I'm sorry, Mom.
When I was a teen, out with my friends until all hours of the summer nights, I figured that you would know how I was a relatively good kid, and couldn't get into trouble. What I didn't realize was, that even though that is mostly true, that you would worry when I was out late.
Fast-forward some 38 years later: it's a Saturday night and DD15 is out with friends at Bluesfest. I know that she's a good kid who doesn't cause trouble. At least, doesn't create the kind of trouble that I need worry about. But she's still out late, and I'm still waiting for her to come home.
Even though she's out with her friends, and one of the mothers is picking them up and making sure they get safely home, I worry.
And so, on Saturday night, I became one of those parents who sit in the dark, in the living room, waiting until their kid comes through the front door.
When I was growing up, my mother didn't have the luxury of today's technology, where DD15 has a smartphone and can be reached through text or a phone call. When I was out with my friends, my mother couldn't find out where I was and when I was going to be home. She just had to wait.
I texted DD15 shortly after 11, after I knew the concert would be over. I added enough time for DD15 and her friends to leave the festival grounds and make their way toward the rendezvous spot, where—hopefully—a car would be waiting for the girls.
DD15 is good at responding right away, or within a few minutes. She told me that the show was great, that her friends were together, and they were waiting for their ride. Every couple of minutes, we exchanged texts, until DD15 said that she was in her friend's mother's car, and they were en route.
And so, I sat in the dark and waited. DW had already gone upstairs: DD17 was already asleep. But I wasn't going to get ready for bed until my youngest child was safely through our door.
It had been more than 24 hours since DD15 had been home. The other afternoon, she had gone to her best friend's house, where they hung out, had dinner, and then gone out to Bluesfest (she has a full festival pass). After the previous evening's show, she asked if she could sleep over at her friend's house, as she often does on weekends, and I consented. I knew that they would stay up late, but there was nothing pressing for Saturday.
She called after lunch, to say that she and her friend had just woken up. She also asked if she could stay at her friend's house, since they were going back to Bluesfest in a couple of hours, anyway. Again, I consented, on condition that she came home straight after the show because she had weekend chores that required attention.
Plus, we hadn't seen her in almost 24 hours.
Also, her cat, Lily, meows at night, when DD15 isn't home.
As I waited in our living room, in the dark, I continued to text my daughter to find out how much longer before she would be home. Both cats, Lily and Camille, were chasing each other around the room, periodically coming to check on me, wondering why I was sitting in the dark.
I changed up my texting. Not so much as conversation with her, but to amuse myself.
As I tapped Send one last time, I could hear DD15 on the front steps, calling to her friends and the driver, "Thank you!" I knew she wouldn't have seen the very last text.
"Good show?" I asked her as she came through the door. She didn't see me in the dark but she didn't seem to be surprised.
"Oh my God, I was reading your texts out loud on the ride," she said, "everyone was laughing."
I was glad. The texting seemed therapeutic to me. It kept me from worrying while I waited.
So, I'm sorry, Mom. You didn't have any technology to communicate with me, to help occupy your thoughts and time while you waited for me, in the dark.
I get it.
My wife has an affinity for mixing fruit juices with club soda. For her, they cut the concentration of the sweet fruit, particularly in thick juices, such as mango and pulp-filled orange. The bubbles also cut through the juice and make the beverage more refreshing.
The first time that I poured a glass of Liquid Art Fest, by Collective Arts, I was reminded of DW's juice mix. Would it have other similarities, I wondered. There was only one way to find out.
Liquid Art Fest IPA (5.9% ABV)
Collective Arts Brewing Co.
Hamilton, ON
Appearance: a thick-bodied, deep orange, like mango or orange juice (as I said in my introduction). A foamy, off-white head fizzes hard and almost immediately settles, and then vanishes altogether. The effervescence within bubbles to the top, giving the impression of pulp floating on the surface.
This looks exactly like a fruit juice, rather than an IPA.
I should also mention that Collective Arts is famous for its quirky to outlandish artwork, and this can is no exception. The bright turquoise with a Voodoo-inspired hop, with wild eyes popping out of its skull, tells you that this is no ordinary IPA.
Nose: lush mango, orange, and traces of vanilla mask the hops. Though this brew uses passion fruit in the mix, my nose can't find it. Perhaps, I haven't been exposed to it enough. But what my nose does pick up is nothing short of intoxicating (and I don't mean the alcohol content).
Palate: the mango leads the liquid charge, followed by orange (passion fruit?), before the hops bring up the rear and a trace of alcohol lingers in the finish. As this ale washes over my tongue, my taste buds desperately try to separate the fruit juices from the ale, in vain.
The fruit and beer are perfectly matched, though the fruit far outweighs the hops.
Overall impression: Liquid Art Fest tastes more like a carbonated smoothie than an ale—especially, an IPA. However, despite the cloying fruit, this is incredibly refreshing, much like DW's club soda and juice cocktails.
Typically, during the summer, I tend to lean toward the session ales and radlers that are light in body but big in flavour, but this summer, my go-to thirst-quencher will be this milkshake IPA. Originally released for the Liquid Art Brew Fest, in Hamilton, on June 15 and 16, I hope that I can continue to find it in the LCBO throughout the season.
Beer O'Clock rating: I've decided to give my rating system an overhaul, starting with this unique beer. Where I've had a scale of 1 to 5, where 1 meant that the beer was undrinkable, a 2 said there was something not quite right about the beer, 3 indicated that the beer met my expectations for its style, 4 was awarded to a beer that was a bit beyond expectations or was an interesting variation of a style, and 5 meant to stock up whenever you encountered it, I've decided to move to a new format.
