Sorry, wine, I know you have always been the one I sought after…and the one I chose.
But it’s been a long hot summer, and beer is so cold and tingly. Mostly I’m talking IPAs that backhand slap you with bitter hops flavors then tickle you with floral herbaciousness. Then there are those delicate seasonal saisons I keep sipping at backyard barbecues.
Just try to spend a summer writing and editing about the incredibly vibrant craft beer scene in Portland and not be seduced by pint after pint of cool brew. For me, Lucy Burningham’s vivid beer writing was like Danielle Steele novels must have been for so many lonely women. It’s no surprise that at the end of the work day, her (Lucy’s not Danielle’s) words sent me barging through my front door, tripping over the dog, to get to whatever beer was waiting in my fridge.
My role in Hop in the Saddle was to be the straight up bicycle expert. But something happened along the way. I fell in love. Disgustingly. Like icky teenager-style infatuation mixed with deep-dip-kiss, become-my-life 20-something swooning. It’s so bad. I mean good. Pour me another.