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Brewery Visit: Heavy Seas Tap Room and Yule Tide Imperial Red

November 7, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

My wife will probably agree that I’m not the most impulsive person in the world. Quirky, sure. Borderline crazy at times? I won’t argue. But definitely not go-buy-ten-kittens or fly-to-Mexico-after-work impulsive. I like to plan, make sure things are in order, have some sense of the logic of my path before I set to walking it.

Unless I hear the words “rum” and “beer” used in conjunction.

Lured by the siren call of pirate themed delights and the promise of freshly shucked oysters, I went straight from work to the Heavy Seas Brewery last night to attend the grand opening of the new tap room and the pre-release of Yule Tide Imperial Red Ale – get this – on impulse.

It felt right, so I went. I like this impulse thing.

Yule Tide, brewed with ginger and aged in Appleton Farms rum barrels, boasts an impressively subtle mixture of flavors. The rum is very present on the nose, but gives way to the full bodied (9% ABV) imperial red below, not showing up again until a bit of a liquor burn in the aftertaste. The ginger hides well, but comes out as the beer sits, especially in the last few swirls of the tulip. If you’re into sipping beer that warms your belly, I suggest you give it a try.

I took some pictures. They can say a lot more than I can.

Literature and Libation Let Loose: Heavy Seas Brewery

October 16, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

The folks at Heavy Seas allowed me some intimate camera time with their brew kettles, bottling lines, and the impressive “hop canon.” This is the result:

Beer Review: Heavy Seas Davy Jones Lager

October 14, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

All this week my posts will be related to Heavy Seas Beer of Baltimore, Maryland. Why? Because they make great beer, are a local favorite, and were nice enough to let me wander around their brewery for a few hours with a camera.

Lager yeast and I have never seen eye-to-eukaryote. Every time I brew with it, I’m overly concerned by the lack of quick airlock-action, the diminutive krausen, and the whole needing to keep it cold even though that doesn’t make any logical sense to me. “Bottom fermentation” hides in that foggy part of my brain where I kind of understand what’s going on in terms of beer-science, but also still think it’s some kind of mystic raffinose related ritual.

For a long time, I thought all pale lagers tasted the same. I created a mental association between “lager” and “light,” as if all light beers were lagers, and vice versa. Unless it was something obviously different (like a märzen or a bock), that fizzy yellow-gold stuff all fell safely in the “mowing the lawn on a mid-July Saturday” category. Plenty of refreshment, but not much in terms of complexity. I blame four collegiate years of destroying my taste buds on Milwaukee’s Best Ice.

My fridge – colloquially named “The Beerhome” – is full of ales. That’s sort of its lot in life: a house with the thermostat stuck at 40º, bunk beds ready for several perfectly lined-up rows of stouts, IPAs, porters, and pales. I try to venture into new territory, but the tongue wants what it wants. Lagers don’t usually rent a room in the Beerhome unless 1) I’m having a party, or 2) I just had a party.

I bought Heavy Seas Davy Jones Lager because I’m a pirate. No hyperbole or jokes, I am legitimately a pirate. I have proof:

I'm the one on the right, with the beer. This was at work.

I’m the one on the right. This is a normal outfit for me.

I’m obligated to try a beer that is pirate themed, even if it’s outside of my normal taste spectrum.

And I’m glad I did.

Unlike other traditional pale lagers, Davy Jones Lager ferments at ale temperatures (~68-70º F), and is then dropped to lager temperatures for the storing process. This is the same process used to create California Steam/Common beer, for those inquiring minds. Warm temperature tolerant yeasts became popular in the 1800s when refrigeration was a luxury not every brewery could afford, especially not during the primary fermentation phase.

The result of this temperature dance is a beer that honors the clear and crisp legacy of other lagers, but also retains fruity esters and complex malt notes. It tends to be creamier than lagers fermented cold, which pleases us picky, ale-centric drinkers. It’s got more up-front hop flavor (a nice citrus bump that I think comes from the Centennials), which is an appreciated departure from the bitter dryness of Czech style pilsners, or any of the American adjunct lagers.

At 6% it’s a bit stronger than you might expect from an “easy drinking” beer, but there are no phenols or fusels present anywhere. Davy Jones has quickly become one of my favorite beers to relax with after work. It’s also a great beer to gently introduce your Bud and Coors friends to the world of craft. Sadly, Heavy Seas only plans to brew it from May-July, so I’ll just have to fill the holds of my ship (basement) with enough to tide me over these harsh Maryland winters.

Heavy Davy Jones Lager Vitals:

ABV: 6.0%
IBUs: 30
Hops: Warrior, Fuggle, Palisade, Centennial
Malts: 2-Row, Flaked Maize, Wheat Malt, Biscuit

Craft and Draft: The Diction Affliction

March 28, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

If I called a very talented but very socially awkward artist a “freak” how would you feel?

What if I called the same person “avant-garde” instead. Do you feel differently about them now?

And if I called them a “savant” or a “prodigy” or “off beat” do you change your opinion of what this person is like?

