Muddy Mesa fun

Recently my Saturday run has been up south on Ninth, then along the Mesa Trail in Chautauqua. It makes for a hell of a climb to start and Mesa is a great place for 'quick feet'.
Last week my 90 minute run brought me a respectable 7.5 miles. When I was finished though, I knew I had more in the tank and vowed to get to 8 miles in the same time this week.
In between this week and last, there was the small matter of the first snowstorm of the year here in Boulder. Twelve inches of snow fell, turning Mesa trail into a snowy, icy, slushy, muddy mess.
In spite of this, I still managed to pull off 8.04 miles in the trail nastiness... and I still felt spectacular. Next time I do that route, I'll see if I can push it to nine miles instead.
I also decided to take some video of my feet during one of the descents, being curious to see them myself. I've also posted the video for your viewing amusement.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nm5vN99lnew&feature=youtube_gdata_player

My loss

I don't normally talk about personal stuff here. Running, architecture, cycling, mead making, n+1... these things are important to me in their way, especially running, but they're not personal. This isn't that type of blog.

Today is an exception. I've felt the pull to share this for a while, and I've decided that ignoring that pull is just not healthy.

So...

A couple months ago my grandmother passed away. 

She had been sick for several months and went downhill quickly and suddenly. So suddenly that in spite of moving up my flight to visit her twice in the 4 days before I flew out, by the time I arrived she had been asleep for a while. In the 24 hours that ensued, I barely left her bedside, I stayed awake all night waiting and hoping she would wake up long enough for me to at least tell her that I love her. She never did, and she passed away right before I left. I'm no stranger to death, I worked in a nursing home as a CNA for a year. I got to know death better than I would ever want or choose. I sat there and saw her draw that last breath... I saw it and in seeing it I knew it would be her last.

My grandmother was a paragon of the loving grandmother stereotype. A feisty little old lady who let nothing slow her down. She knit and crocheted and taught all her grandkids to cross-stitch. She baked goodies, and gave warm, soft, loving hugs that could take away any hurt or pain in a moment. People would practically come to blows over batches of her fudge. She welcomed everyone into her home and wanted nothing more than to cook you a hot meal. The most important things to her were being a mother and a grandmother (and a great-grandmother). That was how she identified, it was who she was. So much so that in her last night, she called out in her sleep for my grandfather. Not by name, but rather, "Dad... Dad..."

She was not perfect. She was human. She would sometimes gossip unpleasantly and like many of her generation, some of her attitudes towards people who were different were outdated and unfortunate. Generally she was aware of this though, and tried not to impart those views on us.

I don't think I ever fully realized how truly special my relationship with my grandmother had been until that last visit to see her. One of my cousins, who had been practically raised by my grandmother, along with her sisters because their mother was divorced, came up to me and told me she was sorry she had always been so resentful of the special relationship I had with gram. I had no idea my cousin had been resentful or envious, and I hadn't realized until then just how special I had been to my grandmother.

I think back on my memories of her and the pain is sharp and hot and frightening, but I reach for them anyways. I think of her bringing me to the bus stop on my first day of kindergarten. I think my other grandmother was there as well, though I'm not totally sure. I remember her coming to my first half-ironman, my mother flew her out to Colorado and kept her to the shade of the 100 degree heat that day. Somehow Gram was the one who spotted me coming out of the water. A few years later she was cheering at my ironman... was that really just two years ago? I think about sitting next to her at the kitchen table in the morning, talking about school, work and my romantic trials and tribulations. She'd fill me in on how everyone was doing in the family... Tell me about bowling every Monday night (at 87 years old). I think about talking to her on the phone the last time and hearing her slipping away and her crying...

Every time I think about these things I feel like something inside of me breaks, and every time the pain is sharper instead of duller. Still, I go back to them because I miss her so badly. Even when she wasn't nearby, I knew she was there... and now she's not. All I want is to have her back.

The Name of the Metheglin

In my last post I mentioned a metheglin that was inspired by a well loved book. The book is The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss. In it, the protagonist is served a mug of metheglin, which he describes thus:

I took a drink from the tall tankard to give myself a chance to clear my wits, and something wonderful happened in my mouth: cool spring honey, clove, cardamom, cinnamon, pressed grape, burnt apple, sweet pear, and clear well water. that's all I have to say of metheglin. If you haven't tried it, then I am sorry I cannot describe it properly. If you have, then you don't need me to remind you what it is like.
 

Being a bit of a crazed mazer, I immediately decided I had to try making it. I did some research into how the various spices and fruits were used in other recipes to get a grasp on what proportions to start with, since I had done very little experimentation with spices before, and settled on a recipe. I put about a week into deciding this before finally going out and buying myself myself some high quality ingredients and went to work.

Mead is a product of patience, and I am not a creature of patience, so while it's been a fairly short wait for a mead, for me, it's been torturous and I've been half-convinced it was going to be a disappointing or even disastrous batch.

Last week I finally poured off an ounce to taste it since it had finally cleared. A bad batch? I couldn't have been more wrong. It was amazing. Certainly the most delicious thing I have brewed, probably the best mead I've ever tasted and maybe even the best thing I've ever tasted. Well, perhaps not, but I can't think of anything that compares, aside from my grandmother's fudge. I nursed that one ounce of metheglin for more than half an hour (the batch being only one gallon, I wanted to savor it).

 

That said, the batch wasn't perfect, or at least, not exactly what I was planning. The clove was a little stronger than I intended (though my fellow tasters enjoyed the clove) and it was overall sweeter than I had anticipated. The pear was almost indiscernible. The apple and cinnamon were right about where I wanted them, and I'm hoping that the cardamom will be more prominent once the clove is dialed back. Also, I forgot the grape entirely.

For all my nitpicking though, it is truly delightful and if I could never improve on what it is now, I would not mind in the least.

The only thing remaining was a name. With some of my meads, I've gone the amusing route for naming. My first batch was called the Hammer (in reference to a cult neo-classic musical video blog), one of my bacon recipes is Sir Francis Bacon Mead. For others, I've opted for simple, such as Traditional Honey Wine or Apricot Mead. In this case I'm going to go slightly sentimental and name it in honor of the friend who introduced me to the book which inspired the recipe. 

The name of the metheglin is simply Meadow Wine.