Happy Movember!!

“We are the music makers... and we are the dreamers of dreams.”

-Willy Wonka

At this point, I’m pretty sure you are all like, “what the bloody hell is Lindsay doing?”

And my answer to you…. Is… I’M CELEBRATING MOVEMBER. Move over, menfolk, this lady’s got a ‘stache. (well, kind of….. in good news, they taste AWESOME)

Admit it. You like it.

So let me tell you a little about myself.

I kind of like mustaches. Facial hair in general. (Good thing I work in the industry I do.) My car has a “I heart mustaches” sticker on it. Here’s what it looks like:

It's my mustache ride...

Outside of that, I also absolutely love and enjoy being in my kitchen. And I’m home! So, I’m in my kitchen whipping up something fun.

I’ve been collecting these materials for a few days now, trying to make sure I had everything I needed to make these fun little lollies.

But if anything, I can explain to you guys how I made them!

One of the things I really like about making candy is that it’s a challenge to me. I can’t tell you how many batches of hard candy, brittle, and marshmallows I’ve screwed up. Alllll the time. I’ve broken candy thermometers, burnt myself on sugar, and cursed like a sailor once I realized my candy didn’t set.

It. Drives. Me. Nuts.

But I still do it. I relish the challenge.

Mostly because, it seems so simple, but it’s so remarkably easy to screw up. Candy making requires a good measure of patience… something I wasn’t exactly born with. In fact, it’s something I’m still working on getting better at every single day. I just get so excited for the end product that often, I end up rushing it.

But you can’t rush candy. It’s not forgiving in that regard.

So, here’s a simplistic explantation of how candy-making goes:

Sugar + water + lite corn syrup over medium heat on the stovetop. Stir the sugar till it dissolves (still will look white) and then let that bad boy start boiling.

Let it boil until you get to 260 degrees, add color until you get the hue you want (NO stirring it in. The boiling does the job). 

And once it hits 300 degrees you take it off the heat, let it stop boiling, and add the flavor.

Yummmmmmm.

Pour into molds and voila! Hardy candy.

What I didn’t know is that you need to remove the lollies while they’re still somewhat warm from the molds.

So, currently, half of the lollies are in the trash, half are bagged and look a little busted, and my molds are soaking in hot water. Amazing how if I had just taken two seconds to look up when to take them out, I wouldn’t have had any issues.

But I loved making them regardless! I have nine other flavors and a bunch of colors, so I can’t WAIT until I get to make lime green lollies or blue champagne flavored lollipop mustaches. Just because I can.

I’m also totally going to get some whole hops and put them in the lollies eventually. Lime hopped lollipops. 

Sounds AWESOME.

Boom.

Happy Movember!!

Cheers, y'all. 

Lindsay

P.S. I took these flat back pins from this etsy shop and made them into magnets! Aww, yeah!

What Do I Want? (In that part of my life.)

“And, in the end
The love you take
is equal to the love you make.” 
― Paul McCartney

This hasn’t been the easiest week for me.

This has been, instead, a week for learning about myself. For sticking up for myself and what I believe in.

I won’t be sly about this. Not coy. I’m not going to beat around the bush. For the last year, I’ve had what could be easily stated as, “Bad luck with men.”

I’m well aware of that at this point.

I’m not asking for pity or sympathy on that subject. It’s not something I need; I am more than capable of being alone and being happy about it.

But that’s not what made me pick up this pen. That’s not what made me grab a beer out of my fridge and find a way to struggle with the words. I’ll fight valiantly with them tonight instead.

I’m not a perfect woman. I’m brutally honest sometimes, frustrated with little things other times, I annoy easily, and I trust far too much in words.

When it comes to being interested in someone, I generally trust them to be honest with me and to mean what they say.

Perhaps I’m simply far too gullible when it comes to those kinds of feelings…

Or I’ve just been a fool for the last year to actually take a shot at rediscovering that part of my life.

…. That sounded bitter. Let’s rephrase.

I’m tired of the bullshit. I’m tired of boys saying they want to date, or that they’ll make time for me certain days and bailing at the last possible second, or others being in my face at events, or even others saying that after years they want to try again.

It’s just not been simple. And that’s what I’ve always believed in… a simple, old kind of love. The kind that lasts despite the stupid fights, the frustrations, the mistakes, and the little issues.  

