"Dry," Elias said. "Bone dry. Like biting into a Granny Smith in a basement."
He wiped his brow and pulled out his phone. The local liquor store was an easy five-minute drive, but their selection was predictable. He was looking for something "scrumpy"—that cloudy, farmhouse style that bit back. "Hey Siri, find hard cider near me," he muttered.
She laughed and pulled a tap handle carved from a thick branch. "Try the 'High Desert.' No added sugar, aged in bourbon barrels for three months." hard cider where to buy
But a new pin caught his eye: 'Black Creek Cidery.' It was a small tasting room attached to an orchard just ten miles north.
Elias tossed his work gloves into the truck bed. Twenty minutes later, he was pulling down a gravel driveway lined with heavy-limbed trees. The air here smelled like bruised fruit and damp earth. Inside the tasting room, a woman in a flannel shirt stood behind a copper-topped bar. "Dry," Elias said
Elias had spent all afternoon clearing the brush from the back pasture, and the dust of a dry October day had settled deep in his throat. He didn’t want a beer, and he certainly didn’t want water. He wanted something that tasted like the orchard—sharp, cold, and fermented.
The screen bloomed with pins. There was 'The Apple Core,' a boutique bottle shop downtown known for importing dry Spanish sidra and heavy-hitting French varieties. Then there was 'Oak & Vine,' the big-box retailer three towns over that definitely had the commercial six-packs of Angry Orchard or Woodchuck if he wanted to play it safe. The local liquor store was an easy five-minute
The liquid was pale gold and sparked against the glass. Elias took a sip. It was crisp, slightly effervescent, and carried a faint whisper of vanilla from the wood. It was exactly what his afternoon required.