I love camping. I have an endless supply of memories from growing up, thanks to Boy Scouts and the occasional family trip.
But camping and beer have never really overlapped for me: Scouting prohibits all alcohol on camping trips, which never came up at the time but has recently now that I’ve gotten involved with my son’s Cub pack. When we would go to Allegany — my adulthood camping destination of choice — I’d be with my wife and her family, none of whom are drinkers.
This year, though, it’s a three cabin trip that includes, among other people, my mom. The woman who once answered her doctor’s inquiry into her drinking habits with “well, more now that my son is brewing…” And so while we’re still far from the drunken bacchanalia that defines camping for some people, I actually have beer for once. So: My Embeered Life, Camping Edition.
First: a day that even more people had come down, filled with Kan Jam and barbecued chicken and — thanks to my brother in law — Evolution’s Pinehopple. Light sabers made out of half a pool noodle and multicolored duct tape, and Sam Adams’ Summer Ale.
Pie iron pizzas, slightly burned but still tasting delicious, cooked over a fire I started with one match (not to brag) while drinking a bottle of Southern Tier IPA. A bottle of Live, consumed while eating the pizzas and later used in a skit as a pirate’s spyglass.
I plan to visit Southern Tier, goddamn finally, later this week when their cafe is open. Until then I’ve got this 2XIPA, sipping by a fire while writing this post, telling my brother in law to shut up about being on an electronic device, I’m writing, as though I’m Hemingway or something.
I’m not sure if anyone would notice if I missed one of these Tuesday posts, or begrudge me if I did due to vacation. But I love writing, and I love beer, and I love camping, and so a love letter to the three — before putting the kids to bed and playing Love Letter.