Just as much as I want to be alone, I want the opportunity to have that kind of love in my life.

I’ve fallen out of love before. In my opinion, it is one of the worst possible things that can ever happen to you. Just as the bliss in the beginning is, the end is just as emotionally wrenching, painful, and terrifying. A numbness falls, and then the anger, and then the worst part: the part where you surpass numbness and the memories replay themselves in your head, and in the end… you just feel empty.

That emptiness has made me ache before.

You try to find ways to fill that bleak part of yourself, and you latch onto things that you should not, and you attempt to reclaim some part of that happiness that you had… despite the pain that it will likely cause you later.

It never helps.

That’s the point I’m at now. It never helps, so I’m refusing to begin to believe in that kind of method anymore. Fine. It didn’t work out. Again. Fine. That’s fucking great. Of course I’m upset. Of course I feel hurt. Of course I wish I could rewind two weeks and start over just so I wouldn’t feel cheated again.

….

I am not a perfect woman.

I swear probably a little too often.

I want to spend as much time as possible with the person I’m dating for one main reason: I’M HARDLY EVER HOME. It likely sounds needy to some people, but then, I’m not trying to be needy. I’m trying to spend time with the person I like before my travel schedule takes over every week I have for the next month, or even two.

I’m a ginger. I’m feisty. Angry, even, sometimes. I can be selfish about my wants at times, but I also want every one else to be happy as well. I’ll go out of my way to make sure they’re happy too.

I’ve made mistakes that I simply cannot take back. I can’t take back what’s happened in my life, so I’m not going to regret it. Instead, I’m going to say, “That will not happen again.”

But I’m tired of feeling angry about things not going well with someone.

I’m tired of investing that much of my precious free time and emotions into someone that ultimately leaves me feeling remarkably unfulfilled.

…

Damn.

Damn.

This last time hurt.

I didn’t want to say that I was upset. I didn’t want to seem needy. I didn’t want to be frustrated. I didn’t want to feel negative in any way because this time, I actually really liked this guy. I was trying so hard to do it right and make sense of it to myself. Why the ever-living hell did I meet this guy that made me pause, and why it have to get blown up?

Why?

Then there is the other part of me that’s just pissed.

The part of me that’s like, “well if he really cared, he wouldn’t have canceled,” or “why say what he did only to let me down?” I worry far too much. I also bristle very easily.

This time, I wanted to be patient and figure it out in my head, but I also wanted to be shown that I wasn’t just any other girl. That I was special to this person. That they wanted to make the effort in the way I wanted to.

Because I don’t just wake up every day and meet someone that I’m interested in in that way. It either takes time for me, or it’s one of those moments that makes my heart race and makes me wonder what’s around the corner with that person.

What’s waiting?

What will happen in two weeks? Three? Four? Who knows after that.

One day? Two?

…. I feel cheated out of a good time this go round.

I feel that I’m silly and ridiculous, and I feel harsh and worn thin. I feel a little sad about it this time.

Previously, I didn’t even feel sad in the end. I just felt…. Blasé. I wasn’t uncomfortable in the end that it didn’t work out. I was just kind of like, “whatever, clearly this was a silly idea.”

….

I know that everyone who influences our lives also influences how we look at life. I know that every ex I have had has taught me some immeasurably important things about myself or the world around me. If it weren’t for one ex, I doubt I’d be the craft beer loving woman that I am today. I also wouldn’t be as sharp as I am today.

I just don’t know how to explain the swarm of thoughts in my head right now.

It’s a hurricane of self-doubt, self-assurance, some weird form of guilt, anger, frustration, self-rebuttal, shame, exuberance, self-empowerment, and who knows what else.

I feel conflicted. I don’t like that feeling. Often, I’m so damned bloody sure of myself that I can even talk myself into believing what I say. But tonight? I’m definitely not so sure of myself.

…

This last week has been rough. I started wary, but happy, went to angry, frustrated, and feeling cheated. Then, last night, I felt unsure. Today, I am still feeling very skittish.

It’s likely why I am holed up in my apartment right now demanding to myself that, “I will spend the whole next day alone.” It’s why I’ve been quieter today. It’s why I’ve allowed myself to feel exhausted. It’s why I feel almost entirely transparent from emotional sandpaper.

