It's worth the drive (and the wait) for Matron Brewery

It was the morning after the night before and we were all hurting just a bit.

So when we piled into Cal's super-sized GMC Denali for the ride back to Oshawa the consensus - if anybody had asked and no one did - was to point the car west and go home and have a nap.

The adventures in Kingston the day before were memorable: we toured the city in a rented bus and visited six breweries, feasted twice and capped February's KingstonBeerFam2020 at Spearhead Brewing, the home base of our loveable and lion-hearted host, Josh Hayter.

Where it all started for the BrewCrew: at Daft Brewing
at the dawn of the day before. That's Candice & Jamie
top right and  Jeff and Cal top left (behind)

There was also an after-party in April & Chuck's room back at the hotel so the next day we were, as already mentioned, hurting just a bit.

But Cal wanted to go exploring on the way home, and as he was driving none of us argued much. Jeff, who was riding shotgun, didn't care and I, sprawled out in the middle bench, was always up for a beer tour, hungover or not.

There was no response from the back, mostly because Candice was trying to sleep and Jamie (along with the rest of us) did not want to face the consequences of waking her up.

A little tour it is, then, says Cal. Our first stop, on the north side of the highway, turned out to be a dud as we were too early for Signal Brewery. But Cal is a determined man and he pointed the car south to Prince Edward County.

I've lived on the east side of the Big Smoke for nearly 30 years but there has only been one visit to 'The County' (as residents call this 1,000 sq. km vacation hotspot 180 kilometres east of Toronto), and it was so long ago I could barely remember. I knew thousands of people flock there every year for its sandy beaches, artisan vibe and its 30-plus wineries, and I knew they were also coming for the 10 breweries that now call this rural paradise home.

And Cal was hell-bent on finding a couple.

Our Callum

Trouble was, Jeff (as the man in the shotgun seat) was in charge of navigation and he was having trouble staying awake, leaving Cal - who had been to the area once or twice before - to find his way from memory.

He was clearly doing a poor job of it as we started meandering around country roads for a while before finally finding our first brewery, about ten miles east of where Cal wanted to be.

Parsons has that farm-to-glass spirit so common here, and the Yuzu Pale Ale I sampled was delicious. But Cal had his mind set on finding another spot, so we grabbed a couple to go and headed back to the Denali.

Candice, still snuggled in the corner of the back seat, hardly noticed we were gone.

The Denali. I drove Cal to Peterborough
to buy this just two weeks prior

Midtown Brewery was where Cal wanted to be, and you'd think between the five of us - the four who weren't trying to nap, anyway - we'd be able to find it. But the drive to go the hell home was growing stronger each minute, so to quell a budding mutiny Cal conceded we would make just one more stop before calling it a day.

(Meanwhile, a persistent thought rolling around in my alcohol-saturated brain about another brewery in the vicinity I had heard good things about was starting to percolate, but I pushed it back up into the 'I'll deal with it later' part of my frontal lobe. It's a very busy department up there but I have always been able to recall the information in the past, although it's usually three in the morning and several hours after I asked for it.)

So off we went into the breach again, or at least back to the confusing country roads of Prince Edward County. And despite all the navigational expertise at our fingertips, we screwed up one more time and ended up at Gillingham Brewery.

Jeff and Josh enjoying a laugh in Kingston

In Cal's defense (Jeff had given up trying to help at this point), the cops had set up a roadblock along our route, forcing us to go around and throwing our navigational system - already suffering from a crippling lack of confidence - into total chaos. 

But we found Gillingham. It wasn't Midtown. But it was a brewery, and another of those farm-to-glass types, so we stopped in for a drink.

Cool little spot, located on the grounds of a family-owned vineyard (Domaine Darius), and pretty much built by hand by Andrew Gillingham, who is also the brewer and VP of bottle washing, and his wife Christine.

Andrew was on duty when we popped in and as he had just finished installing some new brewing equipment he wasn't actually brewing, but he was bottle-washing.

We bought a mini-flight of the two beers he had on tap and enjoyed a small hair-of-the-dog treatment while Candice continued her nap in the Denali. Dave's ESB (5.9%) was "toast and caramel" and Howlett IPA #2 (6.8%) was "peachy, slightly fruity" and both were very good.

But Cal was looking a bit frustrated about not finding Midtown so I told him to chin up and look on the bright side.

Our Candice

"There's always this summer, Cal. We'll all be back soon, right?"

Yeah, about that ...

And then we realized we were all hungry and very tired, so we joined Candice back in the Denali and Cal drove us back to Oshawa.

Like clockwork, at three a.m. I woke up from a deep sleep and remembered the brewery I had been hearing all those good things about.

"Matron!" I shouted into the darkness.

"Next time," I answered myself, before falling back asleep.

***

It wasn't long before I learned almost all I needed to know about Matron Brewery. I knew the brewer and co-owner Justin da Silva cut his teeth at Stone City in Kingston (which I learned the day before our joy ride through Prince Edward County at KingstonBeerFam2020), and I discovered he opened Matron last year, with the help of a couple of friends who also happen to be industry professionals.

The County

I learned about his dedication to using Ontario-grown ingredients - including hops from nearby Pleasant Valley Farms - and I found out Toronto beer writer Jordan St. John (who once taught the budding brewer at his George Brown College Beer Appreciation class) raved about him.

On top of all that Matron's flagship IPA looked like it was going to tick off all the boxes for me and I had a soft spot for the name of the beer as well. 'Janky' was the word a frustrated Steph Curry used when he tried to describe the unconventional defensive schemes Coach Nick Nurse was using on the Toronto Raptors' road to the 2019 NBA title.

We the North. We the Janky, or something like that.

So, yes, I wanted this beer, Two months later, as we were suffering through the fear and uncertainty of the first wave of the virus and breweries dove head-first into online sales and delivery, I started to reach out to breweries, only to strike out because my 'Debit Visa' card didn't seem to qualify.

