arkansas, who promptly refused. “You kiddin’? That game of yours made me a bundle tonight. Least I can do is give you a beer or two on the house.” He picked up the empties and nodded toward the boy, now curled in the fetal position on the orange plastic chair. “Best get him home and in bed.” Costello scooped up the crumbled sleeping mess of boy, slinging him over his shoulder like an human-shaped sack, careful not to hit his head on the door frame as he carried him out to the parking lot.

As Costello settled the boy into the back seat of the black and rust colored Silverado, he whispered, sleep blanketing his tiny voice, eyes still closed, “Luke, will you teach me how to be a bowling hero?”

♦♦♦♦♦

The bowling alley was as old as the town hall, and featured just as prominently; the thirty-foot Art Deco sign could be seen from almost anywhere in the town. One advantage for advertisers and billboard enthusiasts on Maryland’s east coast: no hills. In the low, stinging sun of morning the alley’s age showed in wrinkles of peeling mint-green paint and growing gaps in the grain of the wooden siding. He stood for a moment in the shadow of the massive sign before looking down at his nephew. “OK Kyle; bowling time! Let’s find you a good, 8 pound ball.”

It took Arkansas nearly fifteen minutes to dig up a pair of kids size 3 bowling shoes, but the lack of wear and scuffs made them perfect for Kyle, like they’d been on reserve for him alone, waiting for him to discover his tokens of destiny and take up shoe and ball like Theseus took up sandals and sword.

Kyle demanded to tie the shoes himself. While he fumbled with the laces and tied about a dozen knots in each, Arkansas pointed behind them both to the new, shiny addition on the wood paneled wall near the entrance. There, next to Werner’s huge sixties mustache and amber tinted glasses, hung a little picture of Costello, right arm up in the air, a candid shot of him as he released the ball for the final strike. The little gold plaque read simply, ‘Luke Costello – Perfect Game – June 1, 1998.’ Arkansas had wasted no time getting that award engraved and mounted, as proud of the achievement and the man as he was happy that it happened in his alley.

“You ready?” Kyle was already on his feet, awkwardly stomping around with the wooden heels of the shoes, showing off how well he’d adhered them to his feet. He wore his over-sized bowling shirt again, nearly refusing to take it off since the victory three nights ago, and looked equal parts absurd and adorable with the line of buttons on the front hanging just below his knees. Costello made him tuck it in; the last thing he needed was for the kid to trip and bust his lip on the slippery wood and carpet. God knows what kind of stuff was growing between the gums stains.

In his typical fashion, Kyle refused to have the bumpers raised and refused to use the chrome-plated ramp-assist, arguing with Costello that he could easily get the ball to the end of the lane, easily get a strike, if he really wanted to and tried. When Kyle became so defiant, so self-empowered and bold, he could see in the boy some of his father, the father before the accident, before the diminishing power of a motionless year in a hospital bed, before his youth and energy had all but drained into the dozens of bags of fluid and blood that collected and dripped in perpetuity.

And when he ran up to that foul-line, stopping just short to let the ball glide out of his hands with inborn grace, short arms guiding the ball skillfully even though no one taught him how, overly long blond hair twirling like the bottom of a loose summer skirt, he could see in the boy some of his mother. The ballerina, the prom queen, the girl so much better than this nothing town, the one going places, so in love with life that even her failures were enviable. The girl he’d loved just as much as his brother had, whose hand he’d held as her soul left that broken body, unable to take anymore of this world.

The ball moved well, but the slick of the polish got under it at the last minute, and Kyle’s attempt only managed to clip the seven pin. He slammed one foot down angrily. “What did I do wrong!?” Costello stepped up behind him, showing him how he’d released the ball too soon, and how that had caused the trajectory of the ball to change dramatically. He held his arm, one hand on his elbow, the other on his wrist, and swung it for him, stopping it in the air where he should release the ball. Kyle’s next throw knocked down eight pins.

Costello let him practice using his frames, not counting those towards his total, knowing Arkansas would give them as many free games as they wanted until the buzz of the perfect game and minor celebrity wore off. He sat and watched Kyle, throw after throw after throw, thinking about how he’d never expected to have this much responsibility. Thinking about how in the vast cosmic swirl of unfair circumstance, he’d become a father because of a rainstorm, had his life injected with sudden parenthood because of a poorly maintained patch of country road and a violent collision of tree and steel.

Kyle threw the last frame, finishing in a huff of disappointment, his ball hitting two pins before disappearing into the black abyss behind the lane. He looked straight forward, and cracked his knuckles, or tried to, like he’d seen Costello do at the end of a game. His confidence morphed into a huge frown as he looked up at the monitor to see his score. “I didn’t even get 100.”

“Well would you look at that” Luke playfully poked Kyle in his side, trying to elicit a laugh and a smile. “The first game I ever bowled was a 61, too.”

DFH61

Forgotten Friday: Can’t see the Seminary for the Forest

September 28, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Tucked away into the deciduous overgrowth of Forest Glen, Maryland, are a collection of buildings steeped in historical mystery.The sprawling complex, just feet away from the crawling DC traffic of i495, is home to buildings of random architectural styles, the oldest of which dates back to 1887.

The main building was first built as a resort for the DC elite; a place for them to escape the humidity and mosquitoes of a major city that was, according to popular legend, built on a swamp. That’s not actually true, but many areas of DC were built on or near coastal wetlands, which as anyone who has ever visited the Eastern Shore in July knows, is just as miserable and smelly as a swamp.

