Ah, the spring beer; where the bock, dry stout, fruit-based wheat beers and Irish Reds all attempt to reign my least favorite season. Why has spring become so glamorized into crocuses emerging from freshly-thawed soil, birds chirping, and dewy-eyed hibernators emerging to forage for asparagus and fiddleheads? Spring is the pits. Spring is muddy shoes and never knowing what type of weather to dress for. It’s gorgeous one day, snowing the next, and my cat is starting to make weird clicking noises at birds, planning an elaborate, “Escape From Alcatraz” type of getaway. More
