Our relationship is marked by beer. Like a long line of bottles in varying shades of brown, green, and amber, the seasons of our love correspond with the tastes and textures and names of beers.

Together, over 14 years, my husband Doug and I have run the gamut—from obscure, handcrafted beers to expensive English delicacies to gourmet homebrew to cheap domestics, and now, finally, to our favorites—the comfort beers we’ve settled on, the brands and varieties we always know we can bring home and the other person will appreciate.

At first, there was barley wine. Intoxicating, rich with perfume, it was a new taste for me, one I hadn’t even known I was ready for. On our first date, at the very outset of what would be a steady, satisfying, several-years-long courtship, Doug and I sat on stools in a restaurant called The Meeting Place and chose from a menu of hundreds of beers.

I scanned the long lists of bottles and drafts, imports and domestics, and felt nearly overwhelmed by all the choices in front of me. Would I pick correctly? Would I, first of all, enjoy what I chose? Would I impress Doug with my selection, or would I feel stupid and regret this?

Flustered, I went for what sounded both quaint and exotic: barley wine. Two small, potent bottles later, I was weak in the knees. (Photo: Dogfish Head Brewery’s Olde School Barley Wine)

We moved on, together, to double bock, the perfect tonic for the stirrings of early spring lust. The rest, as they say, can be left to the imagination.

That first spring and summer, our love blossomed like lilacs, refreshingly sweet, and we spent every weekend together. I’d take the train out from New York City to meet him in what now seemed to be the country—suburban New Jersey—where Doug lived and worked as a carpenter.

Friday night always began with a careful selection of beer. If we were going out for Mexican food, the choice was obvious: Dos Equis with fresh-cut wedges of lime. Otherwise, I left it up to Doug. He knew his beers.

Having just moved back east from the Pacific Northwest, he introduced me first to all his Seattle and Portland-area favorites: Red Hook ESB, a sweetish, yet astringent amber; and the Rogue Ales—especially Dead Guy Ale, a German-style Maibock, malty and rich.

From there, we moved down the coast to Northern California, finding a new favorite: Red Seal, a copper-red pale ale, generously hopped. (Pint glass here filled with–you guessed it–Red Seal Ale)


We discovered wheat beers together, which to me are especially delicious with their light-as-air foam, their fruity (yet buttery) tingle on the tongue. I developed a special fondness for the delicate, coriander-tinged flavor of Texas’ Celis White (it is, sadly, no longer brewed).

Dinners out in the city usually meant Indian food and—for me—a nice bottle of Belgian raspberry lambic bought at the little bodega on the corner of First Avenue and East Sixth Street.

Doug gamely tried the lambic, but he prefers bitter brews with bite and soon dismissed my newfound confection as “a girl drink,” or “champagne.” He opted, instead, to go native, drinking Indian beer such as Kingfishers with Indian food; and Sing Ha with Thai dishes; or else he stuck with his perennial favorite: Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

A trip to Colorado meant an opportunity to eat and drink at the distinctive Boulder breweries—the Walnut Brewery and Oasis, among them. We sampled the goods everywhere we went, trying little glasses of perhaps 10 different beers, and we left the brewpubs carrying 12-packs of our favorites, seasonal specialties such as apricot ale, things we couldn’t buy at home. We drank some of the beer while camping in the Tetons and lugged the rest back East with us on the plane.

The next step in our relationship was living together, and as soon as we’d found an apartment with huge windows, glossy wood floors and an adequate kitchen, we bought a homebrew kit.

Doug and I started out nervously, like new parents, carefully sterilizing everything, conscientiously stirring a bubbling cauldron that contained the makings of a batch of honey-colored, wheaty lager.

We bought new bottles for this baby—lavishly thick, 22-ounce green ones with hip, metal swing tops. In our eagerness to sample our creation, however, we didn’t leave this beer to age quite long enough.

Our first homebrew we declared a disaster—too sweet and flat. We forgot about a case of it, and moved on to something more ambitious (my idea, I admit): a double-chocolate porter.

This beer we did not touch for required months of fermentation. When we did taste it, the beer was rich and thick, bittersweet, and it poured with an impressive head.

We (dumbly) shared the porter with our friends and our stock was soon depleted. Oh, well, we thought. We still had the corner store on Indian Row, and our local beer emporium, which was finding new beers all the time—continually challenging our tastes—to sustain us.

At this beer emporium, Doug discovered an English beer—available only around the holidays—called Samuel Smith’s Winter Welcome. It comes in large, clear pint bottles, the copper-brown ale just beckoning to be quaffed. (Photo: the big, bad WW–not sure what year this bottle is from.)

The taste of Winter Welcome is both rich and clean, nutty-sweet yet dry. Doug also likes the labels; each year the painted illustration changes (think goose or chalet, horse-drawn carriage and so on), giving him good enough reason to not recycle the bottles. Winter Welcome is Doug’s favorite beer of all. He told his best friend, Mike, about it, sharing a bottle to explain its magical taste.

This could have been a mistake. Now Mike buys out the beer store’s supply of Winter Welcome each Christmas, and the only way Doug can even get any of his favorite beer is to stop by Mike’s house.


