1

@Hillfarmstead Double Citra, Double Down That Citra and Juicy J Gonna Pop It Like Wet Paint

It’s been a minute since we went back to Vermont to see what those boys are up to in Greensboro. Now that Citra is a household hop right next to the Ajax and the baking soda, let’s go way back and enjoy this top 100 banger with a fresh liver. This beer would previously post up with Abner and Double Galaxy and push kids around the school yard, showing them how hops is done. Does it still bully the fuck out of newcomer DIPAs? We shall see in today’s revew. WE SHALL SEE.

Double Citra creepin on Double Citra. Citraception.

Double Citra creepin on Double Citra. Citraception.

Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States

Style | ABV
American Double / Imperial IPA | 8.00% ABV

A: You already know how this cow eats the cabbage before you even pop that growler. You get an eggshell white foam that is just pumps out ropes and ropes of lacing like Peter North. Google him after you get home from work. The turbid borderline farmhouse look to this beer lets the consumer know two things 1) pasteurization is for playaz who dont be getting it and 2) that milky secret holds all the hops in the substrate like a male seahorse and all his spawn. The carb is indefatigable and crackles endlessly, taunting you, letting you know no one asked you to Sadies, reminding you of substandard DIPAs of the past and the messy hop IEDs of the future.

After having a DIPA like this, other double IPAs seem like a janky ass Samus.

After having a DIPA like this, other double IPAs seem like a janky ass Samus.

S: Some other breweries choose to buttress citra hops with something like oh I don’t know cascade, simcoe; you know something to give structure to the acidic citrus aspects. This beer just says fuck all that and goes ham on the citrus notes. It is like a Farmer’s Market of tangerines, mandarin oranges, clementines, and nectarines. There is a light honey at the backend and some Grand’s biscuits going on just to make old Grammy smile at this hop builder straight flexing its traps.

T: This follows the nose pretty congruently and makes you feel as though you may have tread this path before in Society and Solitude, or perhaps to a lesser extent Abner. You get a lil aserose poking its head out of its knothole with the first sign of spring, then this turns into a straight up Gushers/Fruitopia commercial of juiciness and everyone is getting mouthfucked with oranges, lemon zest, cuties, and every manner of citric acid. This isn’t a fruiter berliner sort of acidity though, it is like a TOOL fan’s room with a stick dankness of oils and a bright glow of a blacklight hop cone poster. It is bright, bold but almost menacing in the way it just pushes your palate down into a swivel chair and demands the access codes.

Gather up your favorite off shelf DIPAs and prepare for your old heros to look like shit.

Gather up your favorite off shelf DIPAs and prepare for your old heros to look like shit.

M: This is hoppy and cirtus forward to the point of being drying along the gumline. If you have ever had beers that go hard on the Tomahawk/Warrior you know what I mean but this is a little different. It isn’t exactly a resinous bully that tears up your bicuspid walls, because there is almost a sort of yogurty creaminess to it. It’s like a hop gangster who flips a coin, shoots your friend and lovingly puts its arm around your gumline. Shit starts popping off in all kinds of directions like Hmong family reunion.

D: This is almost frustratingly drinkable. The 750ml swingtop is a mockery for this beer and shouldn’t even be an offsite option. It is akin to a single song dance at a strip club when you know you are gonna be tipping up. Once it is gone, you feel like that nursing student crawling around the floor collecting the one dollar bills, dancing your way through school. The carbonation just adds to the problems because the crack and substantial coating in the creaminess lends itself to foregoing contemplation of what you are enjoying. One minute you are just contemplating going to see Pain & Gain, the next minute Double Citra is gone and you are asking to speak to a lawyer.

Oh shit you used Citra in your homebrew IPA? Man time to enter that at GABF, girls will love you.

Oh shit you used Citra in your homebrew IPA? Man time to enter that at GABF, girls will love you.

Narrative: Angus T. Jones was sick of this shit. He walked around the backlot and bit into a ripe tangerine and looked over the spec script for the 14th season. Two and a Half Men wouldn’t be the same without the half man, now almost two decades old. “Get my agent on the phone, I am sick of this fucking nonsense,” Angus called out to an associate producer and cast a Newport onto the pavement. At first things were sweet, when he was younger he was content with mediocrity, but this was too much. “Another fucking episode about me not fitting in at school? I am 19 fucking years old. The writers need to get their shit together!” he screamed into the DP’s voicemail. In the beginning it was easy to forget all of the mediocrity, which folded into itself like the membranes on a mitochondria. However the acidity had been punched up, his sticky distemper was affecting Ashton Kutcher and other serious artists on the set. “How about this, my character goes to the fucking Army? Ok? Or, I dont know, get an alien or an adopted kid. Do what shitty shows do when they become worse and worse to the point that Nascar fans wont watch them anymore. Yes, yes I did see the final season of Family Matters, do that shit,” he called into his iPhone 5 while texting one of the hot skeezies on iCarly. He was more acidic than he was deep, but he was more profound than others in his position. Angus Jones was an acerbic asshole that people could never seem to get enough of.

Advertisements
0

Russian River Blind Pig IPA, 6.1% abv

Disable Pigs

Disabled Swine and OSHA Rules

Blind Pig IPA, 6.1% IPA

A: Thin yellow gold color similar to a watered down apple juice with awesome
lacing and carbonation, transparent with no middle carbonation. It’s a solid set of
Tim Allen stand-up that you grow to love.

S: Huge bouquet upon opening the bottle, great pine and grassy notes, not as
much citrus as the Pliny brethren, but smoother and less aggressive. The gentle, back massage
sort of game you expect from Bay Area kids.

T: The taste is crisp and light with a swift hop body the imparts its flavor, finishes
with a mild bittering and washes away clean. Great session beer and the ABV is a bonus.
There are some mild melon and lemon notes but predominately floral and grassy hops. A mint is left on your pillow lovingly by this pig.

M: Very light and crisp with a clean finish. It feels like the swift nimble ninja of IPAs.
It doesn’t impart a huge malty body but the bottle disappears staggeringly fast. The hops and
coating doesn’t linger or resonate for a long period of time but it is still satifying.

D: This beer is probably the most drinkable IPA that I have ever had. A great session beer
to be sure and the body and light malts make it refreshingly addictive. The fact that they
do not sell these in 6 and 12 packs is almost intentional malfeasance. I can’t really see
myself only buying one bottle of these given the price and drink ability of the bottle. The
16.9oz bottle is another strangely enticing aspect. All in all, I would with hubris and the
utmost respect play deferential beer pong with this beer due to its incredibly versatile light
character.

Narrative: “Ah not another stupid Kevin James movie!” the children bemoaned in unison.
To be fair, 11 years old is far too along in years to enjoy a three act train wreck of that
magnitude. The babysitter chortled and guffawed a bit in protest, shaking his sleekly shaven
face. “If Mall Cop is not the movie you start, what is it your disdain for this Paul Blart?”
The kids perked up at the dapper disabled pig addressing them so casuistically. “Perhaps you
harbor dislike from seeing Bewitched, well enjoy Will Smith and this movie Hitch” the dvd
slid across the coffee table and Mr. Pig adroitly knocked it into the tray. He appeared
overdressed at each of his assignments and, being blind, was hardly the pig for the job,
yet somehow his panache and particular sense of aplomb put parents at ease. “I know you
tire of little kid stuff, here’s flatulence jokes in this movie Grown Ups!” The children
two stepped in syncopation loving their blind caretaker and tugging at the tails of his
tuxedo lovingly