If you read DDB with any regularly, you know that I have nocturnal emissions about those musky farmhouse treats. Like ChadQuest to barleywines and BigLobo to hoppy growlers. saisons are my hayspot. Almost 13 months ago, before people started saying dumb shit like “totes” “adorbs” and “gorg” I saw this shy lil mistress on the top saisons list. Way before your minifeed was dipshit reposting top 21 LISTS THAT CANNOT HANDLE THINGS RIGHT NOW, BACK WHEN BA WAS RELEVANT OH SHIT HOW YOUNG AND NAIVE WE WERE. Anyway, I put up a couple ISOs and tickers were like “wtf is that, trade for Cherry Rye like the rest of us bitch, get in line.” DDB will continue to chase down that farmhouse clitorati and flick that musky bean with rapacious tenacity.

Thanks to Trady, you beautiful bearded bastard.

Redbud Brewing Company, go visit them, knock on the door.
Oklahoma, United States
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 7.00% ABV

A: Just look at this Sunny D brett C banger just looking straight blended up in this bitch. One night Pissenlit got ultra feided on Molly, banged a polynesian farmhouse chick from Oklahoma, identity crises ensued and this turbid radiant gem was born and left on the doorstep of the midwest. The midwest has zero fucks to give for farmhouse ales, UNLESS PERENNIAL OH SHIT TAKE ALL MY PROPRIETORS. They slept on Squatters Fifth Element and I will never forgive that shit, “UTAH isn’t midwest” yeah but this is the same radiance that sits like a hymened wallflower at winter formal. Saisons need some love and pounding.

before we get into the smell, look at this lulzworthy commercial breakdown:

“COMMERCIAL DESCRIPTION
A belgian style ale aged in whiskey barrels with drie fonteinen yeast added. This has the same base beer as Cuvee 3 without the dry hopping, barrel aging, and different yeast profile.”

Ok so, same beer but, well ok, no dry hops, ok but BA, ok but different yeast, and ok different treatment, ok and 3F yeast, still with me? ALRIGHT WE USED CARAVIENNE MALTS IN BOTH BEERS SAME BEER. Just kidding, this beer is fucking great. As a side note, Trady also sent me a fucking Cuvee 3, for no reason. FML.

S: This has a light lemon aspect on the nose similar to Saison bernice but pulls harder into the wheatgrass and muskiness like when they bale wet leaves, them trimming notes and I aint talking landing strips. Fantastic peach and tangelo rind aspect gives a sharpness to the funkiness. I thought Oklahoma was exceptional at mistreating those below the poverty line, turns out they are also exceptional at saisons. Farmhouses…IN A STATE COMPRISED ENTIRELY OF FARMS OH SHIT.

T: This is prickly and dry, crackles with this brett C profile that took over the fucking jailhouse and making the malts walk around holding its outturned pocket. They are subject to the dominion of the lactic, pounded hard with that grassy blanket tucked under the chin while the musky leather chaps click the walls. This is a decadent dry treat, exceptional in all weather, appreciated by Delta Gammas and stretch marked neck beards alike. I am so fucking glad I didn’t get to try this early on, the dryness and muskiness would get Chad Michael Yakobsen’s blue vein pounding hard, its like if you took Surette, added a sidecar, and filled the sidecar with Cialis. Saisons be getting tickers off hard these days. I ain’t talking Halia shit, I mean that 160 bpm shit that drops JLw0s and gets you wet.

M: I think I made this clear previously, but this is a fucking dry beer. This is not a beer to drink while dry fucking. It has been stripped of any FG that you may have hoped that would have turned into your dipshit conception of what a saison should be i.e. Beatification with water added to it. This is a perfectly balanced gumline tickler that wont give you GERD.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and the only thing holding you back on this one is 1) the carbonation that peppers up these microbubbles like a ACR Bushmaster just blasting dualclips (aka those malt extendos, aka those brett C brakkabrakkas) along your esophagus and 2) the dry grassy finish that is like tongue kissing those old secret Blaugies bottles you keep in the basement from your wife. She wouldn’t understand, only you understand me 2002 Blaugies.

Narrative: Pierre Monpelierre had reserved a single fuck for the day that he opened his farmstead in Muskogee, and he didn’t intend to relinquish title any time soon. He chose the farm based entirely upon the parallel and that unmalted wheat that he intended to produce. Most of the populace had long since sold their plot to huge conglomerates and huge farming operations, again, he retained only a single fuck to give. The only thing that this native of Normandy wished to effect was the wholesale conversion of the Oklahoma population. The lifted Silverados twisted dirt circles on his property while he filled spent chardonnay barrels. He cleaned up Schlitz cans from his driveway while he propagated the strains from the unique enteric cultures from a state largely avoided by those unaccustomed to dipping in high school. Pierre looked balefully at the skyline and watched the cotton candy clouds cascade beautifully across the horizon, dragging those same Homeric fingers above the golden wheat fields. He picked up a pair of Limited Too panties from his mailbox and prepared to pitch them into his brite tanks.