In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
In the spring, a young woman's fancy lightly turns to thirsts for beer.
Tennyson might not have penned it, but the fact remains. At least for this young woman it does. (Frankly, I prefer "chick" or "girl" or if you want to be really Jerry Lewis about it, "Laayayayayayadeeeeee," because "young lady" sounds like my mom caught me out after curfew.)
The first warm waft we got that the world was turning mud-licious and puddle-lovely -- which came last month right before that blast of cold had us turning the heaters back on. You know, for the cats. -- I had this odd quirking in my mouth. My tongue felt dry and edgy and my throat was clicking in a greed for something cold, bright, topaz. Something fat. Something tire.
Whizzing by our neighborhood BevMo, we picked up a handy case of New Belgium's Fat Tire and chilled it. A few hours later and, for the first time in many months, I lovingly coaxed that smooth, cylinder out of the fridge and held it close and throttled, enjoying its cold weight.