There were blizzard warnings in Portland, starting on Thursday. Snow came, stayed, and blew around our city for two solid says, snakes of snowflakes weaving over the streets, piling up in odd places, eventually casting stasis on everything. Then the freezing rain came and nobody could make a move and after that, a melt showed up, giving us ice falling from tree branches, power lines, rooftops-concussions from the sky for free.
I stayed inside, having an aversion to frozen things hitting me in the head. After four days at home and just enough cabin fever to make it worth my time, I ventured out to NWIPA to get a beer. Snow is still everywhere, ice compacted on every sidewalk, slush and puddles on every corner.
I don’t miss Spokane much but I do miss snow, just a little bit. I used to make snowballs and now I can’t.
I order Crooked Fence‘s Sins of the Father and it’s very smooth. I can smell the roasted malt from the get go, possibly black patent malt? It’s awesome. While this beer is dense, with higher alcohol and lots of rich coffee oriented flavors, it feels light. The finish is effervescent enough that I think it helps it clear the tongue rather well. People might ask what good things are coming out of Idaho and this beer should be put on the list. It only improves as it warms up a bit, which makes my appreciation for the beer rise as well.
As I walk home, I scoop a handful of virgin white into my hand and press it between my palms. Crystals fly off between my hands like sparks as I press it again and again, trying to achieve a perfect sphere. The crunch in my hand as snow compacts into a weapon. I wait to see a car or a streetsign I can throw it at, let the glory set sail, no matter if it hits or not. I remember how it was when I was tiny, snowball fights in the schoolyard, ambushes on the way home, the last minute attempt to hit Mom when she called me in. The glow of a solid hit, shattering and crumbling on someone’s puffy jacket, or the cheer when you hit the face. The shock of getting hit in the face, snow in the mouth, ice slithering down the collarbone and a snap of action to try and keep it from getting under the coat, down the shirt.
I throw a few snowballs on the way home. Most miss. It still feels good.