Today I bought some of Sierra Nevada's latest seasonal beer, Ruthless Rye. This is the first time they've come up with a winter beer I actually like. Most of the reviews I've read stress the rye and hops in the flavor, but I found it to taste almost exactly like unsweetened grapefruit juice. Unsweetened grapefruit juice is not a popular beverage, so maybe that's why most of the reviewers missed noting that particular characteristic of this brew (though one of them did mention hints of citrus rind.) I have no way of knowing whether or not this is a typical trait of rye ales, as I've never had one before. I've drunk lots of grapefruit juice, though.
Ruthless Rye is supposed to be 6.6% alcohol, but I suspect that the bottle I just drank was a bit stronger. I got a three-Bud buzz off of a single bottle. For those who don't know, grapefruit juice is very good at concealing the taste of alcohol, and I suspect that the six pack I bought came from a batch that turned out stronger than it was supposed to. Sierra Nevada usually doesn't do that, but I have had the occasional six pack that was clearly trespassing on boilermaker territory, despite the alcohol content listed on the labels. When I lived in Los Angeles I used to buy the Japanese beer Asahi now and then, and that particular brand was frequently way more alcoholic than it was supposed to be. Hooray for poor quality control!
Anyway, the rye ale is going to be a nice accompaniment to the stormy weather. It will probably outlast the storms, though. The weather is expected to start turning springlike again by Thursday. At this rate, people will be barbecuing by February. Even if it doesn't get that warm that soon, this year has already marked itself as weird. I wouldn't be surprised if the snow finally shows up in April. Maybe the ancient Mayans were right.
Sunday Verse
Fallen Apples
by Tom Hansen
Wasps at work in the soft
flesh of rotting apples.
Food of the gods,
all day they mine it in busy
hushed movements.
I pick up a mushy corpse
one cold morning.
Carefully turn it over.
Its congregation tumbles
into the cupped
bowl of my hand.
Dazed, drunk, still
chilled from overnight cold,
they blunder like sleepwalkers
feeling around for the light.
Tiny antennae test my skin
in search of something
now gone.
Warmed by my hand,
warmed by the sun,
they stagger and fall into flight.
They scribble orbits
the air erases
and whine at last out of sight.
