Road Photo Friday: Video Edition

What happens after a week of chasing Montana huns and you find yourself back at the motel, tired and slap happy? 

You try to chug a 24-ounce Budweiser, of course.

Easter at the Scampwalker's

'Twas a nice and leisurely Easter Sunday at Casa Scampwalker.  After Sunday services, Mrs. S and I whipped up a couple of brandy milk punches.  It's an old family tradition of mine, and one I can remember my parents savoring many years ago when I was my son's age.  The ingredients sound a bit odd, but they almost taste like a melted milkshake.  A decidedly grown-up one.

The centerpiece of our Easter meal was a ham that I prepared from scratch.  I bought a 14-pound fresh ham from Bichelmeyer Meats, and, using the recipe in Michael Ruhlman's Charcuterie,  brined it in a cooler for about six days.  It wasn't a fancy brine -- just kosher salt, brown sugar, and some pink salt.  I smoked it up on Friday (about 7 hours total, until the internal temp hit 155 degrees).  It was delicious!  I always thought a ham required a lot more knowledge, skill, and equipment than the average home cook could muster, but I can gladly report that we'll be doing this again -- just as soon as we eat the other 13 pounds of this one.

The ham was accompanied by a terrific blue cheese and chipotle scalloped potato recipe taken from Homesick Texan, and some gently steamed asparagus drizzled with some lemon juice.  It was all paired with a 2009 Becker Prairie Rotie, a really tasty Rhone-style blend that complemented the flavors of the meal.  And a fresh strawberry pie for dessert.

After a prodigious nap on the couch, we engaged in another Scampwalker ritual: cascarones.  A south Texas and Mexican custom, a cascarone is a dyed eggshell filled with confetti.  A spirited battle at a nearby park ensued, and the Scampwalker tradition of "It Ain't Easter Until Someone Cries or Bleeds" was fulfilled.

Garrison Brothers Distillery: Hye Times For Brown Liquor in Texas

Being an unapologetic Texaphile, every so often I imagine myself 120 years ago, sitting in the dark and smoky Menger Hotel bar, drinking a glass of whiskey with Teddy Roosevelt as he recruits me to join his Rough Riders. Or I daydream about sititng in the richly-appointed Driskill Hotel bar in Austin, as dusty cowpokes mix with wheeling-and-dealing politicians. And once again, I'm sipping a bourbon.

Even back then, if bourbon was your firewater of choice, you probably weren't drinking anything made in the Lone Star State. Now you can.

Garrison Brothers Distillery, located in the Hill Country hamlet of Hye, is the first-ever bourbon distillery in Texas. (And yes, contrary to popular belief, true bourbon can be made outside of Bourbon County, Kentucky. Law dictates that Bourbon must be a whiskey made of at least 51% corn and undergo two years aging in new, charred oak barrels, among other things, but there are no geographical limitations.)

After calling to set up an appointment on a balmy Saturday afternoon, we were met by owner Dan Garrison in his small, yet busy stillhouse. He and his ragtag staff are literally working around the clock to brew their whiskey. Like any Texan, Dan is proud of what he's got going, and he has every right to be.

In the center of the room was the "Copper Cowgirl" -- a 100-gallon still that works overtime and has seen duty at the Wild Turkey and Buffalo Trace distilleries. They make this stuff by hand, in ridiculously small quantities, redefining the term "small batch." Their mash contains West Texas corn ground on site, wheat that's grown on premises, and malted barley from the Pacific Northwest. That recipie results in what they say the highest fermentable sugar content available. That, of course, makes for smooth, complex bourbon.

And one that's apparently quite popular. The 2008 vintage was released on November 3rd and within ten days, all 1,800 bottles had been snapped up -- reportedly to a tune of nearly $90 for each 750ml vessel.

Dan doesn't apologize for the price, nor should he. The batch we tasted was simply the smoothest bourbon to ever cross my lips. Normally, I like my whiskey on the rocks -- even the premium brands tend to open up a bit with a slowly melting ice cube or two. The Garrison Brothers we sampled was served neat -- and what a pleasure it was. Smooth without being syrupy, warming without burning, with all the vanilla and caramel flavors that define a good bourbon.

Thankfully, Garrison is expanding his facility and was meeting with a builder the day we met him, so there'll hopefully be more opportunities to snap up a bottle or two of this uniquely Texan spirit.

Photos taken from the Garrison website... I was an idiot and forgot my camera.

Schlitz Tall Boys: Back To Where It All Began

The year was probably 1978 or 1979, and I was hanging out with my dad and my grandpa in the backyard on Moraine Drive in Lincoln, Nebraska.  It was a warm September Saturday, and we were listening to a Cornhuskers road game on the transistor radio, where Big Red was doubtlessly humiliating a hapless Iowa State or something. 

Dad and Gramps were drinking beer, and I asked them if I could try it.  I almost remember them glancing furtively to make sure that mom and Grammy weren't around before they offered me a sip.  I remember it being bubbly and very odd tasting -- but not altogether unpleasant.

