But when the Metro, that free and already content-thin newspaper that's distributed en route to the subway by 45-year-old vendors who have a look of pleading desperation in their eyes, decides to put a story about man-boobs, or moobs on its front page, I've had enough. Thankfully, September is here. Wha-wha-whaaaat? Where did my summer go? Oh right, it was eated by teh bar exam. Dear bar exam: get bent. I want my summer back. And not just more August - I want the good parts, like July.
We've both now discussed some canned beers: I've extolled the virtues of the Oskar Blues Old Chub, while Mr. West Coast just enjoyed the Anderson Valley Summer Solstice Cerveza Crema. Just as there's a movement toward the technological breakthrough of the screw-top wine bottle, there's a growing preference for the magic of canned beer. No more beer-skunking UV light penetration; ease of manufacture and shipping; durability - all of these things are great virtues for a beverage-containment-unit. Why don't more people use it? Maybe because we've come to associate the can with the noxious macro-brews that dominate the American market. Maybe the fresh-foods mantra has gotten to us, and we no longer trust anything that comes in a can (except for San Marzano tomatoes - those things are amazing). This demands more research.
In the meantime, more adventurous eaters (yes, I said eaters) can try deep fried beer. Via gawker.
Finally, if anyone's in the market for a kitchen redesign, may I suggest the BeerVault. Pretty...
Yes, I realize I'm re-posting instead of generating content. What can I say? It was August for far too much of last week. I'm off to the supermarket, to see what's left on the shelves after the swarm of hurricane-crazed shoppers went through after Gov. Patrick declared a state of emergency.
No comments:
Post a Comment