One of those failed attempts was April 17 with Matron (though when I messaged them about it they were quick to tell me they could work something out) and it was nearly six months later, having achieved success with my debit/visa ordering brews from Third Moon in Milton, when I tried Matron once more. I may never know if breweries have modified their ordering protocols recently or if I am just a tired, cliched old man who keeps pushing the wrong buttons, but it worked, and five days later 12 shortie cans arrived at my side door.

I will tell you I would never have written all these words and taken so long to get to the damn point of the story if the beers I received from Canada Post and Matron were just decent, or even very good. No, these brews were excellent and all spot-on for style.

Photo courtesy @moonstone brewer

I never would have thought I'd be heaping praise on a Kellerbier or even a Helles Lager, let alone a 'Sour Blackcurrant Saison,' but here we are.

Leisure Landbier was definitely my favourite Landbier/Kellerbier/Zwickelbier EVER (fruity cereal aroma; big flavours of wildflowers, wine grapes, cereal & spices) and Yeasayer, the Helles Lager (unsweetened cereal aroma; balanced & delicious) was even better.

Zuzh, the Sour Blackcurrant Saison, wasn't really tart at all but it was full of red berries with a hint of mint and definitely fell into the 'fun' beer class.

The two IPAs did not disappoint either. Deece Petitie was a four per cent Session IPA that looked fantastic in the glass and had all the flavour of a higher ABV IPA. And Janky, well, let me just say the hype was well deserved. 

Janky was super balanced, slightly juicy with a hint of dankness and smooth AF.

All year I've been debating with myself if Everyday Magic from Sawdust City is good enough to dethrone Valkrye (Little Beasts) for my Beer of the Year.

I think I have a new contender. And as the late, great local hero Gord Downie said in Long Time Running, it was well worth the wait.

Cheers!

For want of a Hug

I didn't grow up a hugger - my generation and my culture didn't encourage it - but I always wanted to be one.

So once I semi-matured in my mid-40s I embraced the hugging lifestyle with wide-open arms.

I was strictly semi-pro: the secret art of the Bro-Hug, for example, took another decade to master. But I had the skills and desire for a long career in the game and I absolutely knew I loved hugging the people I cared about.

So when the Pandemic was declared and social distancing was put in place it was the no-hugging protocols that hurt the most.

I totally get it. I live with my parents, who are both in their late 80s, and my Mom has Alzheimer's. She is also totally immunocompromised, so I am justifiably paranoid about giving her the virus.

So I don't hug my own mother. 

Jake and I in 2014. We used to hug
back in those days. Honest

My family is back in Oshawa and parts east and I haven't seen, let alone hugged, my three older kids (or my grandchildren) since I moved here three weeks before the shutdown. While that sucks, they are all grown up and on their own and I know we can make up for lost hugging time when we are out of this.

The J-Man, though, is another story. I know, he turned 18 in March and is officially an adult, but he's still my little boy and I miss him a lot. But with my own immunocompromised Mom to consider, Jake's Mom and I have erred on the side of caution. And Christian-Ann works in a retirement home so she has to be super careful too.

I've only driven out to Bowmanville to visit Jake three times since the spring and I avoided any physical contact on the first two occasions.

When I visited last month, we ate fried chicken, watched soccer (and an Australian Rugby League game - he's got the total TV package) and when it was time to go I wrapped my arms around my son when I said goodbye.

I'm here to tell you it felt good. Damn good.

A week or so later I invited my pal Don to meet up at Stonehooker Brewery in Mississauga's Port Credit neighbourhood. I hadn't seen Donny since our Kingston Brewery Invasion back on February 22 and as I was already headed down to Great Lakes Brewery in south Etobicoke that day I figured I should give him a call. Stonehooker is about halfway between there and Don's palatial Falgerwood Estate home in Oakville, so I figured it would be a quick trip for him.

Daddy and David

As I knew his son was with him that week, I was especially looking forward to the visit because I knew he would bring David along.

If you know David, you'd know he's loved by everyone who meets him, and you'd also know another important fact about him: he's a hugger.

David is actually a world-class hugger, if there is such a thing, and if I thought I was having it tough in this new non-hugging world, I failed to consider the effect it would be having on him.

So after a couple of pints of fine ale and some lovely tacos on Stonehooker's front lawn 'patio' on a spectacularly beautiful early fall day, I got up to leave and Daddy asked David if he wanted to let me into his 'circle.'

And then we hugged. And it was wonderful.

I'd say you're next Mom, but it might be a while.

Hooked on Stonehooker Brewery

The only time I visited Stonehooker prior to the visit with the Redmond Boys was the Hamilton/Halton/Peel Brewery Invasion last fall.

I remember Brewmaster Adam Cherry being a very gracious host and the beer being very good.

I guess I forgot how very good Stonehooker beer can be.

Stonehooker Brewmaster Adam Cherry and
moi at last year's visit

I enjoyed a pint of Mae West Mango Milkshake IPA in the glorious sunshine and I am happy to report this sweet mango smoothie is my favourite in the style this year.  Maybe a tad too sweet to be best ever, but it had that milkshake consistency that I have found lacking in most Milkshake IPAs released in the past couple of years.

I also enjoyed a Tantrum NEIPA and I was so blown away by this beer I said 'delicious' twice in my RateBeer review.

I sampled a Tripel as well, a style I would not normally seek out as they're usually too malty for this hop head's delicate palate. But this was smooth and surprisingly light for a strong beer.

My take-home pack included a Broadreach NEIPA, a favourite from last year which is still juicy, hazy & super tasty; Jack the RIPA, a Rye IPA that was smooth, rich and well balanced; Lemondrop Float, a 3.9 per cent Lemon Milkshake Sour (what?) that was full of flavour; Chill Pils (grainy, spicy with a little citrus); and Gollywobbler, another 3.9 per cent super sessionable beer that packed plenty of hop character.

