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.

perfect day

I probably haven’t given quite enough credit to Asheville for giving me back the pleasure of beer. Over fifteen years ago, I moved from Wisconsin — where beer is practically dropped into the bassinets of hospital maternity wards — to Florida. The Sunshine State had many welcome compensations, led by an escape from abusive blizzards. Good beer — merely palatable beer, even — was dreadfully difficult to come by, though.

I had all but given up on having a well-stocked fridge when I moved to the lovely mountain town on the western side of North Carolina. But when I asked my new fellow citizens about the must-visit places as I became acquainted with Asheville, the upstart craft breweries were mentioned over and over again. Having been to a brew pub or two, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. I did not.

I had occasional to walk those highly sloped streets again in recent days, and the beer scene has only grown, itself a remarkable occurrence since it already seemed to have been closing in on the saturation point when I moved away just two not-so-short years ago. I wish I could have explored more, and a woozy tourist tour is undoubtedly in my future. Instead, I mostly stuck with mainstays, those beers I knew would make me happy, even as the took a meat tenderizer to my strained liver.

That glass of Perfect Day IPA, one of the gems of Asheville Brewing Company, was just as good as I expected it to be. Thanks again to my favorite cesspool of sin.

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