This series of posts is dedicated to the many, many six packs, pony kegs and pints that have sauntered into my life at one point or another.


I was in New Orleans less than a year after Katrina. No further embellishment is needed on that name. It is its own story. It is the storm and the aftermath all in one. That’s how it felt then. To a degree, that’s still how it feels now. I was in New Orleans providing help, spending days gutting houses that had been saturated by flood and nights in a makeshift compound called Camp Hope. The city that I had previously know as messy and boisterous was now ravaged and shell-shocked. When we broke away from service-related tasks to visit shops, the gratitude for the simplest acts of commerce was overwhelming. It was a city so dependent on tourism that the diversion of vacations from a wounded city was arguably as damaging as the murky waters that doused it. We worked during the time we were in New Orleans, but we also took time to play, heartened by the knowledge that our contributions to the local economy were needed, too.

That bygone trip to an aching area forged many distinct memories for me: of people, of jazz, of sweat-soaked days, of exhausted nights. And, yes, there was a beer that served as its own sort of anchor to the time and place. Tonight, as I once again spend time in New Orleans, I will find myself a glass of Abita Turbodog, and I will raise it in remembrance and gratitude to a city that has given my much joy, and to which I have occasionally tried to give something of myself in return.

Previous entries in this series can be found by clicking on the “Beers I Have Known” tag.

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