And, of course, a whole bunch of Tantrum.

Each and every one a winner.

Before I left Mississauga, and after my hug with David, I went to my car and gifted Don a can of Great Lakes Brewery's jacked up Imperial version of their Thrust! IPA. Seemed only fair as he had picked up the tab for my tacos and our patio beers.

And then I gave my old friend a big hug.

A Love Story

I was watching television with Mom and Dad the other night when it occurred to me for the 12th time since breakfast that I really, really missed my kids.

"You are so lucky," I say to Dad with the straightest face I could muster, "to have one of your own here during the pandemic. And your favorite child at that."

My 87 year-old father, who clearly has not lost his ability to roll his eyes with the best of them, was non-committal in his response Still, he didn't say I wasn't his favourite ...

 

 *

2020 has been quite the experience for me, and I'd happily bitch about it if anybody would listen, but it's been shit for the lot of us, and my tale is better than most.

How I came to be holed up in my parent's basement just before a global pandemic - 40 years after they thought they got rid of me - is a long and boring story, so I like to say it was a series of unfortunate events which led me here, and a series of failed promises from my dear older brother that has me still here more than seven months later.

But it hasn't been all bad. In fact, it has been interactions like the one above that have kept me sane in these turbulent times.

Dad as a New Year's Baby back in his wild and crazy days

Mom at a cottage in the 50s

There's something to be said for spending quality time with the 'rents and I don't mind saying it because they are two of my favourite people. But the last time I spent any significant time in my childhood home was a brief between-marriages stay in the fall of '93 and a lot has changed since then, and not just because of Covid-19. My Mom, who took care of us kids, the house AND my Dad for most of her life, now has Alzheimer's and it's Dad's turn to take care of her.

I sometimes tell people the reason I'm here is to help look after Mom, whose 'early-onset' diagnosis is not so early-onset anymore. But the truth is Dad does almost all the work. I try to be within shouting distance at bath time if only because it's not an easy task to get Mom in and out of a conventional bathtub, and I'm there to help her down the stairs and into the car on the rare days she leaves the house, but that's about it.

Mostly I'm just here for the heavy lifting. I take care of the laundry for them - no lie, my father has t-shirts older than most of you, and between the two of them they own several dozen not-quite identical pairs of black socks that I was successful in matching up only once.

I was so proud.

I also do the shopping, run the odd errand and perform any other task I'm asked to do. And I'm Dad's assistant on some of his DIY projects that have occupied his time this summer.

See, my Pops is a handy fellow (those genes were definitely not passed down), so we've been busy. It started with the downstairs toilet, which had to be replaced before anyone (me) could live down there and that led to me tearing my rotator cuff, because toilets are very heavy when you have to hold them in the squat position long enough for the boss to prepare the landing zone.

(I'm seriously hoping the cure is Tommy John Surgery, by the way, because old dreams die hard.)

Mom& Dad (on the right) at their engagement party
 with family friends John & Eilleen (centre) and Bill & Thelma.
Of the four, only Bill is still with us

Dad also decided to build a new bed frame when he discovered Mom (all of 4'11" on a good day) was having difficulty climbing into bed. Which was rather sweet, I think. That meant tearing out the old wooden frame (which he built a half-century ago) followed by a few trips to Home Depot for supplies and most of two weeks with the two of us in the driveway creating his masterpiece.

I expect the new bed to outlive all of us.

But it's not all work and no play in the Hendry household and their sanctuary is the upstairs TV room, which is where I find myself two or three times a day. And if Dad is puttering away somewhere else I take the big chair and Mom and I have our time together.

I especially like to be up there around lunchtime, and as Dad busies himself in the kitchen Mom and I watch 'our' show, You Gotta Eat Here from the Food Network. Mom tut-tuts over the gluttony while salivating over the dishes and I encourage her to demand that her husband prepare her something for lunch befitting her Queen status.

She is almost deaf and likely doesn't hear most of what I said but she is suitably disappointed when Dad returns with a microwaved hotdog and half a banana for her lunch, as I am when my attempt to get a rise out of my father nets me nothing more than another eye-roll.

You Gotta Eat Here is also where I do my best beer celebrity watching. I spotted Beer Diversity founder Ren Navarro on one episode from a few years back, touting the virtues of former Toronto brunchspot Lisa Marie (it closed last year) to host John Catucci. A week later Mom and I are watching his spin-off show, Big Food Bucket List, and there was Ren again chatting up John at Butchie's, a super popular Whitby eatery that is known almost as much for its work in the community - particularly for LGBQT causes - as it is for owner Andrea's authentic southern fried chicken.

Mom's face after Dad swooped
in for a kiss

(I eagerly sent Ren a message after the first sighting, telling her about her new celebrity status, but after seeing her in Butchies, I figured she is probably far too busy to respond. Teaching breweries and people in the craft beer community about the importance of diversity is time-consuming enough without the added responsibility of being a Food Herald for John Catucci, like Silver Surfer was when he was scouting out new worlds for Galactus to devour.

As long as Ren doesn't start wearing plaid.)

We watch other programs as well, and I've become a fan of NCIS in these past months, though my love of the action drama has already surpassed my Dad's. If he had his druthers - and if he's holding the remote - he'd choose shows on British architecture, or maybe a nature program which we both love.

Or we just talk. While our world undergoes a dramatic social revolution it has been a wonderful thing to live with an 87 year-old man who is so ardently liberal in his beliefs that back in the pre-pandemic days he used to get a kick out of debating politics with his conservative pals when they hung out at Tim Horton's on Sunday afternoons. As old folks do. So we chat about current events every day.

I also ask him a lot of questions about things I don't understand, because he has always been my rock and though I may be getting on in years myself, that part hasn't changed.

