threebikesmcginty
Corn Fed Hick...
- Location
- ...on the slake
...Or of things for breakfast that are friend in bacon fat.
Friend in bacon fat!
...Or of things for breakfast that are friend in bacon fat.
Off topic but when I lived in Rotterdam a colleague (also from the UK) had a guest over and they got the train to Den Haag, jumped in s cab and asked the driver to take them to the best restaurant, money no object.I was up at in that The Hague yesterday. Picked up a bottle of Clara from Hill Farmstead and a 2009 Stille Nacht.
Hill Farmstead is one of the most highly rated breweries in the world atm. The guy that runs it has effectively capped production at 3000 barrels per year and only brews so he can continue to live on the farm in Vermont owned by his family for generations. All the brews are named after various relatives/ancestors and are imaginings of what he'd like to have drunk with them. Clara was his great great aunt.
The Clara is made in an obscure style - a Grisette - a sort of urban saison. Whilst saison was for farm workers, Grisette was for their coal mining freres. Grisette was also used to refer in France to a lower class woman - grey as in the cheap material she'd have worn - with a definite implication of prostitution. Makes you wonder what Shaun Hill intended to imply of his ancestor.
Sorry for banging on!
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Ha! I'm a typo-corrector by inclination, but I think I'll leave that one.Friend in bacon fat!
Ha! I'm a typo-corrector by inclination, but I think I'll leave that one.
I flatly deny covering any of my friends in bacon fat, or fantasizing about doing so.Because it's true?
You swore you'd never tell!I flatly deny covering any of my friends in bacon fat, or fantasizing about doing so.
Slightly OT, but a friend of mine tells a story about his grandmother (IIRC), whose husband was inclined to spend Sunday afternoon getting plastered in the pub while she slaved over the dinner. When he finally got in and slumped and drooled on the sofa, the rest of the family would eat dinner, and then she would smear a bit of lamb fat on his lips. He would eventually wake up and angrily demand 'Where's me dinner?', and she would respond, 'You've eaten it, ye daft bugger!', upon which he would lick his lips, grumble a bit in acknowledgement, and fall asleep again.
Black Wych (Wychwood, 5% abv)
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Another from the folk that bring you Hobgoblin. This is a decent porter, a bit of smoke upfront, with the caramelly flavour I've come to think of as being characteristic of this range coming through, but with rather more bitter flavour in the main taste. Nice, I think.
Mrs M says: "Very nice."
That shallotBeans on toast for tea again, rich?
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