Today I was reading
in Hank Shaw’s always entertaining Hunt Gather Cook
Facebook group and came across a post where Hank himself described
his wild
homebrew
saison wort as the wee yeasties.
Now, if there is a more Scottish description of the requisite
organisms for fermentation I dinnae ken what that would be. As such,
I had to compose a short poem there on the spot:
Wee Yeasty Beasties
Fermenting a' tha day
Serenaded by the Pibroch
While the leal folk
Think on their deadly thirst
And labor on the hay
Wee Yeasty Beasties
Fermenting a' tha day
Serenaded by the Pibroch
While the leal folk
Think on their deadly thirst
And labor on the hay
It
is pretty evocative for such a short and unpolished piece. So much
so, that I was brought back to the imagery of the hayfield. Now, I’m
not talking about the Oklahoma hayfield where the sun crisps
you like a pork rind, but
rather those romantic hayfields captured in so much fine artwork.
What, you don’t believe me? Have
a look for yourself. The
depictions of country life don’t fall short on the harsh reality of
agricultural employment, but they do soften the edges. I wouldn’t
mind working in many of those fields, given that it was September or
October and I could quit after about 30 minutes.
Though
not Scottish, Ralph McTell’s The
Girl from the Hiring Fair is
also appropriate here. It is a work of poetry itself: enchanting,
pastoral, and evocative of those blessed summer nights when the
back-breaking labor is done and there is time for the craic. McTell’s
word-smithing is genius throughout the song, but to me it is at its
finest here:
And I swung harder with my scythe, few words between us passed,
And I cursed my tongue-tied youthfulness and I hoped that she'd hear my heart.
And I swung harder with my scythe, few words between us passed,
And I cursed my tongue-tied youthfulness and I hoped that she'd hear my heart.
Luckily
for McTell’s strapping mower, his subdued romantic inclinations do
not go unnoticed.
She was safely
gathered in my arms when from the barn
Drifted the sound of a violin and we hurried back to the farm,
And all were dancing in the lantern light and music filled the air,
And I thanked my stars for the harvest moon and the girl from the hiring fair.
Drifted the sound of a violin and we hurried back to the farm,
And all were dancing in the lantern light and music filled the air,
And I thanked my stars for the harvest moon and the girl from the hiring fair.
Here
we have the full circle. The laborer’s toils end with dancing and
most certainly (though implicitly) a celebratory brew. It seems
unimportant, but that act was been repeated through
generation-upon-generation. So much in fact, that alcoholic beverages
and the grains that they were made from (embodied by Robert Burns’
John Barleycorn)
became central
elements in the rituals of numerous religions as symbols of life
and fertility. In his master-work, The Golden Bough,
Sir James Frazier documents the widespread worship various of
deities (Virbius, Jupiter,
Dianus, Janus, Adonis, Attis, Osiris, Dionysus, Bacchus, Persephone)
as the embodiment of
agricultural fertility. Oversimplified, The
Golden Bough connects the
founding
of nearly all world religions to three basic functions: (1) ensure
that the vegetation and crops regrow every year, (2) ensure that the
livestock multiplies,
and (3) ensure that the rains fall.
That’s
something heady to think about the next time you enjoy your favorite
craft brew. Perhaps you’ll even decide to try your hand seeing what
magic lies in the plants, yeasts, and world around us.
