The Brier Patch

QotD: World's Best Beer

nobody@vox.com(brier) — Thu, 20 Sep 2007 18:16:03 -0400

What is the best beer on planet Earth?
Submitted by Remmy Van Hornie.

Free beer.

its free - store sign

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QotD: Middle Name

nobody@vox.com(brier) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 03:44:38 -0400

What's your middle name? Is there a story or history behind it?

None of the Brierley men have middle names.

That's what my dad has always said, anwyay, and I've always thought that was pretty cool. I chuckle to myself whenever I fill out a form and leave that field blank. I guess it's pretty unusual, though. Most people look at me blankly when I tell them I don't have one. I imagine all those form readers out there in the world, scratching their heads in confusion when they look at my forms.

I don't know how my brother feels about it now, but when he was a kid he didn't like it much. He went so far as to invent his own middle name. It was Michael. He signed all of his first grade papers with it. I'd say that's pretty conservative for a first grader.

Personally, if I was going to invent my own middle name, and I was in first grade, it probably would have been Spider-Man.

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At last it's Skyline time

nobody@vox.com(brier) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 02:57:38 -0400

The lone Skyline Chili lover

Come on, people! Where are all the skyline chili lovers? I can't be the only one. Show yourselves!

For those woefully unaware, Skyline chili is a Cincinnati delicacy. No, it's more than that. It's an obsession. It's long been my belief, that the real secret behind Skyline's recipe is not chocolate or cinnamon; it's that when the ingredients are mixed together, they become a drug more perniciously addictive than any other in the history of man.

Now, a lot of people are going to talk to you about Cincinnati chili. I know there are others, I know Skyline wasn't the first, but it's what I grew up on and it is unarguably (pipe down, Dad), the best. So in my mind, it's all Skyline Chili, even if I'm forced to get it from Gold Star.

I have to say it's not much to look at. Most outsiders are quite wary at first. My lovely wife, after hearing my long, loving stories about Skyline chili took one look and said, "You want me to eat that?!" But be brave, my hearties! The gastric pleasures that await the faithful are unparalleled! After some gentle coaxing from her ~~pusher~~ husband, she took that first bite from which none of us can ever return, and she's been an addict ever since.

Coney and Way

Living away from Cincinnati, as I now do, I am haunted by the Coney and the Way. My stomach knots when I think that the nearest Skyline is hundreds of miles away. Every trip home I kiss my folks, say "It's so wonderful to see you!", and then, "Can I borrow the car?", and off I go. A 4-Way and two cheese Coneys.

In the next town over from where I live, there is a little, gourmet hot dog place. Slaw dogs, Chicago-style dogs, Texas-style dogs. He drowns the buns in butter before grilling them. They're fantastic, really.

They make me pine.

I have wild fantasies of befriending the owner, teaching him about Coneys, and together crafting the perfect chili recipe. But, I know it's in vain. They would be impossible to capture or recreate. Even the cans of chili that they sell–a requirement of all guests from Cincy wishing to cross the threshold of my abode–aren't the same. I love them, mind you. They don't last long in the house. But they just aren't the same. Like a cigar leaves an ex-cigarette smoker, they leave me wanting more.

So I exist, yearning, having lost my Way. Mom, Dad…I'm out.

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A party-time necessity

nobody@vox.com(brier) — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 15:23:44 -0400

Herein, a list, reproduced in it's entirety (because it deserves it) from Esquire via Reddit.

My top 10, what are yours?

When all else fails, have a Martini.
If it doesn't have vermouth, it's not a Martini. If what you really want is iced gin (or vodka) straight up, order it that way.
Hungarian proverb: If three men tell you that you are drunk, lie down.
If a bartender makes you flail your arms or beg for service, well, obviously, leave.
If you don't smoke and you're in a bar, don't complain about other people who happen to be smoking, because, virtuous friend, you are in a bar.
Sitting at the bar works only for two people. Three or more requires a table.
If you're the first in the group to arrive and you start a tab on your card, you deserve exactly what's coming to you.
Once you've fallen off a stool, there is little you can say to the bartender that will change his mind about asking you to leave.
The one foolproof hangover cure: Don't get drunk.
There is no such thing as a chocolate martini.