Our words carry context and power beyond their basic definitions. We’re consciously choosing word after word after word as we write, words that have long, complicated histories and cultural nuance, words that can mean so much or so little based on the context provided.

Enter diction.

The French call it “le mot juste” (translated to “the right word”) but for us unilingual English people, it’s just “word choice.” Diction helps dictate the tone of your writing, informs the reader of your intentions in the piece and your attitude towards the subject and audience. Good diction moves the narrative along naturally and adds meaning through individual words while shitty diction screws with and trips up a reader who is confused over how and why a certain word was used.

Do you see how dropping in the words “shitty,” “screws with,” and “trips up” in that last clause changed the tone of my writing? I suddenly went from relatively proper to lowly colloquial. One word can change a writer’s tone immediately, even throw an entire paragraph off its intended course.

Being a good writer is synonymous with picking the best words to serve your story. Good diction (and good writing) means the intentional and deliberate selection of the right words in the right places, choosing concrete specifics over bland abstracts.

So how can you employ correct, conscientiousness diction?

You have to embrace words, make love to them with your brain, let their timeless beauty overwhelm your emotions, merge with and tickle your soul in all the best spots. You have to find joy and energy in the way certain syllables so delicately roll from your tongue or pole-vault off the page into your eyeballs. You must adore words to the point where your immediate family finds it very, very annoying.

But that’s not weird because we’re writers, right? Right?

Diction-ary Definitions

There are two ways to define a word: denotation and connotation.

Denotation is the dictionary definition of the word. The good old fashioned, “let’s argue over what this word means after 5 glasses of pinot on Thanksgiving” definition. The denotative definition includes all official variations of a word including noun, adjective, or adverb forms, if applicable.

Connotation is any alternate meanings of the word that you won’t find in any dictionary, even the OED. Colloquialisms, cultural references, slang. These are the definitions that people try to use in Scrabble to justify their nonsense 85 point word. These definitions are loaded with meaning and can connote a time period, regional location, or societal bias when used correctly.

The word “pop” is a great example. The denotative definition means “to make a short, quick, explosive sound.” The connotative meaning could be a reference to carbonated sugary beverages in you’re from the Midwest, or a reference to popular trends in music or literature or film.

Connotation also carries with it certain ethical or moral weight, steering your reader in a certain direction based on the words used to express the ideas. Consider the word “unemployed” verses “jobless” verses “vocationally challenged.” Compare “drunken pirate” to ” nautical rum enthusiast.” Word choices can change the ethical impact of writing by letting the reader know what the writer thinks about the topic, and probably where he’s going to take the argument.

Always make sure you know what a word means before you use it. If you’re not sure, look it up! A careful reader will immediately notice a glaring malapropism and you’ll lose valuable writing-cred-points. Make specific word choices, not pacific ones.

Be careful with connotation. Some connotative meanings may seem obvious to you, but may alienate or confuse a reader from another area/country/generation. Some might even offend a reader if you didn’t know that a certain word is used derogatorily in another culture.

High, Medium, Low

Diction can also be measured, sort of.

High diction is sophisticated and erudite, packed with Latin-based words, complicated grammatical structures, many-syllable words, and educated allusions or references. This style of writing lends itself perfectly to academic, medical, or scientific journals, but tends to alienate (and generally piss off) other audiences.

Low diction is conversational. It can be silly, simple, to-the-point, and uses smaller words. This style is good for addressing general audiences but tends to be too casual for intelligent readers who often read to learn and experience new things.

Medium diction is balanced. Zen writing. A Libra’s preferred state. A combination of high and low; enough high to entertain or teach or impress a reader but enough low to keep them comfortable and not overwhelm them with stuffy stuffiness.

It can be very difficult to strike an effective balance in your word choices, but if you can (through lots and lots of practice), it ultimately strengthens your writing in ways you may not have though possible.

A writer like David Quammen couldn’t possibly write the type of science-narrative he does without smacking his high diction over the head with a fish sometimes to bring it low. He find the perfectly smooth travel lane between the fast (of readability and enjoyment) and the slow (of of highly technical science) and takes you for a joy ride you didn’t expect, all because he balanced his diction.

Decidedly Dictative

Words are the Lego bricks of our craft (and grammar is the little colorful instruction pamphlet). It’s up to you to know what each brick looks like, sounds like, smells like, and tastes like. You can forge phenomenal creations if you place the right bricks in the right order at the right time.

Your words are the only way you can connect to your reader, so make sure you’re meaning what you’re saying when you’re saying what you mean. Get to know your favorites. Read about them, study them, discover all their meanings. Add more and more words to your arsenal until you’re overflowing with worldly wordly weapons.

And when you’ve got an impressive collection, use them, often and deliberately to great effect, to create characters and turn phrases and spout silly irreverent witticisms.

You’re going to spend a lot of time alone with words if you’re going to make this writing thing happen. Might as well be BFFs.

“Then you should say what you mean,” the March Hare went on. “I do,” Alice hastily replied; “at least–at least I mean what I say–that’s the same thing, you know.” “Not the same thing a bit!” said the Hatter. “You might just as well say that “I see what I eat” is the same thing as “I eat what I see”!” – Lewis Carroll

Review: Magic Hat Wooly ESB (with Spruce!)

