509: autumn brew review

The last beer festival was so cold, so the relative warmth, the sun drifting between cloud-clumps, would have made this festival a bit more comfortable at my repeat performance as designated driver. The only difference between now and late January, specific to me, was that bulbous obviousness that is my pregnancy. Standing for four hours at a high-top table, followed by later sitting on a backless bar stool, left me a bit paralyzed in the seat of my car, a pained mold to the cushioned seat.

This year we had more company, more friends, more conversation. Less chattering. And I still tasted a few ciders, a few beers, including a cracked pepper beer that was delicious. The boys would often disappear for a period of time, and I would continue moving those harmony wood needles against one another, that amazingly slow progress of sock yarn, the intricacies of delicate needles. And these tasters would come back, Chris with her list of ports, Angie setting her alarm for a fresh Crisipin that ran out within ten minutes of tapping, the boys discussing the merits of whole breweries and various seasonals. Sitting back on the lawn, there was less of the oppressive crowd, the music low enough for comfortable conversation, the sun pinking up my cheeks.

I'm glad for afternoons like this, and only a small part of me fantasizes for next year, when we can coax a set of grandparents to come and baby-sit, when I can cautiously enjoy the tastes offered as well.

Ryan was sweet and bumbling at the end of the night, after a trip to a bar with old friend Mike and his new girlfriend Shannon. Unfortunately, despite the water I plied him with, he woke aching and spent his own time molded to the sofa, the dogs occasionally clamoring up on top, nosing into his chest for a good snuggle. He alternated between water and juice and chicken noodle soup, and my hope is that he will wake tomorrow with the difficulties of too much tasting behind him.

We're getting old, us. Growing old together.