Who's a Good Little Doggy?

Or, a good little fishyhead, for that matter.

Take your seats! Sit up straight! Stop chewing your pencils and FOCUS, my lovlies. Fall has arrived, school is back in session and we have work to do.

I spent most of the summer slumming it at the campground...a magical place where alcoholism is a welcome characteristic. The proof is in the abysmal brew selection at the local liquor stores. The GOOD news is that I, in all my cleverly drunk wisdom, managed to sniff out something at least passably interesting. My fishing skills clearly were not as "stunted" as my well intentioned friend suggested as I caught a Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA.

Well, at the market. In the cooler. But with MY BARE HANDS, people!

I have to be honest: this one was a waffler for me. I had a bad taste in my mouth from the only other Dogfish Head (who comes up with these names??) brew I had tasted before BUT I was more than willing to give it a clean slate. The scent of the 60 minute IPA was, honestly, very alluring. I do love hops and this hoppy smell was buttery, sugary and slightly floral. It made my mouth water.

Malty, clean and a bit bitter at first taste, it left me unsure. I was surprised that it did not taste like it smells. Second sip was dry, nutty and still quite malty. In fact, the malt and hops did this dance on my tongue the whole bottle through.

Aaaaaand the next 2 bottles were equally warm and clean. I certainly recommend this one, even though it didn't strike me as an IPA. Dogfish Head has redeemed it's name in my finicky noggin! I'd like to get my hands on their Punkin Ale, as I suspect it will be fabulous.

After sleeping off my Dogfish Head-head under the stars (I'm pretty sure there really were stars) I had to set off to find something new. Something different. Something to satiate the crazed, television-starved lunatic that was taking over my malnourished and campfire-scented body. I had occasion to head home to Boston and had a late lunch at a fave pub, The Sunset Grille and Tap. With 112 beers ON TAP and another billion or so bottles to choose from I was understandably overwhelmed.

I'm ONLY HUMAN, people!

So like all logical, college minded people I slapped my hand over my eyes and landed my pretty little finger on the vast menu. Aha! Founder's Devil Dancer. Well, the name is certainly appropo, no? After being scolded for not bringing my sweet potato fries with any dipping sauce, my beer-slave-cum-shamed-food-slinger plunked down the bottle, apologetically, with a freezing cold glass. I had to forgive the poor love, his face was so fallen.

The label was cool (and we all know how important THAT is!). The smell was at once assaulting and comforting...the hops were having a SERIOUS orgy in that bottle. It was like walking into a bread factory; smooth, warm, yeasty and absolutely intoxicating. I must have had my nose in the damn bottle for longer than acceptable because my dining partner gave a strong clearing of the throat, along with a stern raise of the eyebrows.

Oh, right. Public. Gotcha. Camping will do that to a girl.

Sooooo....the bottle tips to my lips. The cold liquid slides in and I swear ta gawd, the skies opened. I heard trumpets and angels singing. I DID! I heard them!! My mouth was flat out assaulted like a freshman sorority girl at a sophmore kegger when the pansies have been weeded out and gone home.

A grenade attack of warm, nutty hops. Creamy milkiness, like homemade root beer floats. I was reminded of Whoppers (the malted milk ball, not the burger) and freshly baked bread. A hopbomb with a slight touch of citrus fruit that was perfectly placed.

A few sips in (and one clean pair of panties later) I cleared my head and tried to really focus on the brew, the essence. But I swear I just saw caramels dancing before my eyes. There was a definitive syrupy sort of finish to each sip...that slightly oily, warm feeling that coats your mouth and makes you (me, anyway) smile.

Seriously, folks. I'm in love. For the love of all things holy and good, GO GET YOURSELF A DEVIL DANCER. Just once, try one. At 12% ABV you'll be glad you did. It's like a christmas present to yourself.

I'm getting all teary, here.

Now all love stories have a hurdle, right? A low point that pulls at your heartstrings and makes you root for the glory of love! And mine is this:

I cannot find Devil Dancer to call my own. I have called every big (well stocked) liquor store I can think of to no avail. I'm crushed. Despondent. Grief stricken. Bereaved. Even my beloved Muckey's does not carry it and was unable to order it for me.

And so I retreat into the shadows of pain and heartache, unable to reach my destiny and unwilling to give up the dream. I am perusing Jet Blue's website for deals to Michigan because dreams DO NOT DIE EASY! I will not give up. We will....somehow....be united.

be well.