I always drink an oatmeal stout from a glass.
That way I can marvel at its murkiness, impenetrable even when held up to light.
I inherited my love of dark beer from my Oma Walter. No one else in my family would touch the stuff. And even me, as a child, couldn’t fathom drinking something so cloudy, black and mysterious — a mindset informed by living in a home where water-clear Labatt Blue was enjoyed in amber stubbies.
But the bitter coffee and sweet chocolate synonymous with stout grew on me as I got older and every time I drank a dark beer that I really loved, I’d think of my Oma as she smacked her lips after a pleasurable first sip, looked upon her glass with approval, and said “Oooh, dat’s a gut beer,” in her German-flecked English.
I also credit her with my appreciation for the cast-iron frying pan. —Continue reading—