As the years went by, our relationship strengthened, and the beer drinking picked up speed, as well. I bought Doug books on beer. He read them carefully, dog-earing pages, scribbling notes in the margins, determined to seek out the few gourmet beers he hadn’t yet tasted (ones from small craft breweries housed in defunct Midwestern fire stations, or remote corners of Alsace-Lorraine).

But then, suddenly (the change shocked me), Doug was no longer very interested in microbrews. He wanted reliability, he said—and a more palatable price tag. At this point, we were engaged and living out in the wilds of Eastern Long Island, in a small cottage near the beach.

We were far from a decent grocery store, let alone one with any impressive selection of beer. Doug reverted to drinking Rolling Rock and Bud, and occasionally (when he felt like splurging) his old standby: Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

When I asked him what was going on, Doug said it was simply a new phase of his life: he was settling down. At first I worried, but then I came to see his point. Doug had played the field and now he knew what he liked, so what was the point of continuing the game?

Doug and I got married and took a very long honeymoon in Belize. While there, we savored the crisp, new taste of Belize’s own beer: Belikin. This is a beer we still haven’t been able to find in the states (though I think it may be available somewhere in Texas).

A by-product of our honeymoon, we soon discovered, was a baby. I, of course, drank no more beer as soon as I realized I was pregnant. We packed up house and moved to Iowa so I could attend grad school after the baby’s birth.

Away from family and friends and plowing through our savings to furnish our apartment and stock up for our child, Doug stuck to drinking inexpensive, domestic beers. When the time came for our daughter’s birth, I reminded Doug to pack a special bottle of champagne that my cousin’s husband—a wine dealer—had given us. He did so, and for his own nerves, tucked into a cooler two cans of beer.

I was appalled to find, the next day in the hospital, two (untouched) cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Why on earth had Doug chosen such a pedestrian beer?

He said he didn’t know why, or it was simply a strange combination of desperation, flightiness, and worry. Doug had reportedly reached for the first beer he saw in the supermarket. He was very nervous about becoming a father, and he hesitated to celebrate just in case (he’s a pessimist) something should go terribly wrong.

But everything had gone fine. We had a beautiful, nine-pound daughter.

Doug toasted her with Pabst (I am still appalled), and promised we’d drink the champagne at home.

All these years later, we still, of course, find ourselves going through phases of life, as well as phases of beer. We appreciate beer, and just as people enjoy different music on different occasions, so it goes with beer.

We need to get another beer-making kit and try that again (now that our kids are big enough to keep themselves occupied for a few hours). This past Christmas, I intended to brew beer as gifts, but I just got too busy.

Think we’ll try it again this year, though. Boiling up a batch of beer during what is sure to be a hot summer will nevertheless be worth it in the winter. (Especially since walking down to the basement for more beer is much easier than visiting the annoying Pennsylvania state liquor stores…the beer drinking lately has waned just because it’s such a pain to buy beer where we live now. You can’t even leave a PA store with three six-packs. No, you have to leave the third and come back for it separately…. I can’t even imagine the purpose of such an insipid law.)

The hardest part of homebrewing this time will be agreeing on what type of beer to make. We’ve done it all, had them all. But we still recall the taste of that forgotten first batch of homebrew—the one we opened too early, dismissed too quickly.

When Doug and I stumbled upon some dusty, untouched bottles a couple of years later, we ventured to try that first beer again. Its taste was now mellow, delicious—redolent, somehow, of fresh-mown hay and clover.

Like our love, it had only grown richer with age.


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ELIZABETH COLLINS is a writer and writing/literature teacher, whose blog (http://prettyfreaky.blogspot.com) attracts an international following to its mix of memoir, personal and political essays, and quirky observations. Collins, a graduate of the University of Iowa's MFA program in English/Writing, won the Columbia University Nonfiction Prize in 2001, as well as other writing awards. Her essays and short stories have been published in a variety of literary magazines, including The Massachusetts Review, Natural Bridge and Columbia: A Journal of Literature and Art. Collins currently writes YA novels--and her latest, also entitled Pretty Freaky, is about a foreign adoptee's quest to help her adopted American boyfriend find his birthmother. She is also at work on a memoir about teaching.

22 responses to “Beer, My Dear? Love, Measured in Pints”

  1. Matt says:

    Damn. Now I’m thirsty.

    Red Seal is a good damn beer. And Sierra Nevada-espeically its seasonals-is nothing to laugh at.

    PBR gets a bum rap, especially now that it’s become the hipster brew of choice. But I find it far more drinkable than the Budweisers, Millers, and Coors of the world.

    Southern California has seen a lot of microbreweries pop up in the last 15 years or so, many of which are producing some wonderful beers. If it’s at all available, I suggest you try some of Stone Brewery’s wonderful concoctions, especially their Arrogant Bastard Ale.

  2. Thanks for reading, Matt.

    You can tell that I am no longer hip because I assumed PBR was just so un-hip.

