My name is Kris and I enjoy beer. I really enjoy it. I like the way it tastes. I love the sweetness of the malts, the bitter and herbal flavors from the hops, the intricate complexities imparted by the yeast. In all honesty, I would probably drink beer, good beer, even if it didn't have any alcohol in it. I like making beer and the sense of accomplishment that comes with a well made batch of beer. I like the social aspect of it. Hanging out and shooting the breeze, sipping and savoring a glass or mug or snifter of well made and tasty beer. This wasn't always the case though. Cue fade...
I grew up in Mississippi, and went through what most of us go through in our awkward young adulthood, a rebellious phase that often included the sneaking of and drinking of various types of alcohol. My poison of choice during this time of my life was Jack Daniels. I did not like beer. It was a vile potion, bitter and skunky, foamy and thin, designed to keep the masses at bay. I had no urge nor want for it. I think the first beer to ever cross my lips was a Budweiser, quite possibly left sitting around by my step dad, I really can't remember. All I knew was that the stuff was evil and I did not like it.
Along comes my pal of pals, old Moriarty himself, Hank. Old Hank was born a hellraiser, and will most probably one day die a hellraiser. Gotta love that. Well, one day long ago, on a hike into the woods to explore an old creek bed and possibly a cow skeleton, old Hank breaks out a mason jar, half filled with this amber elixir, smelling slightly sour, oaky and so so inviting. Good Old Hank had purloined some of his Grand-dad's Old No. 7. It was a revelation to us. (As an aside, Good Old Hank had been topping up Grand-dad's whiskey with water. We thought it was a brilliant plan, until the old man got wise to us and beat us like a couple of rented mules.) Never during this time period was beer a major player. I still couldn't stand the stuff. I would see the commercials on TV, the funny ones, the ones with the bikini squads, the ones with the rough and rugged fellas sitting around a campfire with a freshly grilled fish of some sort and rafting gear all around proudly proclaiming, "It just doesn't get any better than this", but it just didn't sell me. (I admit, I still from time to time randomly utter, "It just doesn't get any better than this", so apparently something took.)
Fast forward a few years, and my circle of deviants and miscreants had grown. I'm still a whiskey guy though. It is my preferred drink, but a lot of times, it could prove very hard to come by. It was by this condition that I was pretty much forced to turn to beer. Our goal was to get tanked. I was the oldest looking one on our crew, and it was delegated to me to secure us some beverages with which to get tanked. We would go to a place affectionately known by us as Habeeb's. Sometimes you got lucky, and sometimes you came out empty handed. On the nights we would score, our treasures included Heinekin, Grolsch, and Bud Light. Mmmm Mmmm....
And at this particular time period, there wasn't much more variety than that. So, out of necessity, that is what we drank, and to us, that was the world of beer. Oh, what poor ignorant fools we were...
A little later during this same era, a dear friend of mine would seemingly rise from nowhere, out of the mists and haze of American Style Pilsner and shower down upon me the beer that would get my mind right...
to be continued...