December 18, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

At the end of October, I let my facial hair free-range feed on my face. I wore my beard proudly, not worried about patchiness or thinning, because I am descended from a long line of bearded greatness.

My great great great grandfather, Graybeard, was a pirate of no small renown and no small beard. My great great great uncle Gisli (the Útlaginn) didn’t even have to wear armor into battle because his beard offered so much natural protection.

I loved it. I was like Samson with a pen; the longer and meatier my beard became, the more I felt like a writer who was joining the esteemed ranks of Plato, Chaucer, and Darwin. I would have grown a beard on top of my beard if such thing were humanly possible, I liked it that much.

My wife, not so much. One night she said, “you try kissing someone with a beard!” I had no witty come back.

Last week, I took blade to face and removed the hairy growth. I had, at that point, a full face-helmet and moustache, bushy and coarse and bright red. I felt stupidly manly with my beard. It made me more confident, in the same way a really nice suit or particularly fancy hat can make a person more confident.

I would stand next to other young men on the metro, silently comparing their beards to mine. “Poor patch-face” I’d think to myself, reveling in the schadenfreude and the safety of my own well built beard. I felt bad for those dudes. They wanted a beard so badly that they subjected themselves to the awkwardness of the proto-beard indefinitely.

I’d also admire a particularly fierce specimen on the rare occasion such a beard came down unto the mortal plane. There was one guy, nay a gentleman, who had a beard down to his nipples, but a completely bald head. If he wasn’t a wizard, then he was some kind of inner-city shaman.

But beards have their downsides too. With a full face of hair comes itching. Itching beyond what you might expect. Itching that erodes your sanity, minute after scratchy-ass minute, until you’re rubbing your face on the corner of a door frame like some rabid bear, just trying to quiet the storm of itches.

They hold moisture and food particles, making them prime for embarrassing outward reminders of what you had for lunch. They also tend to catch on things like bed sheets, necklaces, and jacket collars. Every time a little neck hair gets caught in the link of a braided chain, it feels like someone jabbed you with a cattle prod.

Great for shaking the grog of an especially early morning, not so great for getting through a day without yelping.

Magic Hat seems to get the whole beard thing. They even made a beer with a great big lumberjack on the label! The ESB as a style lends itself to the owners of beards; it is strong but resilient, drinkable at any occasion, during any season. They also added spruce, because nothing says “awesome bearded lumberjack beer” more than adding actual bits of trees to your beer.

After all, you can’t spell “beard” without “beer.” If you add an a. And drop that second e.

8.75 out of 10.

When the world’s got you down, grow a beard. Unless you’re a lady. Then don’t do that because it will probably be really awkward for everyone.

Soy Pirata!

June 12, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Someone asked me why I am dressed like a pirate in my profile picture.

The answer is simple: because I am a pirate.

I’m not particularly vicious, nor greedy to a fault,
I’ve never buried treasure, nor sought an ancient vault,
I’ve only sailed one little sea so seven seems a lot,
No lawmen have pursued me so I never have been caught.

I do however live my life in a manner quite pronounced,
A jolly roger waves with me so I’m never unannounced,
In my sail-less ship of black I pillage the otherwise mostly boring,
Satire, humor; wit and rumor is where I do my exploring.

My normal dress does not fit the style of early brothers,
But on occasion I have been seen in a hat with many feathers,
My cape and boots in a closet hide, waiting for some fun,
Which normally comes around after several rounds of rum!

See? I just burst into an impromptu sea chantey. If that doesn’t prove my intrinsic pirate nature, I’m not sure what does.

I should clarify that I am an anachronistic pirate, and share only a very loose connection with modern day, AK-47 toting pirates. The aforementioned pirates have lost the whimsical, fantastic essence that comes with being truly piratical and to top it off, most of them don’t even know how to sword fight.

To fit in with main-stream society and hold things like a bank account, driver’s license, or steady relationship, I am forced to curtail my constant wont to drink rum and be rowdy. I also have to be careful, as my innate spirit gravitates towards the ocean, often at inappropriate times (read: during my lunch hour).

I even have to actively fight my urges to mark all my things with pirate-code. See the below exhibit:

I was supposed to be painting a nice manly brown (like the planks of wood from a ship) over the girly pink, but could not keep myself from inscribing the walls with assorted pirate symbolism. I thought they turned out pretty well. I did have to eventually paint over them, which was ok, because even their sheer awesomness couldn’t counteract all of that pink.

I also crudely drew my favorite galleon, my favorite sea beast and the final location of my sacred treasure (hint: it’s beer and it’s in the fridge):

Ultimately, the room ending up being my sanctuary and the place where I spew forth most of my nonsensical rambling. For anyone who cares, below is a near perfect representation of a place that brings me near perfect peace. The only thing missing is a cat laying across my desk:

I acknowledge that this room is not particularly pirate-y. Even a captain needs his quarters to retire too after a long day of sailing and debauchery. I do however manage to retain my pirate values when sailing the asphalt oceans, as can be seen from the stern of my ship at midnight: