beer

ESTRELLA DAMM INEDIT—As perplexing as a lightweight Ben Wa ball

Very occasionally my mum and her friends talk about interesting things, which makes me prick up my ears for tidbits that go beyond the ordinary childrearing conversational din. This happened today at the mention of Ben Wa balls, although the context and lead-up eluded me. One minute she and her two buddies were talking about some teacher-student spat; the next they were discussing marble-size balls that one might insert into oneself.

Needing to know more (while remaining deliberately blind to any context involving my mother), I hit the Internet. What on earth are these mysterious Ben Wa balls?

Turns out they have some very respectable medical uses (in which case they usually get renamed “Kegel exercisers”) as well as some hedonistic and even perplexing uses. You definitely need a cavity in which to place them, which makes my research strictly academic.

I know my fellow inebriates are very well informed about a host of subjects and therefore do not need a play-by-play description of how to thrust foreign objects into either nether region and then retrieve them. You all know how to do this, I’m sure. Unlike yours truly, you have healthy orifices that may or may not be receptive. So I can dispense with the obvious, which leaves (maybe arbitrarily) the following:

  • Insert one ball at a time; it’s not a race, people.
  • If a ball slips out in public, look around vapidly and say, “Oh look one of my kid’s bouncy balls—where did that come from? Does anyone have any jacks?” Then, if planning to surreptitiously slip it back in, give it a wash.
  • If a ball doesn’t want to slip out, try jumping around, bearing down, or forcing a sneeze. If you’re fearful they won’t ever come out, consider purchasing a retrieval cord. (Incidentally, this is a good option for rear-entry Ben Wa activity, in which—unlike front-entry Ben Wa activity—balls can go MIA indefinitely.)
  • The heavier the balls, the more likely they are to fall out. Latex ones are lighter than metal—but porous and less easy to clean. Metal ones clean up better but they do set off airport metal detectors.

If you didn’t gather it from the foregoing, or you’ve missed any previous laments about the fact, I do not have an anal cavity. Which means all this information is…a gift. If you find this gift dubious, then here’s a beer review:

ESTRELLA DAMM INEDIT, a Spanish one-off purchased by my dad, comes in a slick-looking bottle. The word “inedit” means “never been done before,” an always ominous phrase, especially when the beer in question sports no more than 4.8% alcohol. Nevertheless it comes in a big honking bottle promising a wheat-lager style mix-up with citrus topnotes and coriander supporting notes. This sounded like a decent gamble to my dad when he bought it, and it was in the sense that, as soon as my mum got one taste of it, she handed her half over. Dad got twice the beer he bargained for and probably ten times as much as he wanted. And me—I got swacked out of my head, which is what happens when either of my parents lets some undesirable booze languish on the counter.

What was so objectionable about ESTRELLA DAMM INEDIT? It pours hazy and straw-colored with little foam to speak of. Wafting lemon predominantly with yeast and coriander, its stated objective is to pair with “the most exquisite and challenging foods.” These include, per its marketing materials, asparagus. (Do you like “challenging” foods? Do you like foods that make your pee pungent? OMG, what effect would asparagus pee have on Ben Wa balls?)

My dad, even though he gutted it out and eventually finished the whole bottle of ESTRELLA DAMM INEDIT, thought it was a pretender—light, watery, and wheaty with some weird, competing fruit notes—like a wannabe Unibroue beer, except not.

I think any beer that offers less than 5% alcohol is suspect. It’s like a lightweight Ben Wa ball that feels really odd going in, but then you forget all about it and it doesn’t have the weight to just drop out on its own, so if you don’t have a retrieval cord, eventually your doctor will find it. That’s exactly what ESTRELLA DAMM INEDIT is like.

Do liquorstore bears have mothers?

I don’t have any pre–liquor store memories. Self-awareness came on the liquor store shelf, next to countless bears just like me, all for sale (two for $10, one goes home with you and the other goes to charity). So I don’t remember any mama bear in my life.

I wonder what happened to my mother. What was she like?