And I remember the can.  It was bigger than the average Coke can, and the scripted Schlitz logo contrasted sharply with the words TALL BOY that were inscribed across the front.  "Why do they call it a tall boy when boys aren't supposed to drink beer?" I wondered aloud, in a classic question that only a 10-year-old kid would muster.  I don't recall the answer, if there was one then or if there is one now.

Schlitz and I drifted apart after that.  I didn't have another sip of beer until I was in my latter years of high school, and by that time, Schlitz had been acquired, the recipe jiggered and on its way to oblivion.  And besides, I was more interested in getting my hands on Bud Light, the gold standard aristocrat of high school beer.

Today though, the tall boy is back in all of its Schlitz glory.  It's a brilliant stroke of nostalgic marketing genius, to be sure -- but you know what?  This beer is pretty damn good on a hot, sticky, lawn-mowing Saturday -- the perfect yard beer for my money.  The new can touts the "classic 60s formula," and it is indeed fuller-bodied and less watery than most budget beers, yet it's light enough to throw back on a hot afternoon. 

I've found that it's a bit of a challenge to find it -- one of the guys at the liquor store says they can hardly keep it in stock. That's too bad... because when you're out of Schlitz... you're out of beer!

Sidra Mas Fina

A couple of winters ago, while on a trip to Barcelona, Not Hemingway turned me on to Sidra at Sagardi, a small chain of Basque ciderhouses that feature exotic looking (and tasting) pintxo tapas.

I won't soon forget the experience, and I've been able to approximate at home many of the Spanish delicacies I've experienced on that trip -- but not the sidra. For longtime 8MM readers, you might recall that I somewhat crudely lamented the fact that a guy couldn't find a Spanish cider seemingly anywhere in North America.

Never content with admitting defeat, I set out to make my own. I've never attempted to make homemade beer -- I've always thought that there are plenty of wonderful breweries around making top-notch brews. But never once have I seen sidra on tap -- better known here as hard apple cider.

And sadly, there's very little information available about true Spanish Sidra (at least in English) on the web. So I scoured other websites, studying up on recipes. I found a few that looked promising, so I took the plunge. I visited a nearby homebrew shop (less than a mile from work -- who knew?!?) and picked up a fermentation starter kit for about 20 bucks.

One Saturday morning, the kids and I visited Lewisburg Cider Mill and picked up a gallon or two of freshly-smashed apple cider. The actual "brewing" part of the equation seemed straightforward enough -- sterilize your equipment thoroughly, dissolve a campden tablet and mix in with the cider, and add some proofed vintner's yeast (which was all included in my starter kit). It was fun doing this with the kids, and we both learned a lot about the science behind fermentation (critical knowledge for any grade-schooler).

Two weeks later, my first batch was finished. The result? Meh. It was very cloudy and quite yeasty, but not altogether horrible (although Mrs. Scampwalker would go nowhere near it).

Undeterred, I put another two gallons down prior to my trip to Montana. This time, I used a champagne yeast, and added about a half cup of dissolved sugar to the mix, hoping to get a clearer batch through higher alcohol content. I also kept it fermenting for three weeks.

Last night, we racked the new batch. What a difference! While still cloudy (I've been told pretty much any "real" cider is going to be that way), it was less so than the first batch. It was also much less yeasty, and had a slight but pleasing natural carbonation to it.

I'm drinking a half-gallon right away, and putting two other carboys into secondary fermentation to see what that does.  Hopefully, I can replicate the recipe again. It'll be a fun holiday treat to serve to guests -- whether they want it or not.

Sidra: Not for Pussies

I'll be the first to tell you that the Asturian Spanish sidra tastes like what I'd expect pee to taste like. It's poured from approximately a meter (piss length), from keg or bottle to glass, and it makes a funny hog-pissing-on-a-flat-rock noise. The "nose" smells, well, like an unattended urinal. It's room temp. The color is straw, and the taste is sourish. Apparently, it's what an apple-a-day gets you on the Iberian penninsula.

But dammit, when I'm in Spain, I just love the shit. Maybe it's that it's such a strange departure from U.S. of A sensibilities. Part of it has gotta be the glass that they serve it in. It's a typical tumbler, but thin, thin, THIN crystal.

I have six, thanks to Mr. & Mrs. NH, and they are indeed cool. But even in the Land of Plenty, sidra is met with a curious stare. I can't get it. I get referrals to Woodchuck Cider, which doesn't come close to fitting the bill. Online bottles? Meh.

So I've been doing TnT's in my sidra glasses. A TnT, you say? It's the drink sensation that's sweeping the nation... sub gin for tequila, add tonic and a lime, and you've got it. Order it in public, and all of a sudden, you're a trendsetter. And if it's diet tonic, it's a low-cal sub for a margarita.

I don't make this up, folks. I look out for you so you don't have to. Just keep the sidra to trained professionals, OK?

*Fragrant, ant-filled peonies are an optional, North American accessory. But chicks dig 'em, and they do smell 'purty.