“Artfully crafted,” he gasped, the words escaping as the
refreshing sigh following a long sip on a hot day, “sublime, subtle, everything
you could ask for in a high quality brew.”
Smoke drifted from the nostrils of his companion, slow and
meandering, catching the glimmering light of the late spring afternoon as it
coiled towards the ceiling. “Hopped just
right, smooth, golden and drinkable; yes sublime, that sums it up.” A thoughtful silence fell, or rather floated down
and moments crawled by noticed only by the clock.
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| Photo by Allison Swift Zercher http://www.snippetsfromsuburbia.com |
“Have you been stirring the kettle, it should be almost done
steeping.” Attention redirected itself;
eyes shifted following the smoke and came to rest on a giant silver pot. The reflections of two men, distorted by the
contours and smudges, vibrated seeming to boil along with the fragrant liquid
hidden within. Movements were natural,
unpracticed but controlled, as the lid was removed and placed on the top of the
giant pot bellied stove. Cigarette left
to burn the companion peered over the rim, took in the pungent sweet aroma of
the malts and removed a muslin bag full of spent grains.
“A great sweet wort almost the color of the sun coming
through that window there.” We should
remember that when we name it.” The
other not really listening as he brought the liquid to his lips, cooled it, and
slurped it cautiously. Looking down at
the empty bowl of the spoon a noticeable excitement came over him. “This is the reason for alchemists and
witches, the cauldrons places on the fires of the past.” The companion stopped dripping the grain bag
on the floor and took a sip from the spoon.
The effect of two people content in their work and the
languid affects of late spring air combined themselves, controlled the hands of
these two half hypnotized brewers. Hops were
added to the fragrance wafting through the room and they settled at the table,
glasses refilled. “Watch the twilight
glowing over the hills; growing like the head on this fine ale.”
The sun rose the next morning clearly illuminating bottles,
waiting patiently, maturing into the next nights libations. “This new ale,” spoken through a bluish
cloud, “it will be our finest yet, a testament to the spring, a joyous celebration
of the coming summer and a pleasure to drink, I think.”
“The correct glassware, it would seem, an imperial pint,”
the sound of clinking glass, the slow pouring, and the hiss of carbonation
leaping free, “cheers to the next brew, and all our others to boot.” Condensation snaked down the sides forming
rings on the table as the flavors were analyzed. “Our best yet, a majestic brew worthy of the
finest taprooms.” Two glasses drained, and
then full again, then left half full; two rings lacing the sides. “The recipe, my friend, for the books and the
future.” Pockets turned inside out,
drawers emptied, but the two sitting had in their hands only the glinting of
sunlight off of their beers.
