Shortly after 9:35am on the morning of May 25, 1989 I walked through a pub door somewhere in Shannon, County Clare, Ireland and ordered my first Guinness.
Sitting next to me in seat 29B on Pan Am flight 032 from JFK to Shannon was an Irish farmer proud to tell me he "grew the hops, for Guinness, you know". As we touched down in Shannon he gave me the name of a pub, a note to give his friend you owned the pub and thereby the only solid destination I had on my way through Ireland to meet a friend in England for a Bob Dylan concert at Wembley on June 8th.
If I didn't have the photograph I would chalk up the vision of a monk outside the pub to jet lag.
It wasn't hard for the proprietor sweeping up in front of his pub to assess the situation. I may have detected a slight shake of the head as he read the note scribbled by his farmer pal. Invited in I sat in the welcomed quiet and dark. The minutes ticked by. I wondered, not minding much, so peaceful, so cozy...if maybe I hadn't ordered my beer after all.
As realization penetrated my foggy brain that this pub was
closed for business from the night before, a gentle woman walked from the back of the pub and put a plate of thickly-cut brown buttered bread and cold ham in front of me. I stared blankly at her. Her eyes spoke volumes but her lips only smiled as her husband slid a pint of black beer topped with a good two inches of thick caramel colored foam in front of me and gave me a gentle nod that said "go on now lassie, drink up'.
And so my first Guinness....a memorable breakfast and a l
esson in hospitality I hope to use all my living days.
I don't like beer; but that day? That beer? That was mother's milk from The Great Mother Herself, a sentiment I heard time and time again as I walked from Dingle to Dunquin and back again. And, by the by, due
to some serious half-assed planning on my part I lived off that magical brew for the next ten days. Two pints a day...ordered in half pint portions mind you because I was, after all, a young lady travelin' alone but never ye mind.
I haven't the desire to drink much beer in the years since. A sublime memory is best left alone. But not the case with my honey. He likes to drink beer, write reviews about beer...and for the past twenty years, brew beer.
You'll find his hops growing over the trellis by the back door of the inn.
You'll get no argument from me that it is magical stuff.
Here's a little geekatude to defend the magical alchemy that is beer:
Noun / al-che-my / al-ka-me:
1: a medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure f
or disease, and the discovery of a means of indefinitely prolonging life
2: a power or process of transforming something common into something special
3: an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting
The origin has linguistic claims in Medieval French, English, Latin, Greek and Arabic. First known use from the 14
th
century.
So....EVERYBODY wants some.
Its old...very, very old...somewhere in the neighborhood of 7,000 years old and by many accounts women and monks did the majority of brewing u
p until the Industrial Revolution changed a whole lot of things.
No matter who's making it, it is most definitely a transformation into something special. Praise the day in the 9
th
century when
Humulus Lupulus (those are Andrei's prized hops below there, dried and ready for brewing)
made their way into the fermenting vessels of barley, water and yeast.
This part is well documented and a pretty fun
read
if this isn't already geeky enough for you.
Reading about beer is amusing enough but when the guy brewing the beer lives with you it becomes a bit of a celebration.
I love the unmistakable aroma of grain and hops cooking; not unlike the unmistakable aroma of bread in the oven. It's no secret beer and bread share almost identical DNA. The difference is in the transformation procedure; the magic takes place in the bottle versus the bowl, the pot versus the oven.
As you know...I enjoy a day of good kitchen magic. I can think of no better way to mark the changing seasons of the year than cyclical projects that fill the house with evocative aromas and result in jars, bottles, loaves or parcels of nourishing delights to stash away for another day.
(Which reminds me... its time to make dandelion wine. But this is not a newsletter about that.)
This is about beer and celebrating and this is what we are going to do:
Saturdays from 5pm to 7pm for the month of June on the patio (and if the weather has other plans we're moving the party inside with not a care in the world) Andrei will be pouring his home brews...celebration!! I'll throw a pizza or two on the grill and we've got ourselves a little pizza and beer nibble before you head out into the long Berkshire night that is the beginning of summer.
Bring your favorite micro brew to share (Andrei has a few of his favorites ready too) and we will celebrate good times, good magic, pizza and BEER!