…

My worst trait is likely my inability to admit when something is wrong. I don’t like being seen as weak. I don’t like anyone thinking that I may be incapable of doing something. It is my worst trait because, for some reason, I can’t ever work up the courage to tell people when something isn’t going the way I wanted/expected/hoped for. I’m awful at giving up at things. I’m worse at admitting it.

It’s a terrible trait. Because I end up lying just as much to myself as others, and I often believe the word vomit I spew out. Or, in fact, I truly end up forcing part of myself to accept it as some sort of truth.

I like having a companion in my life for this reason: I tell that person how I’m really feeling more than most. There are things I could talk about to that person that I wouldn’t even begin to tell my parents, and even sometimes, my best friends.

I’ve been working on that. Trying to be honest in how I’m currently feeling. So I don’t hurt my friends’ feelings for not letting them in on the loop. So I don’t upset my family when they find out that something has been bothering me for a while. Instead, I’ll tell you now if I’m exhausted, or if I’m annoyed, but it’s still hard for me to tell people if I’m sad or disappointed in something/someone/myself.

…

Hmm.

I don’t really know what else to think, or say, when it comes down to it.

I wouldn’t say I’m feeling lonely. In fact, right now, I’m really enjoying being alone in my apartment with nothing else going on. Listening to music, laying down on my bed, and being lazy.

I would say, instead, that I’m only going to wait for the right thing to come along. I don’t just believe the pretty words men say now. I want their actions to reflect, instead, how they feel. Which, this time, it became pretty obvious to me just where I fell on his totem pole… and it sucked.

…

I’m just going to keep giving it time. Just keep on living my life and enjoying how everything else in my life is going remarkably well. Remember to tell myself to only walk on my own two feet.

…

What do I want? What a loaded question. But, I think I know the answer right now.

My hammock, a few beers, and time alone. So, here I go…

Cheers, all. 

My Gift to You.

"Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon."

-Dalai Lama

Once, I made a trifle that wasn’t very good.

Another time, I made some pretty bomb ass baked apples.

And even another time, I got up at 5am to bake molten chocolate cakes for one of my best friend’s birthdays. Just so she could have them still warm from the oven at 7:15am when I would see her.

My mother always said that the only thing that could get me up at 5am in the morning was baking. She was right for a long time. (I get up for beer stuff now too!)

This one time, I went to the apple festival in Hendersonville, NC and brought back a whole peck of apples. I made an apple pie every day for almost a week. 

I love to bake. It’s one of the few things in the world that’s really a great stress reliever for me. Just follow the steps, throw in a lot of love, and everything will come out okay. Guaranteed to work, 100% of the time. Not to mention, I really enjoy making a mess every once in a while. I always end up covered in melted chocolate and flour and god knows what else. (It’s also an excuse to buy really cute aprons.)

It started with my family. My mom cooks. My grandfather. My grandmother. My mom always had to shoo me out of the kitchen because I always wanted to stick my nose into everything and ask if I could help. She said that even when I was really young, no one could keep me out of the kitchen. I still love stepping into my kitchen. For me, it really is a home. As long as I have an oven and a stovetop, I’m happy.

Then came the inevitable. Time to learn to cook. And I was not always good at it. I never burnt soup (shout out to my sister), but I have made some pretty terrible concoctions in my life. Baking was something I could always rely on, though. If you followed the steps, it should turn out well. I liked that. (I’m a much better cook now, by the way.)

I was making cookies one day and messed something up. Just threw in a bunch of mini m&ms into a batch of chocolate cookies I was making and they crushed up in the batter and melted everywhere. I still baked them. They were delicious. That got me thinking, though. About making my own recipes, and experimenting with the ones I already had. Then came the different cookie recipes. The white chocolate and heath bar cookies, the double chocolate chip chocolate cookies (that’s a mouthful), the peppermint crackles, and peanut butter cookies. I like cookies. Because you don’t have to share. It’s your cookie. There’s one cookie. I liked that.

About a year ago, I was on a cupcake kick. I was also drinking a LOT of really good beer. I was also spending a lot of time at Fullsteam. Love that spot. And they had a beer coming out. Wanderlust, a cherry imperial stout. And all I could think was, I want to bake with that. So, I did. And they were pretty wicked cupcakes.

