I grew up in Indiana and graduated from the very best institution in the state, Indiana University, even having been there in 1976 when the Hoosiers won the NCAA’s. So I can talk about college basketball. I am also reasonably conversant about films (being partial to Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn), books (Steinbeck, Dickens, Chabon, and a slew of non-fiction authors), current events, and a host of many other topics. But bring up a topic related to beer and I may not take a breath for several minutes (very much like those Olympic synchronized swimmers).
So it happened, I was visiting our little neighborhood liquor store (and its amazing quality of beer and wine) when I started chatting it up with the clerk. I told him I was impressed with the selection of beers and was always interested to see what was perched on the tri-level, circular display by the cash register. He said, “You really have to try this beer. We don’t get it in very often.” I grabbed the 12 ounces of recommended brew and handed him my credit card, in a reverie about the joy that would oh so soon spread from the bottle through my palate and body. I sped home dodging cats, cars, and kids, zipped into the house, and took the bottle from the bag, along with the receipt.
$16.28! Holy Joker-Nose!! For a 12 ounce bottle.
That’s close to $100 a six pack. My blood isn’t even worth that and I’m B+.
Now I feel guilty about buying it, guilty for not asking what it cost, guilty for not looking at the receipt until I got home. I don’t know if the guilt stems from my Midwestern upbringing, that my parents grew up during the Depression, or that I’m Catholic. Oh wait, I’m not Catholic, but that would have been a really good reason.
Anyway, in my refrigerator there sits a nondescript bottle of beer, which could very well be a modern day equivalent of the apple in Eden. Stay tuned.