But it hasn't always been peaches and cream at Casa Hendry. I wasn't planning on being here, and in fact only found out that negotiations for the horse farm I was scheduled to 'manage' north of the city fell apart 24 hours before I arrived in my parents' driveway with a U-Haul containing all my stuff.

That 'stuff' is now crammed into an already busy garage and in the furnace room downstairs, much to the annoyance of Pops, and I have been called upon numerous times this summer - particularly when we were working on the bed - to climb over my boxes and other assorted junk (as well as his band saws and other painfully sharp things) to find the tool he needed for the job.

All things considered (my age, my recent knee surgery) I wouldn't be the first option for Climbing Over Stuff in most households. But I am in this one.

But besides the complexities of folding a dozen pairs of black socks that look identical to me, I haven't had much to complain about living here, save for that beer 'incident' from early in the summer.

When I arrived on the last day of February I brought beer with me (naturally) and was storing them in the main fridge upstairs until Dad said he needed the fridge space for food. I know, right? But he was quite serious, so we found a little beer fridge he had stored in the basement, plugged it in and voila! I had my own fridge.

Fast forward three or four months and Pops announces that my niece Natalie is coming down from Edmonton for a socially distanced visit and that my brother Craig and my other niece Nicole will be driving in from Innisfil for the occasion. And could I get a few of his beer from the front closet and put them in the fridge?

Because who doesn't keep their beer in the front closet?

And in the closet, nestled up against Dad's macros, were four of MY beers, including a Waller Street (Ottawa) Black IPA, a 9.5 per cent glorious hop monster I scored on a beer trip to Kingston (April & Chuck from Waller Street were in our party) exactly one week before my move.

Good thing all that alcohol ensured the taste wasn't drastically affected by months in storage. Can't say the same for the other three, but I drank 'em anyway.

So you see, I don't have much to complain about. Besides, my father didn't exactly plan for his adult son coming in to live with him during the pandemic, so I really hope the experience has been at least half as awesome for him as it has been for me. 

*

September 17, 1955

It was just over a week ago - the 17th of September to be exact - when I went out to buy a cake, a card and some flowers for my parents to help them celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary. As someone who has been married twice for a total of 14 years, I think it's safe to say 65 is a major accomplishment. Hell, I believe that merits another pension just for the marriage itself, though I have yet to convince Ottawa of that.

I joined my folks for the cake-cutting and stuck around as Dad opened a nice bottle of wine for the occasion. Mom had two glasses - unusual consumption for her - and was snoring by eight o'clock.

Congratulations, you crazy kids.

💖

The Facebook-only, Family-friendly, Beer-free 4/20 Blog about Adrianne

4/20 has always been Adrianne's birthday for me and my family, except we didn't call it that. We just called it Adrianne's birthday.

These days April 20 is universally known as 4/20, a date which has begat an entire movement centred on what is now the most important day of the year in the cannabis world. As someone who has at least one foot in that world, you'd think that would be top of mind for me when I hear 4/20.

It isn't of course. It's my step-daughter's birthday.

Adrianne has other competition on the day, too. 4/20 is her brother Matt's Uncle Matt's birthday. It's also the birthday for Spider Jones, the boxer turned motivational speaker. My pal Don's brother Gary shares this day, as does my late friend Colin's son Alex and legendary Oakville musicians Dan and Dennis Ford.

For what it's worth, 4/20 is Hitler's birthday too, as well as that of George Takei, Jessica Lange, Andy Serkis, Carman Electra and Joey Lawrence. Bet Adrianne remembers Joey Lawrence.

Adrianne and her boy-toy Greg

There have been a few notable events that happened on 4/20, such as the horrific Columbine High School Massacre in 1999, but also the first pasteurizing test in 1862 by Marie and Phillip Currie. And it was on April 20, 1986, when a young Michael Jordan went off for a playoff record 63 points against Larry Bird and the Boston Celtics in a losing cause.

Using Facebook as a guide, it turns out lots of cool stuff happened on 4/20 through the years too, and most of it was family-oriented.

Ten years ago, I was reminded yesterday, was when I became Facebook friends with my cousin Neil, who lives in Australia and is about to put both feet in the cannabis world. I thought that momentous occasion couldn't be topped, but in 2013 4/20 was the day Cam - another of Adrianne's brothers - earned his full 'G' licence.

That same day? The Toronto Maple Leafs clinched a playoff spot for the first time in nine years with a 4-1 win over the Ottawa Senators. We all know how that season turned out, but still ...

That's gotta be the clincher, right? But no, in 2016 Adrianne's oldest child Allison - my granddaughter - competed in the Kawartha Idol talent competition in Peterborough and absolutely rocked it. She was 12.

Besides last year, when I re-posted a video with  Tom Jones, Jeff Beck and Van Morrison performing Bring it on Home to Me - who knew Van Morrison could sing with such soul? - all my other 4/20 posts in the past decade were about Adrianne.

Understandable. It is her birthday, after all.

Kingston, ON:

BeerFam2020

I remember a time from days of yore when men and women of honour and grace would congregate in large numbers to celebrate kinship, fellowship and love.

Stong libations would be consumed and the throng of revelers would travel from tavern to tavern and sometimes, on special occasions, would hire special chariots to take them to the places where these libations were conceived and to meet the wizards creating these magical ales and lagers.

Those times are part of history now, but it is the wish of ale lovers everywhere that history can one day repeat itself.

This, then, is a tale of one such occasion from long ago. February 22 to be exact ...

When it comes to spending time with my beer invasion buddies I will make almost any sacrifice to make it happen.

Not like my own kids or anything - I consider them pretty special; even sacred - but the rent money, the neighbour's kids, my self-esteem; all that's on the table.

But there comes a time when you have to admit defeat, and I was almost at that point in my efforts to get away for KingstonBeerFam2020, a highly anticipated event on my social calendar for a lot of reasons, most notably because a ton of my friends would be there.