That got me moving. What else could I do? That’s when the ideas started becoming real, tangible, tasty treats. Carrot cake with DFH Raison D’etre. Pumpkin and ginger with Southern Tier’s Pumking. Dragon’s Milk chocolate stout cupcakes. El Mole Ocho Spice Cake. And my personal favorite so far, Lemon Raspberry Framboise cupcakes.

They’re my little creations. I love that. I love to share them with people.

Yesterday, I taught a Beer Education class at Growler’s Pourhouse in Charlotte. The subject was Baking with Beer. I made Dragon’s Milk cupcakes and Lemon Honey cookies with a lemon Mad Hatter IPA glaze. I had a great time teaching the class, and I think everyone really enjoyed the beers and the desserts.

On the way over there, I got a request for the Dragon’s Milk cupcake recipe while I was at NoDa Brewing. I get that request a lot. It kind of makes me itchy all over. I’m a little protective of my recipes. But perhaps it’s time to put one of them out there. So people will bake them and share them and get to experience that same happiness I feel when people tell me that I did a good job on them.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say (as I feel itchy all over), is that you guys deserve to have this recipe. Because without Fullsteam letting me play with Wanderlust, and without all of the amazing people who really appreciate the beer in the first place, I don’t know if I ever would have decided to make these cupcakes. And without New Holland, I doubt that I would have ever thrown Dragon’s Milk into some chocolate cake.

So here you go, everyone. My gift to you.

Dragon’s Milk Cupcakes

Yield: 3.5 dozen

Ingredients:

·       2 c. Dragon’s Milk

·       4 sticks (2 c.) butter

·       1 ½ c. unsweetened cocoa powder (I like to use Hershey’s Special Dark)

·       4 c. all-purpose flour

·       4 c. sugar

·       1 tbsp. baking soda

·       1 ½ tsp. salt

·       4 large eggs

·       1 1/3 c. sour cream

Instructions:

1.     Oven at 350 degrees.

2.     Bring stout & butter to simmer in a heavy, large saucepan over medium heat. Once simmering, add cocoa powder and whisk until smooth. Turn off the stovetop and set the pan to cool on an empty burner.

3.     In a large mixing bowl, blend the flour, sugar, soda, and salt.

4.     In an electric mixer, beat the eggs & sour cream until blended. Add the stout mixture from the pan until it’s just blended. Add the flour mix and beat on low speed until everything is incorporated.

5.     Bake until set (toothpick comes out clean) and cool completely. For cupcakes, it takes anywhere from 15-18 minutes is what I’ve seen. For cake it’s longer, around 30 minutes per each 8 in. round.

Dragon’s Milk Icing

Ingredients:

·       3.5 c. powdered sugar (you may need up to 5 cups or so in the end)

·       ½ c. unsweetened cocoa powder

·       1 ½ c. unsalted butter @ room temperature

·       ½ c. Dragon’s Milk

·       4 oz. melted & room temperature bittersweet chocolate (Baker’s chocolate)

Instructions:

1.     Mix cocoa powder and sugar together in a mixing bowl.

2.     Cream the butter and the stout in an electric mixer. It won’t mix completely, but that’s okay.

3.     Add the cocoa mix & beat until light and fluffy.

4.     Add the melted AND COOLED chocolate and beat until stiff peaks form. You may need to add more powdered sugar (1/4 – ½ c. at a time) until the icing is stiff enough to pipe & retain it’s shape.

5.     Pipe onto COMPLETELY cooled cupcakes with a piping bag. I prefer to use the closed star or open star tips on these cupcakes. Or you can just slather it on the cupcakes. Whatever floats your boat.

6.     Garnish with whatever you like. Praline pecans go well.

Take care of my baby, y’all. And enjoy. Spread the glory of Dragon’s Milk cupcakes to the world for me. And go play in the kitchen and come up with something glorious. So I have more excuses to play in the kitchen as well.

Cheers.

A True Love

“Do not cease to drink beer, to eat, to intoxicate thyself, to make love, and to celebrate the good days.”

--Ancient Egyptian Credo

It is evenings like this that remind me why I am passionate about what I do.

I have an amazing series in my lap (The Sword of Shannara trilogy by Terry Brooks), some awesome music, sitting on my parent’s porch on Lake Norman, and my favorite Dogfish Head brew is in my hand.

