![]() ![]() It was my journalistic duty to decode the dizzying developments. Bottle shares became less of a priority when you were trying to bottle feed a baby, last calls and wake-up calls occurring on new timelines. The Craft Beer Dudes, a sophisticated crowd with strong opinions on yeast strains and hop varieties, beer styles and stylish glassware, were growing up. I didn’t intend for my parenting style to become a clichéīeer drinkers too were evolving. Those fizzy years found a rise in intensely bitter IPAs and incendiary ghost pepper ales, and even adding bull testicles to a stout. The budding breweries were a different breed. My book and kid were born during last decade’s rise of craft beer, an era that saw breweries germinate inside America’s fallow warehouses, factories, and Main Street storefronts. I didn’t intend for my parenting style to become a cliché, but the timing was ripe to embody a hops-soaked trope. I was officially a Craft Beer Dad, an IPA never far from the diaper-changing station. Instead, I marked the occasion with a fresh Sierra Nevada Celebration, a cold bottle in one hand, a warm newborn cradled in the other. That seemed off brand for a journalist and author specializing in beer. I finished my book tour and returned home to Brooklyn just two weeks before the birth of our daughter, Violet, in November. That September marked the release of my second book, The Complete Beer Course, a 320-page guide through the confusing and quickly expanding craft beer world.
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