The thing about being a second generation peasant is that you're always just a step away from your roots. You might think you're beyond it, but it always comes back to haunt you, that stubborn peasant gene living beneath the surface, always ready to show its face.
You can see it in something as simple as your choice of drink, whether it's a nightcap, a cocktail with dinner, or the flat-out bender of old. See, I'm guessing that most of you cultured folk probably like a nice glass of wine, right? A good little house red, say. Or one of the bigger reds from France or Napa Valley. (A wise Protestant choice.) And then there's the whole repressed Catholic cocktail thing, whether it's a nice healthy martini, a cosmopolitan or the peach schnapps that the high school girls swill out of their purses before a night out on the town.
But for peasant folk like me, it's beer. I know! So uncouth, you might say, so blue collar, so Midwest. And it's true. You see, I had the unfortunate experience of living in Wisconsin, the heart of the beer-swilling Midwest, for most of my twenties, and I'm here to admit that, truly, I've never recovered.
Which is really something to be ashamed of, considering that Kimo's from California, land of the liquid lost and the eternal red. And he's always coming home with some new wine to try, spouting off the year and the region and the, gasp, number of Robert Parker points. Meanwhile, there I am, cowering in the corner with my little microbrew, wondering how and when wine became such a sport. Because, in California, it truly is. A language unto itself. As in: these people can talk about this shit for hours.
Meanwhile, I'm still mourning the loss of the amazing micro breweries from Wisconsin, the best I've yet to find. Even better than--I admit it--the old country. That's right.
"Sacrilege!" you say.
But true.
You see, there's something to be said about coming in from the fields after a long day of work and dusting yourself off with a nice cool tasty beer. And this is where, I'm pretty sure, the beer-preference is programmed into my genes. Like my father and his father before, I prefer--beer. That's right, I've finally admitted it. It's out in the open. Dear reader, don't desert me now, in my weakest moment....