There would be a bus to take us to all the beery fun our first capital city had to offer, lunch and dinner would be provided and Josh Hayter, fast becoming one of Kingston's favourite sons, would be there, so it was guaranteed to be, as us old people like to say, 'lit!'

Super lit, even.

The whole gang at Daft Brewing. Photo courtesy of Ryan - the head
brewer - with camera supplied by Candice

But there were obstacles in my path and once one obstacle was cleared another would rise up to meet me.

The first stumbling block was my health, as my knee surgery was six weeks prior to the event. But I had finally started to take my physio seriously so I was confident the walking and the standing and the sitting wouldn't be a concern. But the second obstacle - money - was proving to be somewhat more troublesome.

I had to extend my rent payments (and had to borrow off my Dad to do so) because my impending move was delayed and my first EI cheque had only just arrived, so the trip was looking dicey.

Also: no credit card.

I had a plan, though, and it involved me driving to Kingston to meet the party bus and my friends midway through the day and driving home to Oshawa the same night. It wouldn't be perfect but at least I would be able to see my pals and visit a few breweries.

And then my Oshawa peeps came through for me.

Jeff messaged me after he read about my scheme. "I don't know what your plan is, but Candice said you're coming to Kingston, so I'm here to tell you that you're coming to Kingston. Cal is renting the room so don't worry. We'll fit you in."

I still had questions but damn the torpedos, full speed ahead and all that, and on Saturday morning Jeff, Candice, Jamie and myself squeezed into Cal's truck and we headed to Kingston, arriving in plenty of time to check into the Delta, toss our stuff in our rooms (no couch to be found - this could be interesting) and hop on the bus.

Lots of familiar faces for me and a few new ones as well. There would have been a bigger turnout, our host informed me, but the rail blockade that was front and centre in the news at the time had prevented those who were coming in by train from attending.

One day I'll get Jordan St. John to autograph the book he sent me. One day.

Jeff and Josh enjoying a beer at Stone City. If you
look closely you will see I captured a
unicorn: Josh actually smiling

In addition to the five-person Oshawa contingent, there was my Oakville Beer Bros Don and Greg; Graeme (King City); Curtis and Nichole (Guelph); Matt (Ottawa); Waller Street Brewing's April and Chuck (also Ottawa); Paul (Newmarket); David (Hamilton-ish); our hosts Josh (President) and Amanda (Marketing Manager) from Spearhead Brewing; and Stephanie and Miranda, who Josh shanghaied from the Delta Hotel.

And John, the Bus Driver Extraordinaire.

The first stop was Daft Brewing, one of the new kids on Kingston's brewing block. Like, they've been open three weeks kinda new. These guys have re-purposed an old 5-bay garage and turned it into an open-concept space with a huge horseshoe-shaped bar at one end and the brewery at the other, with some cool artwork on the far wall.

They like to experiment at Daft, and I enjoyed a Spruce Sour, an Oat Dirty Bastard and a True Level Gose while Ryan, the Head Brewer, took us through a little of the brewery's long and storied history from his perch in the rafters. His vantage point made for a great picture too, as you see can from the above image.

Next up was Stone City Ales, and if Daft is a newbie, Stone City is a veteran of the local scene, with a history of producing brews like 12 Star Session Ale and Windward Belgian Wheat since they opened shop downtown in 2014.

(In fact, Stone City was at the first Durham Craft Beer Festival in '14, where my pal Steve, who drank macro if he was drinking beer at all, fell in love with the Windward Wheat. But I digress.)

The English pub decor at Kingston Brewing

Head Brewer Richard was on hand to greet our unruly crew and we got to sample a wide range of beers this day. There was Counterpoint Farmhouse Ale, Brood & Bloom Sour (Blackberry & Raspberry), Unchartered IPA and Nocturnal Dark Czech Pilsner.

And some Distant Origin dry-hopped IPA to go as well.

And then we were back on the bus, with our next stop just down the street and around the corner: Kingston Brewing.

This is billed as Ontario's oldest brewpub (1986) and it's set in a building that at least a century older than that so there's a lot of history in this place. The walls are adorned with memorabilia, giving it that old English pub feel, and the whole place just oozes charm.

Our gang was shepherded upstairs - because we're special -  and we were offered flights of their finest ales, including Dragon's Breath English Pale Ale and their double dry-hopped IPA. A few thirsty travellers opted for beers from their extensive guest tap list as well.

The beer was excellent and co-owner and Brewmaster Braden beguiled us with tantalizing tales of brewing lore, but the highlight of the visit came after Braden ordered the smokers downstairs fired up and subsequently brought us lunch.

And not just any lunch, but brisket, and fall-off-the-bone ribs, and macaroni 'n cheese to die for and I feared (briefly) that one of us actually did. I had two plates of food but before I could feel shame I saw that most of our party did as well. Paul was on his third when I noticed the tell-tale sign of a meat coma on his face and was about to intervene when he reminded me that he was a professional and I needn't concern myself.

Still, some of us had to be rolled out of there and down the stairs (ouch!) and back into the bus because we still had more drinking to do, with Riverhead Brewery next on the agenda.

Head Brewer Aaron gave us the brewery tour (and a fine glass of Tropical IPA) and it was a good thing we were segregated from the rest of the crowd because the big room was a dangerous place that day. Seemed a hockey tournament was in town and that meant a mini-stick competition was in full swing and if you know anything about nine year-olds playing mini-sticks, you know 'full swing' is to be taken literally.

Safely in the brewhouse, we got a lesson in brewing from Aaron (Graeme, one of our homebrewers, was right in his wheelhouse here) while I absently played with some ancient-looking bottle opener that was apparently worth $75.

I didn't try to steal it, Aaron. I swear.

Skeleton Park Brewery was our penultimate stop on the tour, and like everything else in Kingston, it has a bit of history attached to it.

