Thanksgiving Eve, we met my friend Maura at Carlisle’s local brewpub, Market Cross, to hear her boyfriend Neil playing in the band. I ordered the brewpub flight, a nice deal at only $6, as I always forget how much cheaper beer is in Pennsylvania. It comes with a red ale, porter, kinda IPA, and, of course, the cask conditioned stout. I spun the lazy Susan of beer around to local that dark pour, the color of liquid mahogany. First taste the band’s playing Little Feat, Van Morrison and Tom Waits…and this keeps right in tune as a salty dog brew.
There’s the same thick sharp bitterness that one gets while sucking on a deer lick in the twilight, four days before the start of hunting season. (Opening day is the real holiday in PA this weekend; even the schools will be closed.) The band plays on, Neil improvising a little Aqualung during his solo. There’s a strong blast of alcohol, like opening the deer camp’s front door. That falls away quickly, replaced by this morning’s coffee still brewing on the Franklin stove. Go ahead, try another cup. After all, this dog can hunt.
Thanks to Maura and Neil for a great evening.