When I heard the familiar POP HISS as the bottle top came off, I suddenly smelled everything good about my childhood wafting through my memories in that fresh brewed Cutthroat beer. All of my fond childhood memories floated through my consciousness with that cold, glass bottle I held in my hand, all covered in condensation.
My dad used to brew his own beer, you see. He called it “Rootbeer,” even though the fermented yeast smell and taste took over whatever rootbeer extract he added to the brew and drowned it in a fresh beer brewery taste.
Of course, I didn’t realize at my young age that my dad’s “rootbeer-with-a-kick” had more of a similarity to O’doules than A&W rootbeer, but I didn’t care. My dad made it so that was an automatic qualification for me to like it—whatever it was.
Yes sir, I sure grew up with a hankerin’ for that taste. You did something good, and Dad would reward you with an ice-cold bottle of “The Good Stuff.” Of course, he always kicked one back with you since there was no point in drinking alone. I think I was the only one of the kids who really actually liked the taste of that brew. Jared might have pretended on and off or actually acquired a taste for it later on in life, but I liked it from day one.
I always knew my dad’s rootbeer didn’t taste like regular rootbeer… even as a young kid. But I did know it tasted BETTER than regular rootbeer. It wasn’t until I was 19 years old and out of pure morbid curiosity, I drank a beer my boyfriend had in his fridge for guests and what have you. He had offered to buy me beer on any occasion I felt like trying it and one night I decided it was a good night to try alcohol for the first time. So, over a relaxed poker game where no real money was really involved… just bragging rights between my 33 year old boyfriend, his hair-dresser friend and her boyfriend, and me, I kicked back a real genuine Rolling Rock beer (which I kept the bottle for and added it to my bottle collection—the only piece of my alcoholic bottle collection that I actually emptied the contents of into my system) and immediately loved the taste of beer.
Oh, my boyfriend and his other two friends were hugely surprised that I didn’t pucker a nasty grimace and say “Thanks but no thanks,” especially with my LDS upbringing and all. No… it was too good to be true. I already loved that strong kick and the slightly bitter taste (for lack of a better word)… so the alcohol is just a bonus, right? Hahah. I knew immediately I would acquire a drinking problem if I let my beer consumption go any further than one curiosity’s sake bottle, so I left it at that.
One evening just a few months ago, I was attending a Friends of NRA banquet with my husband and my dear ol’ dad, and I brought up my dad’s home made rootbeer in our conversation. I jokingly said something about the fermented yeast and the home brewed beverage probably having a bit of alcohol in it and more closely resembling beer than rootbeer. My dad didn’t say much in response. Maybe he had thought I never caught on to his little brewing secret. Heck… we even had fermented grape juice from time to time growing up. I didn’t like that as much as “Root” beer though.
I must admit my weakness… those are some of the fondest memories I have of childhood… drinking pretend rootbeer with my dad.