Named for a nearby park that began its life as a burial ground for immigrant labourers, the brewery is owned by a man whose family has been brewing - or bootlegging - for three generations, and it was Trevor who gave us the speech on Kingston's brewing traditions and gave us the run-down on the beers on tap.

I went for their Best Bitter - I bought some to go as well - because it's a style we don't see very often and I love me some Bitters and ESBs.

With Skeleton Park complete, that only left one brewery on the itinerary. There might be some debate to say we left the best for last, but there is no argument that Spearhead Brewing, home of Josh, our host with the most, is the biggest.

It's not close, actually. Spearhead is huuuge and sports $5 million in custom-made brewing equipment that produced close to a million litres of beer last year.

Not all of that beer is Spearhead brew, which means the brewery, which started life in 2011 as a contract brewer, has come full circle and is now producing beer for others.

Josh had put on a buffet feed for us when we arrived but most of us were still stuffed from lunch so we ignored it. We were more eager to get a beer in our hands - Hawaiian Pale Ale for me - and a tour of this shiny new brewery.

"Who likes our shiny new tanks," asked Jacob on the Spearhead tour.
"I need a show of hands."

That's when Jacob stepped in and introduced himself. The Head Brewer at Spearhead, Jacob has a lot more experience than his late 20s-something eyes would have you believe, and he comes by it honestly. His dad, Tomas, spent three decades as a Brewmaster for Labatt before coming out of retirement to take the same fancy title for Spearhead.

There are whispers that Jacob does most of the work, Jacob whispered as he gave us a tour of the facility (which actually has room for future expansion), but whatever the arrangement, it seems to be working as the place is operating near 90 per cent efficiency.

Not a hundred per cent sure what that means, but it sounded impressive.

With the tour complete, all that was left was spend an hour or two enjoying each other's company, making sure John's tip jar was full and watching some cool Kingston cats - dressed to impress - invade the place for a blues show inside the brewhouse. Chicago Blues Hall of Famers Maurice John Vaughan and John Watkins (and friends) were in the house, and all was right this night with Spearhead Brewing.

Probably time to take us back to the hotel, someone told John, and that's when I spotted the buffet.

"There's food? Hang on a sec, John. All of a sudden I'm hungry."

***

You'd think after all that beer consumption we'd be in a hurry for our beds but there was the matter of the after-party. Because there's always an after-party, and this night it was in April & Chuck's room, which was a good thing because they brought lots of Waller Street Brewing swag. And by swag I mean beer. And by beer I mean their award-winning (award presented by me) Black IIPA.

Is there a finer Doorman than this man?

But first I had to sort out my sleeping arrangements, because at that point I had a pot to piss in but I didn't have a bed to sleep in. "There seems to be a misunderstanding," I said hopefully to the desk clerk at the Delta. "Do you have a cot or something for me?"

The answer was no, but the helpful clerk did offer to deliver two sets of extra bedding to our room, which sounded promising but proved to under-deliver on that promise. Beggars can't be choosers, I guess.

The party in April's room was in full swing when the Oshawa crew arrived and I made sure to snag a few bottles of the Black IIPA to go before settling in to watch the end of what turned out to be a historic hockey game.

This was the game both Carolina Hurrican goalies were hurt and the team had to use the Leaf's emergency back-up, a 42 year-old part-time Zamboni driver named David Ayres who rightly earned his moment in the sun - he dominated social media and even did the talk show circuit for at least a week - by beating (not to mention embarrassing) his employers in a 6-3 Carolina win.

By then the party was starting to fizzle out and after suffering our first casualty - Jamie had to be dragged from his resting spot at the end of April's bed to his own room across the hall - we called it a night.

The hotel manager was getting a little nervous anyway, though someone down the hall magically produced a puppy and everything was peachy again at the Delta.

It was a perfect day in Kingston in fact, with six breweries showcasing their hospitality to the world, or at least to a busload of freeloaders beer lovers who more than appreciated their efforts.

Shout-out to Josh and Amanda at Spearhead for organizing this event, the Delta for putting us up and putting up with us, Tourism Kingston and Kingston Economic Development for sponsoring lunch and dinner, to John and McCoy Bus Service for shuttling us around in style and to everyone else involved who made KingstonBeerFam 2020 an unforgettable day.

Thank you.

This tale was from a month ago but seems much longer, what with everything that has happened in the interim. A busload of people going from brewery to brewery these days would be dangerous and downright criminal as we fight to prevent the spread of Covid-19, which has already killed more than a thousand people worldwide and affected hundreds of thousands more.

The actions we take today - self-isolation, social distancing - are necessary to flatten the curve and save lives but they are devastating our economy and putting the future of many small businesses at risk. Breweries are no different and all six we visited in Kingston last month could find themselves out of business if this pandemic goes on much longer. So please continue to spend money at local businesses or your favourite brewery if you can. Most breweries deliver so you don't even have to leave your homes to get delicious, Ontario-made beer sent right to your door.

Stay safe, stay home, wash your hands and we will get through this together.

Peace.

Covid-19, Border Collies and Badlands 

Writing is difficult at the best of times, though I can't recall any best of times recently.

There have been moments, of course, but I was always too busy enjoying those fleeting bursts of wonder to write about them, and when it came time to do what I've done for more than half my life, things got ... in the way.

The past year has been particularly tough, what with a financial crisis, bouts of depression and, most recently, my knee replacement. Still, I've managed to write two blogs in 2020, both chronicling my surgery and my impending move from Oshawa to horse country in King City, where the fresh air and a re-connection to nature were supposed to re-discover the spark that has been missing in my life.

Things are never so simple for me, of course, and I'm now ensconced in my parent's basement in north Toronto while waiting for the property to become available. End of next week is the latest deadline, though my brother is doing the negotiating and while I love him dearly, his word hasn't always been his bond.