It’s not 60/75/90/120 minute. There is nothing wrong with those brews in the slightest, but they are not my favorite brews that the amazing Delaware brewery has to offer. And it’s not Festina Peche, though that is a mighty fine little beer. And it is not World Wide, though I must say after a few years in my cellar, that beer is bloody well amazing.

No. It’s not those.

It’s Hellhound On My Ale. A 10% Double IPA brewed with lemon peel and lemon flesh and 100% Centennial Hops. I am IN LOVE with Centennial Hops. I would bathe in them if it weren’t completely socially awkward.

No, it isn’t the “most popular” Dogfish Head brew. I’m perfectly okay with that. And I don’t give a damn if you don’t agree with me. Do you want to know why? There’s an amazing little answer.

Beer is subjective.

Completely and utterly subjective.

That’s why I love this industry—what my favorite beer is is not necessarily everyone else’s favorite. And I don’t try to make it anyone else’s favorite. Because I’m not in charge of everyone else’s taste buds; I am simply in charge of my own.

Let me share something with you, you know, one drinker to another. Yes, I sell beer for a living. For an amazing brewery. And most beer reps will, of course, tell you that theirs is the best out there. We’re biased. But unlike what most people think, we’re not with the companies we are with simply for the money. We’re with these breweries because we BELIEVE in them. They are our families. And the most popular beer that brewery may have may not be that beer rep’s favorite. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Because beer is subjective.

Too often I hear, “I hate that beer,” or “That brewery sucks,” or “They don’t make anything good.” I’m not talking just about the brewery I work for—I’m talking about every brewery out there. For people that understand and appreciate quality, I am often astounded at how utterly negative some people can be about breweries. Local or non-local breweries. That goes for both craft beer enthusiasts and beer reps. I’ve heard it from both sides. A ton of negativity for a small market segment. We do what we do because we love it and are passionate for it. At least, I’m speaking for myself. I hope people drink what they drink because they believe in and love it, and I sincerely hope beer reps are in the game for the right reason. I do hope that.

But I am tired of the negativity. We should be a brotherhood of love for what we do. We mostly are. But I think people forget about how we’re fighting up a very large hill: we are a sliver of the market segment. Five percent of the sales for beer in the country. Five percent and growing, but unless we have true believers, true “brand champions,” we won’t be able to do it.

I want to share a few quotes from an article I read today online.

I read r/beer. If you don’t know what that means, then you don’t know when the narwhal bacons and you probably think I’ve lost my mind. If you do know what I’m talking about, good for you and we’ll just go about this anyways.

So r/beer (a forum, let’s leave it at that) tends to be more for the people discovering craft beer. You’ll see “I just discovered Delirium Tremens,” or “My favorite MI beer is Hopslam,” or “Why is Dark Lord so hard to get?” People are learning there, and by no means do I discourage that.

Recently on r/beer there was an article posted where the writer picked the “best” beers from each state. On the forum, I posted a few opinions of my own. The writer found that out of all the states, and the popular votes on the forums, that 24 of the “best ofs” changed. North Carolina’s changed. But besides my favorite NC brew becoming the top vote (ORF, oh dear god pappy barrels, marry me), what I love most about the article was how the author was awed by the NC posters. How no one had ANYTHING bad to say about any brewery in NC. No bashing. No hatred. No snide comments.

Take a look at what he had to say about the choices, and below what he had to say about the states:

“Unlike the Ohio natives (which you’ll see in a bit), North Carolina’s commenters weren’t willing to actually bash my selection. In fact, I don’t think I read a single negative comment about any beer brewed in North Carolina. Like I said, they LOVE their local beer. While the Jade got lots of great comments, there was also a lot of support for a variety of brews from Duck Rabbit (particularly their Baltic Porter), Foothills Sexual Chocolate, Olde Hickory’s Event Horizon, and a bunch of beers from Fullsteam and Highland.”

