Spice is nice, but that negates the likes of England’s grand winter warmers. Why, it just wouldn’t be Christmas without Samuel Smith’s Winter Welcome, Young’s Winter Warmer or American knockoffs of the style, like Bridgeport Ebenezer Ale or Full Sail Wassail—none of which contain even a sprinkle of spice.
And what of Sierra Nevada Celebration, a well-hopped pale ale? No spice there, either. But I couldn’t get into the holiday spirit without those gorgeous Cascades.
The problem here is with the attempt to set standards for what is undoubtedly a personal tradition.
Catholics celebrate the holiday with a Christmas eve mass. Protestants sing carols throughout the entire month. And Jewish people? I think they take bottles of He’Brew Jewbelation to Chinese restaurants on Christmas, don’t they?
Some families do that whole Seven Fishes meal, others carve a ham. Mine? Let me tell you how we celebrated the holiday growing up:
On Christmas eve, sometime after dark when the cops on the overnight shift were keeping warm in the Dunkin’ Donuts, my brother and I would sneak over to the municipal parking lot and steal a couple left-over evergreens. We stuffed them in the back of the family station wagon and carted them back to decorate our house.
Not exactly Norman Rockwell, I realize, but we still get a laugh about it while reminiscing every year.
My brother, I should mention, grew up to become a sober Baptist minister who conducts lavish candlelit cantatas on Christmas morning.
Me? I may be atheist, but I’m a true believer in Christmas beer. I can’t wait to open up my gifts.