So I wait in my childhood home, helping Dad get the basement cleaned out (except for my stuff) and prepped for the day when he sells the house and brings Mom to join us on the King City property.

That's the plan, anyway, but as we're not actually on the farm as I write this, the whole deal could still go south and that would truly suck for all of us.

I'm on EI as I rehab from the surgery so I have plenty of time on my hands, so I made an attempt to write about my Kingston BeerFam weekend and even got a few paragraphs in, but I found it hard to write about a glorious time with friends when Covid-19 officially became a pandemic and swept the globe, canceling almost everything in its wake and sending panicked citizens into local stores to stockpile toilet paper, of all things.

The Coronavirus, or Covid-19

From television newscasts to social media, the impact the virus now has on the global community is immeasurable, and we are told daily about school and business closures; reminded about the importance of hand-washing and taught new phrases, such as self-isolation and social distancing.

Not to mention the importance of being kind. I could stand to hear more about that.

So I worry.

At 60, I suppose I am considered somewhat vulnerable, but I ate enough dirt as a child to build up a pretty good immune system, so I don't worry about myself at all, really. But my parents - both 87 - are a different story. Dad is still strong and as he takes all the necessary precautions I am not terribly concerned about him. But Mom, who suffers from Alzheimer's, is rather frail and most definitely immunocompromised and I'd be lying if I didn't worry about her catching the virus.

So I do all the right things and we basically self-isolate and watch wall-to-wall Covid-19 coverage until we are desperate for something less depressing. Dad turns to BBC documentaries and murder mysteries and I go downstairs to my laptop and see social media posts about hoarding toilet paper before turning to Netflix for salvation.

Any escape is short-lived as my attention span is down to about 15 minutes so when I woke up Saturday morning I decided I needed to get the hell out of the house. Maybe go for a drive; maybe take a spin up to King City and see this mysterious property myself.

Hitting up a new brewery could be in the cards as well, and when I found Badlands Brewery on the map, I knew I struck gold. I had been hearing great things about Badlands - which is open just five hours a week, adding to the mystique - but the best part was this farm brewery in Caledon was off King Road, the very road (albeit 40 minutes to the east) that takes me to the King City estate.

The Badlands bottle shop

It was an easy 35-minute drive from home up the 410 and at 11:45 - fifteen minutes before opening - I found myself joining a line of cars parked on the side of Chinguacousy Road. It was one of those blustery days A.A. Milne used to write about and I was among the first handful of people in line for the bottle shop, which is just a shed that has only a few cows for company the other six days of the week.

And Nelly too. The resident farm dog, Nelly is a Border Collie who quickly adopted me as we waited for the noon opening bell, coming in for a quick scritch before returning with a ball and daring me to take it from her.

Now I am not inexperienced at this game and I know all the tricks; from lifting the dog off her front legs to the gentle but firm neck twist method. But I was losing this battle and after more than five minutes of struggle I admitted defeat and Nelly ran off with her prize to see if anyone else was worthy.

My fellow linemates had some fun with the battle and that's when I found out the people lined up on this windy Saturday were here every weekend like it was a secret club. Most people seemed to know each other and greeted each new addition to the line - it had stretched to more than two dozen by the time noon rolled around - like old friends.

Two minutes later my old friend Nelly returned, having failed to find a worthy opponent, ready for round two.

So the battle resumed, only this time I managed to wrestle the ball away from her after a short struggle. I know she let me win.

Delicious Badlands beer

Ten minutes later I was up at the window ordering two of everything, including a couple of Provocative IPAs, a beer that was leftover from the previous weekend, and that's what I ordered when I entered the tap room, which is an old bus parked on the grass in front of one of the barns.

Damn! That beer was dynamite! So good I ordered a second 12-oz cup, which was about the same time the bus started filling up, making the social distance thing I was attempting difficult to pull off. So I finished my beer - so good - and headed back to my car, confident in the notion (provided the virus doesn't shut down EVERYTHING next week) that I would be back.

Maybe I'll even join the secret club.

Forty minutes later I was seeing the King City farm for the first time; which wasn't a farm at all but a group of houses and a fancy-pants stables - all surrounded by an enclave of multi-million dollar estate homes. There were still For Sale signs around the property - which was not as surprising as you'd think - and a No Trespassing sign at the entrance, which was partially blocked by a half-open gate.

I ignored the sign and drove through the grounds, taking a close look at the house I am supposed to live in and even stopping to peek through the window at the stables. The property was deserted. No cars. No people. I have no idea what that means, though I heard from Dad when I returned home there are still some legal obstacles before my brother can take occupancy.

That is nothing new and if you know my brother, not a shocker either.

Fingers crossed, I guess.

***

I was out on a shopping expedition yesterday - toilet paper and kleenex were on the list - and I was curious to see what it was like in the stores. The last time I went out shopping was before people went bat-shit crazy and I found the customers civil, if a bit nervous about being in close proximity to other humans.

I struck out at Blue Sky (except for some shrimp), found kleenex at No Frills and was in the line at Dollarama - no toilet paper to be found - when a woman came into the store, bypassing the line and going straight to one of the check-out girls.

She was very obviously suffering from an intellectual disability and appeared to be asking for surgical masks and got agitated when she was told there were none and was asked to leave. The young lady at the till then called for the next customer - which was me - and then waved her arms helplessly when the woman screamed that she needed masks.

The other staffer told her there would be more tomorrow, which only prompted the woman to scream again.

So I very gently told her the masks would be in tomorrow.

She quieted down and looked at me for the first time.

"They'll be in tomorrow," I said softly.

She nodded at me and left the store and we all went back to our business.

Whatever you do out there, be kind. Always be kind

Peace.

Is 2020 over yet? (Part 2)

Unless you are homeless or have a price on your head it isn't likely you'd want to stay in hospital any longer than you had to, but man, I wasn't ready to go.