Then there’s Ohio, and while he finds joy in the contention and passion, I find people that I wish could just embrace the community life that beer has to offer:

“For a moment last week, I almost thought my selection of Columbus Brewing’s Bodhi might break the internet. Ohio’s Aleheads were appalled. Ohio’s Aleheads were elated. Ohio’s Aleheads called me an assortment of unfortunate names. No state elicited more commentary or debate than Ohio on the craft beer forums. I can see why Ohio is such a swing state in Presidential politics…Buckeyes are apparently a contentious lot. What’s interesting is that, unlike North Carolina, Ohio natives seem to have no problem bashing their local breweries. I was told in no uncertain terms that the Bodhi absolutely sucked. And then when another suggestion was thrown out, the new beer was said to be horrible too. I love the rough and tumble world of Ohio craft beer. There’s a lot of excitement, anger, passion, and insanity there.”

Why would people so passionate about their beer be so mean at someone for simply having a different opinion? I elated in the NC responses. Everyone was in love with their choices. And everyone had their reasons. And there wasn’t bashing. I didn’t personally like the rough and tumble, the anger, the bitterness, and the hatred about beer that I read in those Ohio responses.

Because beer is subjective.

And whatever anyone else likes, and whether or not it is to my own tastes, I know one thing above anything else:

I am in love with craft beer.

No, I don’t like dunkel-weizens. Cloves in my beer freaks the HELL out of me. I don’t know why. I also don’t like the word gastronomy. Or moist. And who cares? No one should. Because they have their own opinions that are just as important to them as mine are to myself.

I am in love with craft beer.

I am in love with every brewery that comes to this state and opens here. Whether or not I am in love/like/lust with their beer. (Yes, you can lust for a beer.) I don’t mean that in a negative way. I simply have differing tastes than other people. But what I love most is that for every single pint that those breweries and homebrewers and craft beer enthusiasts drink and make, we bring notice to this wonderful industry. We develop chemistry for it. We develop community around it.

That means more to me than anything else.

I am in love with craft beer.

And that’s the most important thing to remember.

When Philly Beer Week Kicked My Ass

“Philly Beer Week was a blast, but parts of me hope it's in another city next year. Mostly organ parts.”

–-Joe Gunn

If that quote from Joe Gunn, owner of Jose Pistola’s in Philly, doesn’t wrap up how I felt after Philly Beer Week ended, I don’t know what could.

Don’t get me wrong. Philly Beer Week was singly the BEST beer week I have ever been to (and I got to be a part of it), but there’s no way in hell I will EVER do more than three nights in Philly for PBW again. I spent practically a week in the city and the burbs doing events, having fun, eating god knows how many late night cheesesteaks and food in general, and drinking my liver into utter submission.

If you even want to begin to understand how PBW works, get the app. Or go to the website. But when you see the little red dots EVERYWHERE in Philly on the app, your mind is blown. Literally EVERY bar is involved. With unreal beer. And unreal events. I don't even know how the city itself functions during that 10 day period. The paper is full of events listings, and stories of the previous night's shenanigans, and the city revels in the drunken ridiculousness. I know the taxi drivers had to be in heaven.

But here it starts...

The first night, after a 10 hour drive, I met Dr. Joel, my boss, at Boilermaker’s. Y’know, because there’s nothing better than getting off of the road than drinking a bitter and a shot of whiskey. Then came the first round of food (hot dogs and 3-4 apps), followed by the trek to Pistola’s for the one and the only Joe Gunn Late Night. Like Joel said, it’s like watching a better Jay Leno but with multiple bottles of Jameson. And no TVs. And with really good beer.

 Dr. Joel is from Philly, and damn if you know it. Not only was he brought on stage by Joe Gunn, he had three drinks in his hands in a matter of 10 minutes. (see pictures) I was extremely busy making it my personal mission to drink the bar out of Russian River Supplication, which was on draft, and sadly, kicked far too quickly for my own taste. And we’re not done yet. We hopped on over to POPE, walked in at 1:55am (bars close at 2am), only to order the most sessionable beer in the bar.

I’m kidding. We all ordered Backwoods Bastard on draft and proceeded to practically chug the beers just to get out of the bar in time.

AND THEN came the cheesesteaks.

AND THEN came the flooded streets around my hotel, where Joel had to walk me to the hotel from the cab because the cab driver couldn’t get onto the streets.

And that’s all in the first night.

Let me break down the next crazy few days, all documented by pictures in the attached album until I quite literally gave up on taking them. At my final event, I didn’t even take any pictures. It was an awesome brunch, but I was on a whole new level of dysfunction that I doubt that I could have operated my camera even if it were necessary.

