Sante Adairius To the Choir. I got wax in my trippy I don’t need a lighter 

  
Whenever you see that cellar members only igloo you know shit is about to get hot up in the six boy.

This is no exception and this is the baton passed from the creamy musty palms of Stenciled Pages to the sharper acidic callouses of the Choir. The same nimble and ultra clean profile of that progeny of blended barrel aged Saisons pushes the excellence envelope to lateral heights of greatness, walking the crested ridge of accomplishment.

Just look at it, it is in the flawless realm of radiant Zomer beauty meets cobweb haunted house lacing. Vermillion swaths cascading in autumn light to temper the dusty particles engaging In a slow dance, curtains of doilies spotting the glass with frothy obfuscation.

The nose is a 50 yard field goal of floral jasmine, cut melon, peeled tangerines, cut particle board, and aged Gruyere.

  
A bump set spike combo on the taste offers up a jazz apple and white grape, Riesling coupled with a tart dried apricot closer. Writing reviews for Sara and Hill Farmstead beers or really anything in that caliber is really a gonorrheic pain in my mid shaft. You already know, but then I have to take the tropes of confirming the quality and grace of inevitability.

These are a total bitch to trade for, a complete treat to savor, a delicate chysanthemum bobbing down a lazy stream, the forefront of the farmhouse world at present and there isn’t much I can add to the steam piles of Eros written about these beers. The strata laid in beds of unerring qualify, a foundation for imitation by others, the resounding clack of a mahogany gavel sentencing indulgence to perpetual want, Tantalus strung up, the wheel of Ixion ever spinning, each dropping seed of Persephone falling upon the Capitola soil ruining aesthetics with every passing harvest.

  
The shit is bomb.

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