My new hero
Not Heff! No, nothing like that. I said "hefe." My weekend has been one with the hefe even though I did not plan for it to play out that way.
As you know, like everything else - including, I learned today, canoes of all things - we Canadians suffer from high beer prices and poor selection compared to everywhere except maybe Iceland and that bit of Greenland to the right of the other bit. As a result, this sort of get together is not really possible without time, travel and focus. Well, odd it was, then, to be taken yesterday by compadres to a certain restaurant, walk back through the whole length of the place down a dark corridor with yellow stucco and dark red carpeting, to be led out to a patio with a wall with odd hand-painted murals of Bavarian scenes, another with dead vines, and another that displayed both the lower and upper stories of a car park. There, underneath the overcast, we found draft Hacker-Pschorr hefeweizen. My fellows were not all daring beer lovers but seeing the joy on a man's face who said "this is like drinking a banana popsicle" was worth it. There was never a better beer or, at least, there was never one for that moment.
The next day. The next day was this morning and I had to undertake that task of a Saturday morning that is called "going to the nuisance grounds" in Saskatchewan but elsewhere is called going to the dump. Many tasks done, on the way back I had a hankering and a hankering for pork, p'raps sausage on a bun. Yet - I knew not why - before 9:00 am there I was, buying three pork tenderloins on sale and was soon home soaking them in a spare Schneider Weisse with rosemary sprigs. Six hours in the beer, a pat dry and rolled in crust-making stuff, they were perfect in a 450F oven turned down to 300F soon enough after. I remembered thinking of this years before but never got around to it until now.
What did this all mean? Why this weekend? Why me?