Ginger’s Log, Day #2 of PBW:

I wake up to a text from Joel, “I feel like a million bucks. Seriously, I just woke up and I feel like a damn champion.” I note to him the lingering funky taste in my mouth and he’s like, “Yep. We ate at Pat’s last night.” Oh lingering cheesesteak fat, why??!

He gives me a time to meet him in Old City (where my hotel was located) at Han Dynasty (Szechuan food that is ungodly amazing. See pictures.), and I get ready and start walking. I normally cannot stomach that much food, but it was so delicious I literally could not stop eating. Joel was going to introduce me to the idea of 2^nd lunch, but even he stuffed himself too much to even think about conquering a second feast.

We hopped on the train and headed to Theresa’s for our first event of the day. We walk in, and the next thing I know, I have a shot of our original “gin” (juniper brandy), a drink of Kuhnhenn’s port, and some Michigan White Grappa sitting in front of me. (HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?) Followed immediately, by a Black Tulip, one of my favorite New Holland brews.

Holy mother of alcohol above, what was I thinking? Well, after directions from my bartender to finish off all the drinks he poured, I went to my favorite method of drinking beer at events: I order by the half-snifter. Just give me a half of a snifter of whatever the hell I order. Unless it’s whiskey. Then you give me MAYBE two ounces... usually only one. Especially if it’s Zeppelin Bend.

After the next round of food, which, mind you, Joel squirreled off and I had to go steal the remainder of the cheese from, we had to get a move on. We had another event to go to.

Late Night Palooza at City Tap House. With a 3L of Dragon’s Milk. So. Much. Beer.

Oh, and by the way, I accidentally flashed my bum twice that day. Before I had even started drinking. My dress and I weren’t agreeing on modesty, apparently.

To save you from the moment-by-moment insanity, I’m going to rush this and just give you a bulleted list of the ridiculous shit that happened from there on:

• ·         Visited the Liberty Bell with the Bell’s Brewing crew.
• ·         Russian River Consecration and mussels at Belgian Café.
• ·         Karaoke at Varga with Avery. One of our friends sang the following, “If you like Pina Coladas, and getting fu**ed in the ass…”
• ·         My first use of Uber, an awesome taxi service that picks you up using an app. Oh, by the way, they contract out with limo services, so you actually have a driver and it rivals taxis in cost. Not to mention, it’s charged directly to my card so I don’t have to worry about cash.
• ·         Barcade. My attempt to show some guys the moon in Rampage. $10 of quarters and 83 in-game days later, the bar is shutting down. Damn.
• ·         Cheesesteaks. Again. Peppers so spicy that hilarity ensues.
• ·         Prohibition Bar in the morning. More drinking.
• ·         Walked to Kite and Key. A bird literally flew into me. Everything in this city is either still drunk or ridiculously hungover.
• ·         Drank Sofie, and Lolita, and ate one of my favorite food combos: tomato soup and grilled cheese.
• ·         Had an awesome event at McCrossen’s Tavern involving food, Hatter Days beers, and amazing cheeses from DiBruno Bros.
• ·         Chiriboga blue cheese from Bavaria is singly one of the best cheeses I have ever had.
• ·         Tripe is not really something I enjoy, but pig’s tongue and fried chicken livers rock.
• ·         Varga Bar again. Helped pump a Troeg’s rep full of whiskey. Many “you don’t even know me”’s ensue. Hilarious. Then I started taking shots. I disappeared from the bar like a ninja, and crawled into my king sized bed and cuddled 8 pillows.
• ·         Wake up in the AM. Italian Market. AMAZING. Six cucumbers for a buck, an amazing visit to DiBruno Bros. If they had cots, I’d live there, and then eventually I drove to Horsham. I had an event at Iron Abbey that was awesome, and some sort of recovery in my liver began. It doesn’t get to last long… Mad Hatter on cask is delicious.
• ·         Magic Gardens in the City in the morning.
• ·         Eulogy where I eat mussels, drink Gueuze Tilquin, introduce some guys to Dragon’s Milk, and then end up drinking a bottle of 50/50 Grand Cru Eclipse with those guys. Hot damn.
• ·         Varga Bar for my event that night. Aww, yeah. Michael Jackson Hatter, good beer, amazing ravioli, and a damn good time.
• ·         Drive to Exton, PA. Sleep well for the first time since I got to PBW, and wake up to the FINAL event. Brunch. Delicious.

