I used to enjoy you. It’s difficult for me to write this, but there was a time when I could walk into a bar and look at the taps with more than just a pathetic longing. I could nod to the bartender and ask for the most hoppy, malty, bitter, thick and heady glass of tongue loosening, anxiety salving barley juice. I could order anything. So many options. So many ways for me to love you. I never knew how bad you were for me. I never understood how deeply you hurt me. Of all the betrayals, the glutinous back stabs, the gastro-intestinal sucker punches, I felt yours the most intensely. For four years that wound has gaped and festered. With no real respite from the pain, only paltry gluten-free imitations of you, Frankenstein concoctions made from what remains when you remove all the vitality from beer, all that vital wheat gluten or whatnot. And I have wept and wailed. I have bemoaned my lot. I have forsworn the bars I used to call home. But suddenly and recently, like last tuesday, I experienced nothing short of a miracle. I had a good gluten free beer. No, that’s doing it an injustice. I had a good beer that happened to be gluten-free. It was like magic! I haven’t shut up about it since. Just ask Elle. She’ll tell you how sickening it is to listen to me wax poetic about his new brew. I think she’s just jealous. I love you again! I can honestly say it. I’m not ashamed and I’ll never take you for granted again (mostly because your high cost is rather prohibitive in this regard). I’m going to shout it from the roof tops. I love beer! And it’s all thanks to the masters at Harvester Brewing in Portland, Oregon. I don’t know what dark secrets were bestowed upon them on what strange cross street by which black manifestation nor what price they paid, but I thank them deeply for their dedication. And to end this rant I’ll raise a glass, thank my lucky stars for love restored and begin bemoaning my complete financial ruination that shall commence forthwith. Cheers!