I have never been a beer person. I’ve tried and failed (or, rather, it failed me). I’ve sipped fruity IPAs that are supposed to taste like a dichotomy of bitter sunshine or juicy pineapple mixed with volcanic ash (all I tasted was ash), Oktoberfest beers to get back to my German roots, and light summer ales (or maybe they were lagers…what’s the difference anyway?). I all but swore of the category altogether, opting for hard ciders at breweries and literally anything else at a restaurant or cocktail bar.
That is, until a painfully exhausting day when I helped my sister and her husband move into a new apartment. We were bone tired, hungry, dehydrated, and in desperate need of a cold drink. We grabbed lunch at a nearby brewery where I ordered an 8” cast iron skillet of baked macaroni and cheese and the only hard cider that was on the menu (this is, for the record, my ideal last supper).
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