On Beer

Shortly after my daughter was born, I learned the importance of beer. I had begun to suspect, during my pregnancy, when beer was forbidden, that it would play a role in my life. Nothing—except, perhaps, cake—smelled nearly as good to me, and I knew that the flavor of beer, of Bass in particular, was evolving in those few months, too.

Of course, it was my own tongue, rather than the state of ale, that had changed. So much was different for me in those nine months; the baby that followed might have been the least of it. My feet and nose grew—the nose my mother called “tiny” all my life had grown a bumpy knot to match her own, on a nose I had broken when I was two. (She was lying on the sofa, and I ran to her with outstretched arms, saying, “I’m sooooooo happy!” Oh, the irony.) The sides of my face darkened with melasma and now continue to look dirty much of the year, despite my efforts to keep my face un-tanned. My skin is stretched in places that will remain forever hidden (a good enough reason to say, "'til death do we part").

The biggest physical changes, though, were not in my appearance; they were in my senses. I became a rescue dog, a sight hound. It was as if I’d been wrapped in some superhuman sensory magnifier. I could hear tires squeal in the next neighborhood. I could smell a .002 percent worth of gas exiting from the kitchen stove. I could see ghosts. And damn, I could sure taste some beer.

Truth is, pregnancy hormones are superhuman sensory magnifiers! We hear and feel and taste and touch and smell—and divine the future and read your mind—all to protect our new babies. They so much as coo in their sleep, and we hear it from a mile away and produce milk in response. They poop upstairs at your mother's house, and we smell it from our own basement laundry rooms and dial up Mom to be sure she's changing a diaper. We know when their first cereal is the right temperature because our forearms, where we test it, is a precise thermometer. New mothers are perfectly tuned nurture machines.

When my girl was a month old, I learned about beer magic—specifically, four o’clock beer magic. I was still nursing every few hours, sometimes for forty minutes, because I didn’t know yet that it only took twenty for her to get all the nourishment she needed (despite a mother's x-ray vision, she is prevented from seeing through a breast). I was suffering from sleep deprivation, feeling stretched thin and sucked dry. I needed that delicious, heady, hoppy, happy smell I pined for all year to dance on my tongue. Five hours later, for the nine o’clock feeding, a tiny bit of beer made its way into my daughter. And she slept for seven hours in a row. More important: I slept for seven hours in a row.

Soon, the 4:00 beer became a ritual. I cracked one open when I could, and while it did its thing on my tongue, I danced around the kitchen. And it didn't harm my daughter's brain or body. Now eight, she is just as healthy and strong and smart as any child can be. (Hey, beer, it is said, made Bud wiser.)

Eight years later, I am still drinking it, and I’m a bit of a beer snob. Don’t come near me with a Coors product; in fact, take your green-bottled light beers and lagers—Beck’s, Heineken, Sol, whatever—elsewhere. (I don't even know you if you drink from a can and aren't playing softball at the time.) I like the dark, sweet ales: Nut Browns and Basses, Sams and Magic Hats and Newcastles.

The other night, a news program followed a group of beer enthusiasts to Belgium, where they sought out the coveted and rare St. -Sixtus, made by Trappist monks in Westvleteren. It has been pronounced the world's best beer. I like a weizen now and again, and I appreciate that the world’s best of something isn’t an item you can pick up at Lou’s Liquors any time you have a hankering.

But I also appreciate, any time of year (not just on Valentine's day) a bouquet of Flying Dog Ale. Forget the flowers (although I do love gerbera daisies and tulips).

Lately, I drink a little more beer than most women—one or two after work—and have graduated to the 3:00 beer. Sometimes, I confess, I look at the clock and wonder why I couldn't have a 2:00 ritual. I like drinking beer with friends*, but never to the point of intoxication (though more than one has called me intoxicating over the years). But I also like to drink it alone, the music cranked, the world disappeared beyond my head.

For that righteous first sip and few minutes that follow, no one is president or starving or hurting. I may not ever be truly happy with myself and the world around me, but being off by one letter** is sometimes good enough.



*Jen, one day we'll have that 3:00 beer together! Perhaps in Barcelona.
**That would be hoppy, not what smartass thing you're thinking.