Wayne R Bilenduke/Stone/Getty Images

Polar bear mothers are so focused on the cubs that they don’t even eat during the winter—all their resources go to their offspring. I don’t think my mother was polar bear. But if she had been, she would have protected me for two years—I never would have got to live in the liquor store.

Photograph by Norbert Rosing

Black bear mothers will fight to the death for their cubs. I doubt my mother was a black bear. If she had been, we would have roamed around eating garbage, grass, and (OMG!) insects. I would never have got to live at the liquor store.

Grizzly mama bears spend over three years training their cubs how to map out territory and find food. When grizzly cubs sense danger, they run to their mothers (black bear cubs run to the trees). I don’t have any survival instincts whatsoever, so I’m thinking my mother wasn’t a grizzly.

Photo: Alaska Stock Images

Brown bears like posing for photographs. Maybe my mother was a brown bear.

We’ll just never know. But it looks like I missed out on living in the wild, hibernating, eating bugs, getting shot by Sarah Palin, never getting to watch Breaking Bad…

And my adoptive mum shared a beer with me last night, which makes her okay in my book.

 

WHISKEY JACK ALE—5%, but still not for four-year-olds

It occurred to me today that Miss V is getting pretty strong.

Maybe she could help me open some bottles. Would it be so reckless to ask her?

Naturally our mum walked in the second I did ask her.

Where the hell are these kids’ parents?

I blamed Max & Ruby for corrupting us. Whatever those stupid bunnies had been doing on TV, it had reminded us of alcohol.

Even though my mother believes that Max & Ruby’s insipid plotlines and relentless gender stereotyping are definitively corrupting, she didn’t buy this excuse. If anything, Max & Ruby might suggest the Women’s Temperance Movement or the Tea Party. The show could lobotomize a child.

Thankfully it hasn’t turned V into a vegetable yet. She’s got some smarts about her, which is why—when my mother went out of earshot—I suggested we play mixology. She could measure and stir and shake and pour and add ice cubes…and open bottles with her strong little thumb-equipped hands.

I had this bottle in mind. I thought the preserved larva hanging out in the bottom would appeal to V. Just yesterday she stood spellbound watching ants attack a centipede. Why wouldn’t she want to get her hands on a mescal-saturated arthropod? She could play with it while I pounded its mind-altering marinade.

“Why don’t you stop being a pest and review another Whistler Brewing Co. beer?” said our killjoy mother.

Whether she wanted to wreck our fun or discourage V’s possible nascent interest in entomology I don’t know. She wouldn’t be able to handle a kid dissecting worms on the kitchen table, that’s for sure.

I didn’t really want to think about an amber ale like WHISKEY JACK ALE with our fridge crying out for a refill. Not with the mescal bottle so tantalizingly close. But here goes.

Another member of Whistler Brewing Company’s Travel Pack, WHISKEY JACK is a dark-amber ale with apeshit fizz and an ecru head that vanishes in seconds. The title is very appealing and suggestive, especially with INNIS & GUNN OAK AGED BEER lingering in recent memory, but upon pouring there’s no aromatic suggestion of barrel treatment.

I’ve come to think of Whistler Brewing Company beers as having a watery taste, and WHISKEY JACK is no exception. Billed as a session ale for those who like to convene with their beers rather than just drink them, this ale seems from the first sip to be missing something. Oak barreling certainly. Decent ABV indeed (it’s 5%). The smell is mildly wheaty/bready with a little caramel, suggesting more bakery than distillery.

In the mouth there’s a bit of disharmony between its sweet and bitter tones, with earthy hops pushing their way through the back of the palate while you’re still wondering about the oak. The mouthfeel is inadequate for an ale but refreshing nonetheless. If you’re thirsty, no complaints. If you’re having a session, you’ll probably bitch. Not that you would bitch, my fellow inebriates—you are all awesome.

What else can be said? Slightly puzzling but minor dischord among the flavors, thin-to-medium mouthfeel with aforementioned wateriness, and paltry alcohol. In short, well worth pounding a case all at once, and less likely to make you sick than a bottle of mescal.