My knee replacement surgery was shortly after two on a Friday afternoon and 24 hours later I'm calling my son to pick me up, but like I said, I wasn't ready. It was all a bit disorientating for one thing, and there's also something about having a bell beside your bed in case you needed your pillow fluffed or something.

I never used it of course, but it was there, just in case.

We only practiced stairs once and it didn't go well, so I was nervous about my eight banister-free steps down to my basement apartment, but otherwise I didn't have any excuses about going home.

Rehab, I guess, but I was full of bravado on how that would be a breeze, a decree I called Mistake #1.

It was a mostly uneventful hospital stay unless you count a brief vomiting spell in the morning when my body decided to reject most of the drugs they had pumped into me, but there was one incident worth mentioning, though it involves a torture medical procedure that has struck terror in the hearts (and orifices) of men everywhere for millennia, and my rather graphic description of that procedure.

Staples. Lots of staples. Better this
image than one of a catheter

It was several hours after waking up in the room I shared with my knee surgery amigo Mike when our night shift nurse (I think her name was Charise) came in and asked if I had peed.

"No," I said. "Is that a problem?"

"If you don't pee," she replied, "we'll have to use a catheter."

"Whoa, whoa, watch your language," I nearly shouted, alarmed that this seemingly nice young woman would use such profanity. "That's a horrible swear word," I said. "We don't need to go there."

"Then go pee," was all she said before walking away.

So I tried to empty my bladder, with no success, and when Charise returned shortly after I pleaded for more time.

"You have half an hour," she said before fluffing Mike's pillow to show me what she thought of my stalling tactics.

So I tried again to pee and got nothing. The odd thing was my bladder didn't feel full at all but Charise insisted it was full to bursting and right on schedule she walked back into our room with a gadget not that much different than the one created by Ben Franklin in 1752 and just as painful (I imagined) as devices used by the ancient ones to extract information from the enemy.

When she inserted said device into what I always considered strictly an exit hole, I admit I screamed just a little, and when she pushed it in farther I gasped but held my tongue as bravely as I could. I dunno if Mike was horrified for my sake or quietly giggling at my misfortune but in about a minute it was all over.

I felt drained. Quite literally.

That afternoon I was kicked out of my semi-comfortable hospital bed and sent home to begin my recovery and after a first night that had me getting up to pee every two hours I settled into a routine over the next few weeks of going to physio twice a week to be abused by Saloni (who was sweet, professional and cruel, all in one package) and moaning about my sad state of affairs.

But if I was complaining, it was mostly about being bored and that situation changed in a hurry a little over a week after coming home.

That's when I was robbed. While I slept.

Yeah, I know. Fuck my life, huh?

A thief broke into my apartment and stole my laptop, my wallet - containing my ID and about $60 - and my meds, which I suspected was the goal all along.

I tried to not be obsessed with this, but the fact I was likely targeted because of my situation hurt, as was the evidence (or lack thereof) from the security cameras that suggested an inside job.

I got little sympathy from my landlady and probably less from our local police, who made it pretty clear I wasn't a high priority, even after I made a veiled threat about having a few friends with different ideas on how to handle the investigation.

They thanked me for my feedback and as I would never have followed through on my big talk I was able to put the incident in my rearview mirror and move on.

But it was the start of a rough two-week patch for me as I had other challenges to face, and the physio became my priority, especially as Saloni started getting concerned my recovery wasn't coming as fast as she (and I) wanted.

Specifically, the bend in my knee, which was not even close to the desired number, even after she reefed on my leg hard enough to cause me to (once again) scream, which, in turn, caused me to question my long-held belief that my pain tolerance level was pretty good.

I called that Mistake #2.

My ability to straighten my leg was also an issue, as the target number was -5 and three weeks after the operation I was getting no better than -12. If I didn't reach my goal I would likely have a permanent limp, I was warned.

The planned move to Caledon was also stressing me out, as Brian was having difficulty finalizing the deal ("damn lawyers," he would always say) and only updating me when he had news to share. Which wasn't often.

I had to get my information from my Dad, which was where I learned there was a second property - also in Caledon - in the mix. Neither deal was showing any sign of getting done, and a move that was supposed to happen in November was still stalled three months later.

"There's always King City," Pops pointed out.

Turned out there was a third option (first I heard of it), and this deal apparently had legs. But I had, of course, heard that before.

The Kingston trip was looking doubtful too, as I hadn't received any EI money and had to borrow to extend my stay at my apartment because of all the delays. It wouldn't be right to spend that money on beer, right?

Some good news, or at least a fresh perspective was needed and the breakthrough came in mid-February.

I was already driving (several weeks ahead of schedule), so I didn't have to lean on friends and family so much - shout-out to Candice, Paula, Cam, Kass, Marie, Brandon, Josh, Steve, Cal, Adam and Christian-Ann for their driving skills and/or support - and when my first EI cheque arrived things started to come together.

The King City property became reality soon after when the contract was signed (closing date: February 28), and that bit of good news inspired me to get off my ass and turn my half-packed apartment into something closer to move-ready.

Kingston

The beer trip was not a lot closer to reality but I did have a plan, so there was at least hope.

Most importantly, I started seeing improvements in my rehab, no doubt helped by me spending more time doing my exercises at home. My bend rate topped the magic '100' mark and when Saloni dumped two truck tires and an anvil on my knee and then jumped on it, we achieved success in straightening my leg as well, sailing all the way to -4.

(Shout-out to some of the other staffers, such as David, Amanda, Sarah and Will, and to my fellow old farts patients for their encouragement.)

The beer was even starting to taste pretty good. I might just get through this ordeal after all.

With the moving truck booked and a few pals enlisted to help, that only left Kingston. My friends would be there and a few big hitters in the beer world might also be attending so I very much wanted this to happen.

And I had a plan ...