another weird thing about beer is that it has weird masculinity connections to it. “ya i’ll get a beer, i don’t want none of them girly drinks” Jimothy, you’re drinking wheat juice with a 5% alcohol content and my mixed, fruity, “girly” drink is 40% alcohol and tastes great
O.KAY *CRACKS KNUCKLES* I AM ABOUT TO GIVE YOU AN EDUCATION
BEER IS TRADITIONALLY A WOMAN’S DRINK, IT IS THE MOST FEMALE OF ALL OF THE DRINKS. FOR THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF YEARS, BEER WAS MADE AT HOME BY WOMEN, TO BE CONSUMED BY WOMEN AND CHILDREN–IT WAS ACTUALLY A SOURCE OF NUTRIENTS FOR MANY HOUSEHOLDS. WOMEN CREATED THE CRAFT OF BEER, AND FOR MOST OF HUMAN HISTORY THAT IS WHO YOU’D BUY IT FROM: MANY WOMEN MADE ADDITIONAL INCOME BY BREWING AND SELLING BEER FROM HOME. IT WASN’T UNTIL THE ERA OF INDUSTRIALIZATION THAT BEER BEGAN TO BE BREWED IN FACTORIES. AND ONCE BEER WAS BEING BREWED ON A LARGE SCALE, IT MADE TO START MARKETING IT TO ALL THE MALE FACTORY WORKERS WHO SUDDENLY HAD EXTRA INCOME. HENCE AN AGGRESSIVE MARKETING CAMPAIGN TO RE-BRAND BEER, A DRINK INTRINSICALLY TIED WITH WOMEN’S HISTORY, AS A ‘MASCULINE’ BEVERAGE.
EVEN BETTER, FEMALE BREWSTERS WERE THE ORIGINAL WICKED OLD WITCH. THE TROPES WE COMMONLY ASSOCIATE WITH STEREOTYPICAL WITCHES ARE ACTUALLY BASED ON THE TRADITIONAL BREWSTER. CAULDRONS & HOT STEAMING POTIONS = BEER BREWING. THE WITCH’S HAT: BELIEVE IT OR NOT POINTY HATS WERE ACTUALLY WORN BY BREWSTERS WHEN SELLING THEIR PRODUCT AT MARKETS: THE ENORMOUS HEADGEAR HELPED THEM STAND OUT, AND CLEARLY TOLD EVERYONE ‘YO MOTHERFUCKA GET YOUR BEER HERE’.
CATS AS FAMILIARS: CATS WERE COMMONLY USED TO PREVENT RODENTS FROM GETTING INTO THE WHEAT. EVEN THE BROOMSTICK IS RELATED TO BEER: A BUNDLE OF TWIGS RESEMBLING A BROOM WAS USED AS AD FOR ALEHOUSES
so basically, beer is the ultimate woman’s and witch’s drink
REBLOG ME
fuck u guys, i didn’t spend 20 min fact checking for 3 notes
ok right links fine
i was probably drunk when i wrote this. best i can remember:
all these whiny bastards complaining about my taste in caps lock. I rewrote it for you:
*Sighs heavily and re-cracks knuckles*
Beer is traditionally a woman’s drink, it is the most female of all of The Drinks. For thousands of years, beer was made at home by women, to be consumed by women and children—it was actually a source of nutrients for many households. Women created the craft of beer, and for most of human history that is who you’d buy it from: many women made additional income by brewing and selling beer from home. It wasn’t until the era of industrialization that beer began to be brewed in factories. And once beer was being brewed on a large scale, it made sense to start marketing it to all the male factory workers who suddenly had extra income. Hence an aggressive marketing campaign to re-brand beer, a drink intrinsically tied with women’s history, as a ‘masculine’ beverage.
final bit:
Even better, female brewters were the original wicked old witch. The tropes we commonly associate with stereotypical witches are actually based on the traditional brewster. Cauldrons & hot steaming potions = beer brewing. The witch’s hat: believe it or not pointy hats were actually worn by brewsters when selling their product at markets: the enormous headgear helped them stand out, and clearly told everyone ‘yo motherfucka get your beer here’.
Cats as familiars: cats were commonly used to prevent rodents from getting into the wheat. Even the broomstick is related to beer: a bundle of twigs resembling a broom was used as advertising for alehouses.
so yeah, beer = witch’s brew. other things to check out:
Fermented low-alcohol beverages being the prime source of safe drinking water, for the whole family, for much of human history.
Beer, women, and the invention of the drinking straw (trivia, the oldest known straw is Sumerian, 5000 years old, made of gold and lapis lazuli. )
Monks horning in on the female-dominated brewing economy, the medieval church persecuting female brewsters
Monks adding hops (and making beer gross) in order to lower their libido (and to avoid the temptation of gay sex)
Dionysus, god of winemaking, and his raving, drunken madwomen followers, the Maenads.