    I think I’ve had Arrogant Bastard (who could resist the name? But then again, I may be thinking of Fat Bastard wine, which I have had and will respectfully recuse myself from commenting on). But I will certainly look for it again. Thanks for the recommendation–always useful.


  3. Greg Olear says:

    Always great to have a post from you, Liz, and this one is fantastic. Romantic and touching, but the only thing sappy was some of the lesser microbrews.

    By the time I made it to The Meeting Place (I’m assuming it’s the one I’m thinking of) it was no longer The Meeting Place. Why they’d change such a good name I’ll never know. Main Streets sounds like a Springsteen album, not a bar.

    Wine was invented by the Greeks, but the Egyptians invented beer. One of the pharaohs had the recipe carved on the wall of his pyramid, so that the secret would survive. But after Prague, it’s hard for me to really enjoy American beer, or beer imported here (Joyce said the sea air kills the flavor during the export)…Prague beer ruined me.


  4. Irene Zion says:

    Elizabeth, It is so good to hear your words again. it has been too long.
    Doug is right about the lambics, they are just nasty.
    I myself like a stout, the darker the better.
    Victor just the other day had an Arrogant Bastard! I have a picture of it, if you want it.
    I like how you told the story of your romance through beer.

  5. Thanks, Greg and Irene…I still like a lambic (sorry). Not multiple lambics, because that would be cloying, but just one every once in a while is refreshing.

    Irene, I would love a pic of the Arrogant Bastard.

    When I make some more beer (it will undoubtedly be dark beer, because I make that best), I can send you both some.


  6. I should mention that my new favorite beer is Dogfish Head’s Raison D’Etre.

    Very rich, sort of heavy (you want more than one but it’s hard to deal with). The unusual wine-y flavor comes from raisins. It’s incredible.

    • Irene Zion says:

      I need to take beer lessons from you!
      Did you get the picture of Arrogant Bastard?
      Isn’t it wonderful?
      I have a little friend here who makes labels for beer that are uber fancy and wonderful.
      I’m trying to get her to send me some pics to send you, but she seems to be off e mail.

  7. Joe Daly says:

    >>When I asked him what was going on, Doug said it was simply a new phase of his life: he was settling down. At first I worried, but then I came to see his point. Doug had played the field and now he knew what he liked, so what was the point of continuing the game?<<

    This totally made me smile. I really enjoyed this. Such well-crafted parallels and great emotional punch. Thanks!

  8. Thanks for your very kind comment, Joe.



  9. Zara Potts says:

    Do you know, I have never drunk a beer?
    This post makes me want to.
    Lovely, Liz.

  10. Zara,


    You can appreciate beer for the taste (especially beers that are supposed to have intricate, sophisticated, interesting tastes) while not becoming a beer-guzzling, beer-bellied fool. I assure you that I am not the latter, though I cannot speak for any man in the vicinity.

    I prescribe a tasting sampler a microbrewery–some place where you can have two ounces or so of many different types of ales, porters, etc. There must be one in NZ–just saw on TV the other night that you have your own NZ version of “Top Model”–so you must have the brewpubs.



    • Zara Potts says:

      I have tried beer.. but only sips.
      I’m afraid it just doesn’t agree with my tastebuds. Although I am somewhat envious of those who enjoy it on a hot, hot day. It looks pretty good then…

  11. I know what you mean; I can’t actually deal with super-bitter beer–at least, not more than a taste.

    You, my friend, must be a super-taster (as am I, possibly). Is bitterness the problem?

  12. D.R. Haney says:

    Wow. Your honeymoon produced a child. I think that frequently happened during our parents’ time, and their parents before them, and so on.

    I can’t really comment too much on the beer angle of the post, because I know nothing about such things, lacking refined tastes. But I think they’d become much more refined with a little money, which I sorely lack.

    It’s always a pleasure to see you here, Liz. You’re such a good writer — one of the best we have.

    • Yes, well, the honeymoon thing…one of my friends got all mad at me when I confessed I was pregnant a while later and said, “I didn’t think that sort of thing happened anymore.” It does.

      Thanks for reading, Duke. How’ve you been? (I have recent stories of my own…ugh)


      • Congratulations on the impending baby! I bet that Mountain Goat Surefoot Stout has an excellent label (how could it not?). Labels can do a lot to entice a person to try a type of beer…

  13. Tim says:

    Magic! My wife and I are on a similar journey, about four months before the nine pounds, and this piece gives a beautiful perspective to where we are. Thank you! And, for the record, in Melbourne you can’t go past Mountain Goat Surefoot Stout on a winter’s day.

  14. Simon Smithson says:

    Great piece, Liz! There’s a bar in Melbourne that stocks something like 200 brands of beer – you should come visit. Or come down to the Mountain Goat brewery (good work, Tim!) – the bar is located in the brewery itself.

  15. Thanks for reading, Simon–is T-Pac going to Oregon, Wash., Colorado? Of course, you can get good beer basically anywhere, but especially there.

  16. Alan Venable says:

    Dear Elizabeth, How can I send you a gratis copy of an amazing new memoir about high school and football in Pittsburgh in the early sixties? Thanks!

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