To put it lightly, I don’t know how I survived. After Joel left the 2^nd night I texted him asking, “How do you survive?!” He says, “You just close your eyes, keep drinking your beer, and hope that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”

He was right.

That light was me hightailing it to the brewery in MI.

The bad news?

The tunnel was a lot longer than I expected.

But the story of the New Holland Brewing 15^th Anniversary party is a story for another time.

Cheers.

The Truth at Twenty-Three

“We're all different.... But there's something kind of fantastic about that, isn't there?”

 –Mrs. Fox, Fantastic Mr. Fox

I’ve always wondered where I would be at 23.

When I was 18, I had this grandiose dream of being with my “true love,” graduated from college with a corporate job, living the most predictable life. At 23.

It’s funny how it all worked out. In fact, it’s just kind of funny.

Two of my best friends I’ve had since 5^th grade were recently talking with me about how our lives worked out. We laughed at what we thought when we were 18. And we talked about how we ended up. One a biomedical engineer who is finishing building a house at 22, one a personal trainer in a serious relationship she is incredibly happy in, and me—a sales rep for a craft brewery, traveling the East Coast.

Despite not living up to our 18 year old selves’ dreams, I think we all did a damn fine job and are happier for how we did end up than if we had simply “played it by the book.”

For a very long time, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I was terrified to admit that to anyone, but it was a truth I lived with. Even after graduating from college (I was 20, geez), and on my way to law school, I had absolutely no idea. I knew that the economy was in the toilet, and I knew that there were things I did like doing—cooking/baking, discovering craft beer, reading books, playing video games—I had no idea how my life was going to turn out. I had barely any money to my name, and I was about to go into close to $50,000 of debt for a single year of law school. I was in a relationship that I thought was the end all be all of relationships in my life, I was moving away from my home city and my family, and to be entirely honest, I was absolutely scared to death.

The good news was that, despite that debt, and that one year of law school I was miserable in, and that relationship dissolving very shortly after my move… I finally figured out what I wanted to do. I had never been so sure about anything in my life. I walked out on that fear and uncertainty and walked into a whole new world: finding a job. 

And after eight months of searching, and stress, and utter fear that I wouldn’t ever get my dream job, while working full time as a waitress, and living hand to mouth… I got a call to go to final interviews in Michigan.

Traveling to Michigan for the interview bankrupted me. I had gambled with the last of my savings to interview for my dream job. But I went up to Michigan with one thing in mind regardless: be myself no matter what, because I was tired of being anything but that.

When I returned home, I knew that if I didn’t get that job, that I would likely have one soon. Because I was lucky enough to be surrounded by one of the best communities in the world—the NC craft beer community. I had learned so much from my peers that I knew, eventually, it would happen. Someday it would happen… it was just a matter of time.

When I got the final call, I was walking into my apartment complex’s office to turn in the utility bill. It was, almost quite literally, the last money I had. I had $14 in my pocket, and that was it. The end of the line. When I was invited to join the team, I almost burst into tears on the phone. I had never felt such relief and happiness and a rush of adrenaline like that in my life as in that moment. When I called my Mom after, I could barely even talk. I bawled like a little baby while she did the same on the other end of the phone, because my dream was finally coming true. I had found my brewery—my second home and family.

A little more than four months later, I turned 23. I was living my dream, with my dream job. That was the “true love” I should have seen when I was 18. The industry I worked in. The passion for the craft.

That’s one of the most beautiful things about life: you have to live it to actually find out how your story will go.

I do not have a significant other. I have not for almost a year. And 18 year old me would have been freaking out about that. But I’m not. Eighteen year old Lindsay is the not the same as 23 year old Lindsay, and I am very happy for that.  

I’m lucky to have figured out my passion this young. I’m lucky to have the support of friends, family, my company, and of peers in the craft beer industry. Without them, it simply wouldn’t be the same.

So thank you, to everyone who has been there for me and who helped make 23 possible. I simply cannot thank you enough.

But also, thanks to 18 year old Lindsay, who became 23 year old Lindsay, and was so much better off for it.

 

Cheers.