The Entire List

There is no such thing as a chocolate martini.
There is no shame in club soda and cranberry juice.
Visiting the pub will be cheaper in the long run if you tip the bartender regularly and more generously than is necessary.
Never order a frozen drink in a place that serves pickled eggs.
Actually, never order a frozen drink.
It's also not a bad idea to eschew the pickled pigs' feet, although their presence is fairly strong evidence that you've accidentally stumbled upon a real tavern.
For the sake of the children, leave the pistol at home.
Grappa is to lighter fluid as ouzo is to lighter fluid.
Garnish matters.
Despite a high ratio of female clientele, an insouciant way with fried mozzarella, and their prevalence in resort towns, establishments where a waitress pours shots into your mouth from a bottle she holsters in a bandolier are fraught with peril.
When throwing a party, break the seals on all liquor bottles, lest guests should hesitate to open them and come to doubt your hospitality.
Better yet: Hire a bartender.
At the holiday office party, consume one drink less than your boss.
Adopt a favorite cocktail on a seasonal basis.
That sangria means "bloodletting" is more a cautionary note than a simple fact.
Drinks that give you bad breath: beer, anything sweet, anything with milk.
Drinks that give you good breath: gin and tonic, gimlet, vodka and cranberry, anything with citrus.
Instead of ordering a shot of After Shock to cap off the evening, one could just walk calmly into the street, lie down, and wait.
Hungarian proverb: If three men tell you that you are drunk, lie down.
Every man should know how to make at least one drink from a foreign country, preferably one taught to him by a local female with whom he has had a complicated, unresolved, and quite possibly dangerous dalliance.
Citrus cocktails benefit greatly from rubbing lemon peel around the rim of the glass.
Jack Daniel's. Rocks.
Fresh orange juice. Fresh lemon juice. Fresh lime juice.
On those chrome, hourglass-shaped bar measuring cups, the big side is the jigger. The little side is the pony. Never use the pony.
If you must: single-malt Scotch in a brandy snifter with a splash of water.
Avoid bars that use plastic cups, bars whose bathrooms consist solely of a trough-style urinal, bars with chicken wire protecting the band, bars where Patrick Swayze is the bouncer.
There is rarely any genuine need to shout "Skal!" "Na zdorovye!" "Slainte!" "Bottoms up!" or "Down the hatch!"
No one but the bouncer cares how tough you are, and he already knows you're not that tough.
Drinking is not a competitive sport.
Never drink in a place that calls itself an eatery.
There is no upside to karaoke.
There is an ever-so-slight upside to a wet-T-shirt contest, as long as you're not in it.
It is not necessary to request premium liquor for a mixed drink in which you cannot taste it, such as a gimlet or sour.
On the other hand, ascertain exactly how nonpremium the "well" liquor is before you opt against the good stuff.
Sitting at the bar works only for two people. Three or more requires a table.
Never utter the words I and love and you if you've had more than three drinks.
If you're a lightweight, make that one drink.
If a bartender makes you flail your arms or beg for service, well, obviously, leave.
Don't call the bartender Barkeep, Chief, Buddy, or Ace, unless his actual name, in fact, is Barkeep, Chief, Buddy, or Ace.
Even if you have ascertained your bartender's name, behaving overly familiar with him will be seen as a pathetic gambit for free drinks or, worse, proof that you have nobody to go to for affection other than a random service-industry professional who does not, in fact, know you and just wants your money.
The one foolproof hangover cure: Don't get drunk.
Once you've fallen off a stool, there is little you can say to the bartender that will change his mind about asking you to leave.
There is nothing cheeky and clever you can say to a female bartender that she hasn't already heard from some other schmuck before you.
Don't eat the worm.
If you don't smoke and you're in a bar, don't complain about other people who happen to be smoking, because, virtuous friend, you are in a bar.
Instead of trying to remember whether it's "beer before liquor" or the other way around, just be an adult and stick to one or the other.
Acceptable drinks for men: beer, wine, whiskey, cocktails that are neither sweet nor made with dairy or fruit other than lime or lemon or orange.
Acceptable drinks for women: whatever they want, except a certain few.
A certain few: the grasshopper, the Long Island iced tea, the pink lady, and any variety of spritzer.
Also unacceptable: drinks whose names mimic critical medical conditions or copulative acts and their secretions.
And while we're on the subject, drinks that are named after supposedly cute body parts, like navels, which are actually disgusting repositories for sebaceous grime: No.
All of that said, never question a woman's drink choice.
If you're the first in the group to arrive and you start a tab on your card, you deserve exactly what's coming to you.
Unless you are lounging on the Promenade Deck, do not drink from a fruit.
Almost never have more than three cocktails.
Never order a cocktail with more than four ingredients.
If it doesn't have vermouth, it's not a Martini. If what you really want is iced gin (or vodka) straight up, order it that way.
Grain alcohol and purple Kool-Aid do not a punch make.
Pick up your drinks before moving the table.
Despite its name, a cocktail should contain no chicken parts.
Single-malt Scotch and soda: there oughtta be a law.
A lime yields about an ounce of juice, a lemon a little more.
Two singles are better than one double.
Ice. Lots and lots of ice.
Shun novelty. Suspect innovation.
If you strain your citrus juice, everything will be easier to clean.
Measure, measure, measure.
Betty Crocker Moment: 2 tablespoons = 1 ounce; 3 teaspoons = 1 tablespoon.
When all else fails, have a Martini.
The perfect Martini: There is no such thing as the perfect Martini. Make it the way it tastes best to you.
Provided that you remember that there is no such thing as a chocolate Martini.

