On Beer and the Manner of Things, or: My Two Trips to Rochester

This was promised a long time ago, so it is vastly overdue and will probably disappoint.

I just arrived at my apartment in Rochester (for the second time) about 45 minutes ago. I'm sure I was unclear in my last post; I came out here earlier this summer to move in a back-of-a-minivan-and-U-Haul-trailer-full amount of my stuff into my apartment. This was part of a longer road trip with my parents. Now I am here for the beginning of the semester next week.

On our road trip we visited: my aunt and uncle at their cabin in northern Wisconsin (on a lake named “Papoose” to be more specific) and my sister, her boyfriend and family in Lansing. This trip took about a week (I think we left on a Wednesday morning in July and returned on a Tuesday evening in August). It seemed like we spent an at least equal amount of time in the car as we did out of it—discounting the time spent sleeping (mercifully not in the car) of course.

Despite the long hours of driving, the trip was overall good. I will recount one experience now as I don't have time to recount most all of the trip (you wouldn't want to hear about sitting in a car anyway) and it is relevant to my situation at the moment. While in Michigan I got to go to Bell's Brewery (or brewpub as it were) in Kalamazoo. Those of you familiar with Bell's know that it is a microbrewery that makes great beer; those who aren't will have to take my word for it. Anyway, besides the beer, the actual premises of the brewpub were excellent. It didn't seem great from the outside—or even from the inside initially—but after we got our beers we headed out to the patio. This was a large mostly grassy area that looked almost as though it could have been someone's backyard. This backyard feel was amplified by the fact that the burgers and other delicacies that could be ordered there were cooked right outside the back door on a regular, back-yard, propane (or at least I think it was) grill. My family and I sat at a picnic table underneath an arbor with hops vining their way all over it. Around the corner from us was another large grassy area with a small amphitheater at it's end. It appeared that on many summer nights a band would most likely play on the stage, drawing a sizable crowd of young concertgoers on the grassy area before the stage. As it was a saturday afternoon when we were there, the grassy area was instead occupied by a few tables, one at which a group of half a dozen aging yuppies (first Google hit) from Chicago appeared to be enjoying their sojourn in Michigan tremendously.

After sampling half the menu of beers I had chosen a smoked rye ale to enjoy. It was an interesting beer. At first the smoky flavor overwhelmed the rest of the beer, but after I became accustomed to it, I could taste rather mellow pale ale flavors underneath. It would have been delicious with a barbeque pork sandwich.

Now, I earlier said that this experience related to my current situation, and you are doubtlessly wondering how. While at Bell's I also picked up a sampler six pack of beers. I brought them along to Rochester and stashed them in my refrigerator once here, with the intention of enjoying them at an unspecified future date. Upon arriving once agin at my apartment tonight (now nearly an hour and a half ago) these beers remained (and still do) the only form of caloric substance in my apartment—besides that which under even the most dire of situations would not be considered edible. And so, as I began to scribe this post I decided to sample one of the beers stowed in my fridge. I chose a cherry stout. I had very high hopes for this beer, and I was a bit disappointed (I have just minutes ago finished it). The cherry flavor was, unfortunately, a bit syrupy, and overshadowed the more hearty roasted grain flavors. Alas.

I now realize that this beer had a rather healthy 7% alcohol by volume which, as I ramble on, may be affecting my post a bit. As it is now rather late and this post is teetering on the edge of bombast (and that seals it), I must retire.

If nothing else, I can now truthfully claim that there was a time that the only thing in my Frigidaire (I just checked, unfortunately it's not actually one) was a six pack of beers.