The beer mug 🍺.
Instead of a 5-point scale, I'll use a three-tiered system (actually, four, as follows):
🍺 means the beer met my expectations for its style but was either flawed in a way that would be explained in the review or didn't stand out. In other words, it's okay, but not a beer that I would recommend.
🍺🍺 means that the beer was a classic example of its style. I would drink it again and would recommend it.
🍺🍺🍺 means that the beer is exceptional. A beer of this rating not only meets my expectations, it exceeds them. I highly recommend this beer.
If I provide no rating, it will mean that the beer, in my opinion, is an utter failure. No rating means that I took one or two sips to evaluate it, and then I poured the rest of the beer into a sink. Not only would a beer like this not be recommended, I would urge you to avoid it.
Also, because I don't list my beer ratings anywhere on my blog, each rating will explain why I've given the beer its score.
So, using my new scale, how does Liquid Art Fest fare?
🍺🍺🍺
Though this IPA is far from a classic India Pale Ale, you can still discern the hops and the full body. Because Collective Arts has distinguished this ale as a milkshake IPA, I expect a creamy, hazy brew. The advertising of passion fruit, mango, and vanilla gave me a set of instructions that told me what to look for, and I found it. Mostly.
I didn't identify the passion fruit, but there was something more than just mangoes, and that was more than enough. This is refreshing, easy-drinking, and a summer delight. Go out there and get some!
Cheers!
I used to think it was simple laziness. Or arrogance. Or a bit of both.
But it was certainly in the way that he carried himself, as he stepped out of his BMW. Dressed in a medium blue jacket that looked as though it could have been made of fine suede, sized to fit his slim build. The navy-blue dress slacks, the light-brown shoes. The white shirt, with ultra-thin red stripes that were barely visible and gave the shirt an appearance of pale pink, with the slim, red tie.
He dressed like he was in sales, and business had been good. His bald head, seemingly shaved on purpose, was tanned, as though he spent his spare time in a tanning salon or had vacationed in a sunny clime. His Bluetooth earpiece blinked a steady pulse of blue, letting me know he was in a conversation.
He didn't look around as he exited his vehicle and headed straight for the store. Oblivious to what was going on around him, not caring at all.
I first saw his vehicle as I was rounding the parking lot from the opposite direction. I had seen his car slowing, as though he was going to turn into the aisle where I was about to park. There were plenty of vacant spaces, but I decided that I was going to pull into the third-closest spot from the store entrance. That left him with the first spot, with room between us for any other car that chose to fill a spot.
But he wasn't interested in the closest space to the store, or the second-closest. He wasn't interested in any of the vacant spots. Except, for one.
The one that wasn't a spot.
He moved into the oncoming lane in front of the sliding doors of the IGA and came to rest about a foot out from the island that divided the lane in front of the store from the parking lot. This was where he wanted to place his German automobile.
It wasn't because he wanted to keep his car from being at risk at parking near another car, which could come into contact with his: there were plenty of vacant spots, where he could have simply been one of those people who occupy to spots to create a buffer. There were plenty of empty spots, close to the store, in which he could pull that stunt.
No, he wanted to park his car wherever he wanted. Who cared what other people thought.
Moreso, it looked like he had wanted to park in front of the doors, but not put his vehicle directly in the path of unreliable people with shopping carts, and so he parked in front of the doors but on the opposite side of the road.
For my part, I parked my own car in a designated spot, watched him exit his car, and then followed him in. Not to follow him, mind you, but to simply go into the store, myself, to run my own errand.
Perhaps he was making a quick stop, to pick up someone or something that was awaiting his arrival. His stay would be brief and he would be gone before anyone knew it.
I walked into the store with a purpose of my own. I was picking up something for lunch. It was to be a quick stop, too: a sandwich, drink, and snack. But because it was a Wednesday, and I was planning to work from home on Thursday, I thought I would pick up one or two cans or bottles of beer.
I always drink something I've never had before on a Thursday. I've bought into that beer app, Untappd, and it's New Brew Thursday theme. I picked up a brown ale and a milkshake IPA, and made my way to the cashier.
While I didn't give the BMW driver much thought, during my shopping, I didn't see him while I was standing in line at the cashier. Perhaps, I thought, he's already left. I had almost been in the store for five minutes.
I always speak French to the cashier, though our conversation is always the same. "Bonjour, ça va?" she asks.
"Oui, et toi?"
"Ca va, merci. Veux-tu un sac?"
"Non, merci."
She would tell me the price.
"Par debit." I would tap my card on the debit reader and she would hand my my receipt when the transaction was completed.
"Merci, bonne journée."
"Et toi aussi."
Actually, the cashier only asks me if I need a bag when I come for a sandwich but don't buy beer. When I want beer, I bring in an LCBO bag with individual pockets to protect bottles. When I only pick up a sandwich, I don't need a bag. On this day, she didn't ask about the bag because I had my own.
With my purchase in hand, I made my way outside.
The BMW was still there, still parked in the opposing direction, on the wrong side of the parking island. I stopped, took a photo with my Android, and continued to my car. As I pulled out of the parking lot and off the property, there was still no sign of the driver.
It takes a special kind of arrogance to think that you deserve the right to leave your vehicle wherever you want. To think that the rules of driving and parking don't apply to you.
It's scenes like this when I really hope Karma is a real thing, and that it comes back soon.
