Being Unfaithful To Jack...

So. Mom wrote this article about beer and hops and stuff. And in her last post she said she would share it here. Part of the reason for her doing this is to enlighten you all, much like a new type of novitiate bringing some good brews to the heathen spirits The other reason is that it's somethingMom had already written so posting it here will a)fill a space and b) give her a breathing space (she says) in which to catch up on the Farm Dog Post. Which is Actually All About things Hops. Well, almost all about. A goodly lot of it is about me, Moyo.

So here is Mom's Beer Info Story Thing...

See, it’s like this. I (That's Mom!) have been a Confirmed JACK DRINKER (caps intended as I drink it neat, no ice! The Delight of Jack should never be adulterated), and my husband a beer boozer (please note the lowliness of those words.) That is until he fell in love.

Some years ago, my man found a Mistress he cannot get out from under his skin – she consumes his every waking thought and each and all spare moments. And wise woman that I am, I welcomed her into my home – so grateful was I that the man has an interest which kept him from under my feet.

And then? One day he emerged from his Man Cave with the fruits of his labours with his new Dame and I am now the one who is constantly underfoot!

(This is a BEER that Dad Made...)

(and that's our swimming pool from our beautiful old home in South Africa

right there in the background)

I have become a Craft Beer Convert – and we all know the zeal of a heathen converted to a new religion. Whilst Jack and I remain on Good Speaking terms, I am more prone to quaffing IPA’s and Lagers these days. I have been known to even spend some hours with Stinky Blondes, and I have become an acolyte to my husband’s Mistress – the Heady Hop.

(And THIS is a STINKY BLONDE. That Dad made, too.)

The long and short of this love affair is that we are “refugees from South Africa” travelling across BC in an old Winnebago dubbed The Noahbago (on account it is loaded with a dog called Moyo and two cats, summarily referred to as The Bastards – who fled the warmer climes of Africa with us) and a little over a month ago we drove in to our friends’ place near Sicamous, BC.

Determined to convert me completely, my husband (that's Dad!!) had arranged that we would learn something about the Birth of Beer by watching the harvesting of hops – and this we have done for the last month. I will confess to being marginally sulky about the entire thing when he first announced his intention. It is one thing to imbibe of brew – and quite another to spend some length of time watching people engaged in the hand-labour intensive process of “starting at the beginning of a good cold one.”

Whilst perfectly content to loll around in Craft breweries and pubs, sipping from Creamy Ales and even the odd Porter, I could not quite see myself communing with a bunch of sweaty common labourers bent in pursuit of a heady hopping experience. Not even if my husband insisted it was the only way I was ever going to truly grasp the passion and the thrill of Beer.

Somewhat pouty and most decidedly recalcitrant, I was determined that I should remain ignorant. Curiously, it took less than a day to convert me once again – and I am not a weak-willed woman. Watching the hand picking of the springy heads of hops, redolent as they are of the scents of halcyon summers spent getting happily wasted on beer and music and good friendships, I was captured. Moreover, the peaceful plucking, ritualistic in motion, accompanied by that heady aroma as it was, became a task I anticipated watching with ready delight every morning. There is something meditative to watching hands move so rhythmically- especially if it’s someone else’s hands so rhythmically engaged in the physical labour of hip harvesting. Especially for someone like myself who is of a more metaphysic bent. I could watch, meditate, cogitate and discover the thrills of hip harvesting... all without breaking a sweat. Or a nail. Perfect.

That's Dad handpicking some hops...

On the days when the hops were picked by machine, some if the harvesters would then pick leaves and twigs from the hops that fell into the waiting trays. Notwithstanding the pounding of that machine, again I was transported by the ritual of cleaning and gleaning hops and found little more sensually delicious than to stand at the end of a picking day at a tray of hops and run my hands through them. Perhaps a little of my pleasure was formed in knowing that it is through the labours of my fingers as they fondled those heads so lovingly gleaned by the more hardworking hop pickers as they teased the hop heads from the bines and picked stray leaves from them that someday somewhere someone will be savouring the flavours of My Hops and it will be good. Even if I only cogitated on the magnificence of hops as I fondled. That’s my kind of fun, any day.

This is Everyone Handpicking Hops on a Rainy Day...

(and that dog there? That's my Farm Boyfriend. His name is Kuma.

And he is A Good Dog Kuma. Kuma means Bear in Japanese. In case you didn't know.)

Eagle Valley Hops Estate, a true-blue B.C.hops farm, takes a personalised interest in the growing of their hop varieties. And they pelletise their own hops, too. Another of the hopping tasks, varied and sundry, in which those hard working young people engaged was the sorting and packing of those powerful little pellets. I truly thank this estate for the superlative experience I have had and for the expansion of my Beer Knowledge base.

I am also inclined to tell you that if you wish to make a True B.C.Blue craft beer yourself? Get yourself some of the local hops, guys – support the small farms, support local, you know it’s the only way to go. Besides? It would please me, Hops Acolyte Extraordinaire, to know that maybe, just maybe, the next B.C. Craft Beer I taste holds some of the hops picked, pelletised and packed by my very own

metaphysical ha... mind.

Varieties grown are Willamette, Hallertauer, Centennial, Crystal, Chinook and Cascades. I would not have thought it possible that such variances in aroma could exist. I had been under the marked misapprehension that a hop was a hop was a hop. Not so.

And thus began my Hops Nose Development. At first, I was in love with the unique and powerful floral tones that escort the spicy and exquisite citrus character of a good head of Cascade hop. Then I found myself drooling over the bright fruit underpinnings and harmonic bitterness abounding in Hallertauer. Spicy, herbal, and fruity, the Hallertauer hop spoke to me of splendid evenings in the company of excellent friends.

This is the Heady Hop Plant. Bearer of Beery Good Tidings.

I found Centennial very similar to Cascade hops, that same citrus whiff but somehow made more the scent of the Great Outdoors by overtones of pine. I am led to believe that this hop is the perfect ingredient, delicate and yet aggressive, to pleasure the noses of the most snobbish of crafters. I would argue that, and suggest that Chinook with her delightful waft of grapefruit which carries the undertones of spices and pine across ones olfactory organs – especially when it is used in a dry hopping brew process, may be the hop to top all hops.

Perhaps it is the subtle smokiness which emerges from dry hopping with Chinook that pleases me. Perhaps that smokiness allows me to feel less unfaithful to my Good friend Jack. Whatever, really. I am no Craft Beer Aficionados. But I do know that I have loved the process of learning about hop picking and I have so enjoyed the earthy, citrusy delights of hops that I have fashioned myself a pillow stuffed with delicious hop heads upon which to rest my own weary hop-cogitating head at the end of an exhausting day.

In fact? Did you know? One of the very best natural sedatives, immune builders, anti-inflammatories, etc., etc. around is the humble hop. It smells excellent, it gives succour and sustenance to the weary – and, let’s face it, once utilized in what is essentially but a gruel of mashy stuff and water without it, it’s just the Most Brilliant Thing to Drink, too.

P.S. Don’t tell Jack I said that!

This is Me, Moyo. Here I am being Hops Queen Dog.

That's my Farm Boyfriend Kuma in the background.