Review: Rock Art Brewery | Vermont Spruce Stout
Photo Cred: vtbeer.org
T here is a McDonald’s off the main drag that is within walking distance from my apartment. It’s the piec e of shit sprayed over with glitter and given a fancy bow and WIFI. The tables there still stand as tall as I did when I bashed my skull against that one in the corner by the window covered in pigeon shit a nd hot picante sauce that could never quite be scraped off after the breakfast burrito incident. I’m f amily there. The otherwise despondent night manager slips a McNugget in my fries, every time. Strang ely, she never returns my calls. I spend my leisurely evenings confused, drenched in sweat, bitter, po ssessed by an atavistic sense of primal ennui—call it bloodlust, call it drunkenness—standing in line at 1 am behind that family.
“I want that McDouble with heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (I begin to contemplate my life’s meaning, here) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (nearly uncontrollable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (slowly dying, inconsolable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY onions
However, every time, I leave satisfied, detached from the human race, blissfully careening into the black of the night, into the emptiness of mind, emptiness of soul. The cold consumes me and I am enveloped in a thick, numbing paste of nihilistic bliss.
I’m back in my kitchen, covered in ketchup. I’m scared and alone
Where is my promised land?
I ate a box of Crayola for this?
That’s Morrisville, Vermont’s Rock Art Brewery for you.
A reward for the trip there.
Cheap, obliging, friendly, folksy, accommodating.
Mildly unsatisfying, but it’ll get the job done.
Trying so hard to make two and two make three. Their late fall/early winter/who gives a fuck release, Vermont Spruce Stout, is an imperial stout… brewed with Spruce… in Vermont.
God, who cares?
Look, it’s a dark beer brewed with pumpkins, spruce tips, and it comes out once a year.
It’s a weird fucking beer.
It pairs well with Filet O’Fish with a heaping pile of shame and a large fry, personal resentment, feelings of inferiority, white, liberal guilt, and sharp cheddar cheese.
No one cares what the beer tastes like.
I’m covered in grease, sprawled naked on the couch, sobbing.
Somehow, I got tartar sauce on my back
MY BACK
MY GODDAMNED BACK
The beauty of fall is fading,
Death ensues for every living creature
I ate that one
fry
off
the floor
Pitch
black
A creamy, khaki colored, receding head,
A slight hint of mint, sweet caramelized sugar, roasted malt, and dark fruit
A strange flavor akin to grape pop rocks—I blame it on the spruce. It barely brushes the tongue before fading into the taste of pine and Christmas.
Full bodied from the pumpkin, I’m sure.
Heavy chocolate flavor
Yet dry
I dig it.
I dig it like a night of defeat coupled with a Quarter Pounder, no cheese, medium fry, sweet and sour on the side.
Thank God I’m not into Sudoku.
That’s my one solace.
*7.8 out of 10*
