April, 2015

Beer: Near and Dear

With over fifty microbreweries within PDX city limits and dozens more minutes away from the epicenter, Oregon has more craft breweries per capita than anywhere else in the U.S. These myriad choices can be dizzying. PDX Magazine is here to help our readers with semi-regular feature articles exploring some of the area’s greatest breweries. We start our adventure with Baerlic Brewing (pronounced bear-lick), which is located just up 11th Avenue from the PDX offices. They’re one of the newest breweries in town and they preach a mantra of keeping their beer “near and dear,” sourcing local ingredients whenever possible. And so, less than a football field away from our headquarters, we step into the world of Portland craft brewing. From the moment we walk through the door at Baerlic, our senses are bombarded with moist and mouthwatering aromas of mystical mash concoctions created by the bustling brewmasters and sud savants. The sudden departure from the typically crisp Portland night air as we enter the warm and tastefully barren establishment causes the palatable aromas, such as wheat, barley, and yeast, to be all-encompassing and tantalizing, leaving we patrons focused and determined. Approaching the spigot-forged wall of delicacies, we take in the colorful contrast between the chalk-lined reader…

Squirrel Benediction

By Mike Allen I finally took the leap and fried up a batch of squirrel—gray city squirrel harvested from my backyard. I’ve been halfheartedly killing them for a while now because I hate them and everything they stand for, except free lunch. It’s clear from the little bites taken from each and every piece of unripe fruit on the trees that the squirrels expect a free lunch. I’d been watching them from the kitchen, climbing up into the trees, eating all the figs and persimmons, digging their little walnut stashes all throughout my raised beds, where they might return sometime in the spring to dig their booty, carelessly tossing my seedlings aside. I was helpless as a baby in the sewer, since my .20 caliber Sheridan Blue Streak blew a gasket a few months ago. It sat impotent in the garage, as I stood at the window. But thanks to the good people at Ollie Damon’s (not the counter dude, he’s a dick), I got my long arm back, working better than new. It was time to rain hellfire on these vicious little rodentia. And I did. But after a few carcasses tossed carelessly into the city compost, guilt began…