Covid-19 cut a hole clean through the space-time continuum. Days, weeks, and months blur by, the passage of time marked by the weekly filling and emptying of my recycling bin.
As a drinking writer, my consumption more or less follows a clock. I favor snappy pilsners, bracing goses, and icy lagers for weekend day drinking, then stronger IPAs and stouts as sun relents to dusk and darkness. Rinse, repeat, following a calendar to fine-tune my liquid routine: barley wines for winter, strong maibock lagers for spring, and fruity and crushable summer ales.
Fall requires extra explanation.
Ten or 15 years ago, I lost my gourd for pumpkin ales. All those spices, all that flavor to savor, fall sold by the bottle. I annually anticipated that sprinkle of cinnamon and ginger in Elysian Night Owl and the wallop of Southern Tier’s pumpkin-infused Warlock…