A hardwood fire is spitting and crackling and threatening to shoot holes in the hostas and singe my corneas when I come too close. Grass fed short ribs from Staubitz reclined in a soy bath before hissing and wafting wonderful smells into the Brooklyn evening. Thank you, dear beef.
In Brooklyn slugs get the best, because part of our living-in-Brooklyn contract stipulates that we sell our moist garden pests to the local restaurant (in our case the Henry Street Public) down the road as bar snacks. 90 minute Dogfish Head Indian Pale Ale will tenderise and flavour the gentle creepers. I like slugs, somehow. But when Hurricane Irene passed us without damage she did only one bad thing: all the pots went onto the floor of the terrace, and the slugs that live there suddenly discovered: strawberries; and moved into the pots. And I have noticed ominous holes in the plectranthus and even basil so it's time. Beer trap for the basil-infused slugs.
The good beer, very expensive beer, was an experiment, but we hate it. Neither the Frenchie nor I is a fan of bitter beer. Both of us tend towards lagers and German style weissbrews. We slum it with Miller, or El Presidente, and we loved the Russian No. 5 at the Beach Farm. Deep roasts are just too toasty and overwhelming for us. We know that there are better informed persons out there (specifically on Union Street just north of 7th Avenue) who would disagree vehemently. So, we are weak in some departments.
Tomorrow will reveal what slugs think of the $4 Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial IPA. Tomorrow generally reveals a lot. If you took care of today. Or not.