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QotD: Shaken not stirred

nobody@vox.com(brier) — Fri, 21 Jul 2006 23:23:55 -0400

What's your favorite drink or cocktail? What's in it?
Question submitted by charm.vox.com

Manhattan

I love manhattans. Someone once told me that a “real” manhattan contains Canadian whiskey (which is just…weird) but I've always concocted them with:

2 jiggers of Bourbon
1 jigger of sweet vermouth
1 cherry, 2 if I'm feeling saucy

Why? Because that's how my mom makes them, and it is from her that my manhattan obsession sprung.

For as long as I can remember, manhattans have been my mom's drink. Usually, she and my dad would have a glass of wine in the evening, but often–particularly on those bad days we all have–she'd have a “bomb”.

Burgeoning alco-philiac that I was, I'd often take a small sip and then breathe fire for a few minutes. Back then, they tasted awful (oh how that would change). But one thing I loved was the cherry. My mom hated them and never included them at home, but at a restaurant, after she was done with her drink, I'd fish out her booze-soaked cherry. They were wonderful.

It was the memory of those booze-soaked cherries, I think, that prompted me to try a manhattan again years later. It's been love ever since.

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QotD: Celebrational Muppetational!

nobody@vox.com(brier) — Wed, 19 Jul 2006 13:04:01 -0400

Who is your favorite Muppet? Why?
QotD submitted by knitwitology.vox.com.

Meep!

Oh Muppet Show, how I miss you. My favorite Muppet is poor, miserable Beaker. I think he's the Muppet who most looks like his personality. Very. Afraid.

Whenever you saw him and the good doctor, you knew Beaker was in for a world of hurt. And, really, what's funnier to kids and adults alike than other people's misfortune? I submit to you: nothing.

Fozzie, my bear, you were close. So close. Wocka wocka!

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Allow me to introduce myself

nobody@vox.com(brier) — Mon, 17 Jul 2006 20:21:14 -0400

I've had a weblog since 2000. In the intervening six years I have heroically compiled a whopping 34 posts. I blame my lack of productivity on many things, but I think chief among them is that I am an incorrigible fiddler.

Rather than writing, I waste vast swaths of time fiddling with the technology behind my weblog: mucking about with the design, incorporating the latest related craze, rearranging, organizing, categorizing, synching. It's all valuable and fun, but it's really just procrastination. If I'm going to have a weblog, I really ought to be writing after all.

Recently I decided: to hell with it. Maybe I can prevent myself from procrastinating by removing the temptation to fiddle. So, I decided to check out the various hosted services. Just about this time, the Vox beta was announced and I became intrigued. It's functional, it looks nice, I think the privacy settings could be quite useful, and, I can't fiddle with it. It is what it is.

So begins my experiment. Probably this will be my last post.

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