The main “hotel” building, renovated as of September 2012.

Despite a fancy casino, ballrooms, and well-stocked bars, the resort failed. It was too close to DC to offer any real respite or escape for the people who came to visit. Getting through the heavy woods surrounding the property also proved a challenge, with only one main entrance accessible by train.

After financial ruin struck the Inn, John and Vesta Cassedy leased the property and began transforming the complex into a finishing school for girls. They transitioned all of the entertainment venues and hotel rooms into classrooms and lecture halls.  In 1894, they welcomed 48 students into the National Park Seminary for the first time.

By 1911 the complex had been wired for the new amazement that was electricity and now housed over 230 girls and 42 faculty member. To accommodate the growing student body, buildings were erected all over the property. The plans for these properties came from a build-your-own-home book (something that I suppose was a lot more prevalent at the turn of the century) and each sorority on campus had the option to build their house in a certain style. This led to the colonial, Swiss, Dutch, Greek, Spanish mission, and even Japanese style structures that exist today.

Spanish mission, not unlike Spanish rice. OK, totally unlike Spanish rice.

The Great Depression ravaged the school like it did the rest of the nation; enrollment dropped to 30 girls as most parents could no longer afford the tuition of a private institution. In an attempt to save the property, Roy Tasco Davis sold the property to the US army (for a paltry $890,000 mind you) who planned to use it for a peaceful recovery place for the wounded for World War II. 1942 marked the official transition of seminary to medical annex.

The Walter Reed Army Medical Center operated out of the eclectic mix of buildings until 1972. The army drastically changed the campus; tearing down the original plantation house and slave quarters that pre-dated even the main hotel building, and erecting barracks across from the gym, where the football and baseball fields had been. The government had even pushed to tear down the remaining seminary buildings, but local residents and conservationists intervened, demanding that the army do what it could to preserve the history of the local.

The campus was neglected and vandalized over the next 15 years, and the Greek style Odeon Theatre was tragically lost to arson. In 1988, a local group formed Save Our Seminary (SOS) in an effort to combat the decay and destruction of the property.

The Forest Glen Seminary is a modern archaeologist’s dream. Specters of the past pour from the walls of each building, reminding visitors that this place is old and deserves respect. Despite the already extensive renovations of the main building, further back in the campus, nature has done what it does best and begun to reclaim all it can. The two most remote buildings – the Beta Castle and the Villa – are in the jaws of the local plant life; poison ivy vines and tree roots climb and hug the sides of the buildings in a creepy verdant embrace.

This castle has not seen a siege in many a day.

For anyone interested, SOS and a commercial developer are trying to preserve and restore the campus by turning it into residential area. They have cleared away a significant amount of old-growth forest (which makes me sad) but also managed to salvage a lot of the existing campus, statues, buildings, and walkways (which makes me happy). While I would normally be vehemently opposed to turning something so cool with so much heritage into condos, at least this way the buildings won’t be torn down and abandoned indefinitely.

That’s a win overall, I suppose.

Relevant links!
http://www.operant.com/seminary/home.html
http://www.saveourseminary.org/
http://www.nationalparkseminary.com/

Lastly, I made a video of every single picture I took on the day my sister and I went crawling through the woods to explore the Seminary grounds. I recommend viewing it in HD, if you’ve got the bandwidth.

How to use Old Bay Seasoning

June 22, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Old Bay seasoning, like Old Spice deodorant, is no joke. It’s so awesome, it doesn’t even need a ridiculous ad campaign.

If you’re from anywhere near the Chesapeake bay, you know this to be true. Old Bay is the standard-bearer of Maryland summers; his blue, red, and yellow heraldry fluttering in the breeze coming off of the water. Where there is Old Bay, there are crabs, and there is beer.

But Old Bay need not be saved, hoarded, coveted, only to be used on crabs. Even the labeling says, “For Seafood, Poultry, Salads, and Meats.” I have never had an Old Bay salad, but it sounds like the kind of thing a bad ass Corinthian warrior would eat. I suggest using Old Bay on anything and everything, as it can do no harm, only good.

According to the best and most trustworthy research tool ever known to humankind, Wikipedia, the ingredients of Old Bay are as follows:

  • mustard
  • paprika
  • celery seed
  • bay leaf
  • black pepper
  • red pepper
  • cinnamon
  • cloves
  • allspice
  • nutmeg
  • cardamom
  • salt
  • mace
  • ginger

I think they left a few out. Namely:

  • Very finely ground crack-cocaine
  • 99.9% pure distilled youthful exuberance (harvested from only the most carefree of American teenagers)
  • Beer flavor enhancer #19
  • Refined Chesepian spirit dust (salvaged from Skicoak, near Norfolk)
  • High fructose black bean syrup

How to use Old Bay:

Things you’ll need:
-Old Bay
-Food you are going to cook
-Beer (may I suggest Blue Moon Agave Blonde Ale?)

Step 1: Put copious amounts of Old Bay on everything

And you’re done! You and your reborn taste buds can thank me later.

The picture is a little blurry because I got some Old Bay on the lens.

  • Blog at WordPress.com.
  • Connect with us:
  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • RSS
  • Follow Following
    • Literature and Libation
    • Join 14,874 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Literature and Libation
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...