Be this Valhalla? Nay, tonight we drink in the great hall of Tower 6A. We have fought long and hard and laid with women, men and beasts, but now the horn of plenty showers our heads with golden mead. A reward from the gods of Hannafjord aisle four for our fortnightly efforts.

Honeymaker semi-sweet mead is produced in Portland, Maine. Many meads are simply a type of wine, aged to allow the honey-derived sugar to convert to alcohol. Others may be brewed, hopped, spiced, and fruitened (a technical term). Ours is made from honey and water, simple by design.

Meads are some of the oldest alcoholic drinks in existence, dating back to 2000 BC across Eurasia. Mead’s first professional review came from the Brythonic bard Taliesin, in his song Tanu y Med, which peaked at No. 3 on the Brythonic Billboard Hot 100 in 550 AD. Mead was famously consumed by the Norse gods and dead warriors in Valhalla, where it sprung forth from the udders of the goat Heiðrún. Unfortunately, we struggled to find a mead goat, so we bought a bottle from Hannaford and duct taped it to Jordan Goldberg ’14’s  belly.

While suckling at Jordan’s singular teat, we were struck by the incredibly rich golden color, effervescent in the torchlight of our banquet hall. Our drinking horns amplified the sweet honey nose. Anything normally expected in the nose of a wine was nowhere to be found; a pleasant scent of honey was the start and finish. We weren’t that surprised when the taste followed suit. A strong, sweet body was moderately supported by accents of light wildflower and a noticeable alcohol presence with a touch of dryness on the back end. We were happy to find that the mead is not at all syrupy; the body stays light and refreshing rather than heavy and cloying.

In Norse mythology, mead imbues whoever imbibes it with either berserker rage or poetic inspiration and intelligence. Mead—as well as immortal goat milk—has its origins in divine spittle. When the gods of Æsir and Vanir made their peace, they hawked heavenly loogies into a vat; from their spittle the man Kvasir was born. 

Kvasir was quite intelligent. In fact, he was so smart that he embarrassed a bunch of dwarves, who, in turn, became angry with him. They killed him and poured his blood into a new set of two vats and a pot, respectively named Óðrerir, Óðrørir and Óðrœrir. 

In Denver, Colo., pots are still named to this day, but more along the lines of “Sour Diesel” and “Maui Wowie.” Back to Kvasir. The dwarf mixed his blood with honey, told the gods he had drowned in his own intelligence (specifics on this are still unclear), and mead was born. Then it was somehow put in that goat.

 Whether found in vats, goats, or on the shelves of a local Brunswick supermarket, mead is a wonderful way to expand your palate. Who knows? It may just give you the wisdom to ace that test next week. 

Or maybe, you’ll get written up for berserker rage. Either way, pour a horn of Honeymaker, recite a skål or sumbel, and drink up, for the battlefields of Ásgarðr shall await us in the morn.

 
Additional Notes:

Ryan: I think I grew a third chest hair.

Dan: Tanu y Med is on my “spring jams” playlist.  

Nose: 3/5
Body: 4/5
Mouthfeel: 4.5/5
Taste: 4.5/5

Pairs well with noble death. $13.99 at Hannaford.