Hubby is from Milwaukee. Beer. Laverne and Shirley. Harleys. Beer. He’s from Milwaukee.
Milwaukee cares seriously about their beer. I mean, beer matters over there. This is totally foreign to my experience. I don’t particularly like beer and I don’t care about beer. I smile politely when Hubby’s friends and family get on the topic and try really hard not to let my eyes wander because, I mean, the conversation matters to them. Two years ago, Hubby’s best friend, previously referred to here as StudBoy, had a birthday and I got on board with the beer thing. He brought examples of three batches of his home brew for Hubby and I noticed he had no labels. Now, labels, that’s something I can manage. So we went to a beer supplies place in Grand Ledge, got the right sized labels that stay stuck through cold, moisture, etc. and made him labels with these super-StudyBoy-specific names. He was thrilled.
OK, anyway, so Hubby has a good Milwaukee friend who drinks a horrible beer called Hamm’s. It’s the only beer that he drinks and he drinks a lot of it. This is Big Daddy Jim of our summer road trip. His friends laugh at him for it. It is a constant topic of amusement every time he opens one. And it is such a staple in his life that we prepared for his motorcycle visit to Michigan by having StudBoy bring an enormous case of the stuff three months ahead of the trip so Big Daddy would have it waiting for him.
Well, he didn’t finish the case, so one day I decided to try it.
Hamm’s ROCKS. I will never again tolerate snickering over Hamm’s. Hamm’s is the most intoxicating beer I have ever drunk. Hamm’s is genuinely appealing. I get home some nights and I think, “I’d like a Hamm’s” and a glow of pleasure begins in my stomach.
I have become an honorable Milwaukee-ite. I drink their worst beer and I love it. I will defend it. I will now have something to say during beer discussions. I can’t tell you how important this is to them. It’s like I’m actually a member of the family now.
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