Or any of a long list of goddesses associated w/ beer. Tenenet, the ancient egyptian goddess of childbearing & beer brewing. The earliest beer recipe, found in a 3900 year old poem honoring Ninkasi, patron goddess of brewing
And that’s all for now folks. Happy drinking’
no one ever reblogs this version and i wish they would
Witch!Maggie is raised with magic, but in secret. It’s passed down her mother’s line; how to make food filling and healing when times are lean, how to keep things out of the house, what to do when things slip in, and how to tell real people from Others. Her father doesn’t know, isn’t allowed to know; the age of science has made magic obsolete in most places.
But in the fields, the mountains, and the all the places electricity doesn’t smother every other kind of energy, magic thrives. Magic is necessary. Her father has to rely on science and evidence that can be verified by anyone and everyone. He can’t understand magic.
When Maggie is sent to her father’s sister, she keeps silent her small magics. She practices what she knows. She has to write down everything again; her mother didn’t slip her notebook into the suitcase. Maggie doesn’t want to think if it was a choice on her mother’s part.
Maggie wards every residence she calls her own. She keeps her skills up by working magic into her meals, keeps an Eye out for things that are neither human nor alien, and learns how to layer protective and notice-me-not magics into her clothing. Her patrol car, and later her Charger, are constant works in projects with weaving magic into machines. She never goes without her kevlar vest, but she doesn’t worry about grazes and headshots.
Her grandmother visits her once, and only once. She gives Maggie a candle that will never burn low. It’s meant to keep Maggie connected to the family magics. They light it together. Maggie never again sees her grandmother alive.
Maggie uses her magic on cases to follow energy trails, to hone in on ill intent and desperation and fear. She can pick out lies, can stare down suspects because they aren’t as scary or as clever as the Things in the cornfields of her childhood. She trades with pigeons treats for a direction to go in.
After her first two misadventures with Alex Danvers, Maggie waits for Alex to leave her jacket unattended before attacking it with enough protective magic to leak into every other piece of clothing it’ll touch over the next few days. The work leaves Maggie drained, but it’s worth it.
For Lucy, Maggie layers calm into Lucy’s uniform polos. Running a base is not easy, and while Lucy can handle it, Alex is, apparently, not the only idiot doing stupid shit to complete an objective.
Maggie always tries to get a hold their plates and take out boxes to pour magic into the food; health, safety, and relaxation are what she focuses on most. She plays with their hair, when she can, and hum the spells she can recall for faded nightmares and a restful sleep. (Never a sleep without nightmares; the mind needs to process things, this is known)
Maggie’s secret comes out when Alex is taken hostage. The attacking aliens abscond with her before Kara can reach the area. Kara can’t track Alex, and her sub-dermal tracker isn’t appearing. Maggie’s quick location spell points up.
Alex is on a spaceship. Maggie has no idea how to tell anyone that.
Not an hour after Alex is taken, she is delivered to the DEO by very apologetic aliens, who also turn themselves in. When Maggie runs over to Alex and wraps her in a hug, the aliens flinch away. They say, “We’re sorry. We will accept the punishment of taking who is yours.”
Alex, Lucy, Kara, and J’onn are giving Maggie confused looks. Maggie aims for the same. “What are you talking about?”
“We didn’t think humans remembered,” the aliens say. “We thought they have forgotten. But you remember, and you are powerful. We have no wish to challenge you.”
Maggie decides to use this to her advantage and deflect if possible. “Then please cooperate with us.”
They agree, and go with some agents without trouble.
Alex immediately focuses on Maggie. “They ran scans. They found some kind of energy on my gear, and it sure as hell isn’t kryptonite. Then they scanned the DEO. You lit up and made them PANIC. Babe, I don’t care what you are, I love you, but what is going on?”
Maggie looks at the four people who had stood by her for this long. Everything she has brought into their lives, good and bad, they have seen through to the end. “Do you believe in magic?”
You’re a mystic who runs a shop full of mysterious artifacts and potions and you’re sick of uninformed middle-aged suburban moms asking for energy crystals and herbal weight-loss mixtures while throwing around made-up terms.
When a middle-aged woman rolled into my shop and told me she
was looking for ichor, I didn’t think much of it at first.
You get all kinds in a shop like mine, and doubly so when
you put up the right signs on your door.
The signs that let certain kinds of people know they’re welcome, not
just the collectors or the curious or the new age mystics, looking for this
root or that crystal or wanting to gawk at a jar of old bones, but the less
innocuous individuals as well. The kind
who mean business when they come looking for their… less run-of-the-mill
specialities.
Question of Smoke 