(No, you haven't wandered into Liquid Solutions by mistake. I'm poaching on Ms. Morrison's territory this week. I hope she'll forgive me.)

I can still remember my first beer. I was 13 years old, and we had taken a family vacation to a godforsaken lake in northern Louisiana. It was too full of partially submerged trees for water skiing, too algae-scummed for swimming without massive vaccinations and the aforementioned trees made fishing a snag-filled nightmare.

"Beer, the cause of and solution to all of life's problems." - Homer Simpson

Oh, and there were mosquitoes -- giant, multi-engine Death Skeeters with laser sights mounted on their abdomens and special drill-bit proboscii that allowed them to get through the heaviest clothing.

So there I was, sitting on the end of the dock, fishing for perch with Niblets corn and keeping my bait so shallow I could see it on the end of the line to avoid the worst of the snags. My dad, seeing what a tremendous amount of non-fun was in progress, ambled down the dock to see if he could impart some fatherly wisdom that might make this depressing situation a bit more fun-filled. He stopped halfway down and turned back to the rental cabin. I figured he'd given up.

A couple of minutes later, he appeared behind me, and extended his hand. I looked up at him, and there with the sun behind it, looking like a sword from heaven itself, was ... a bottle of beer. To be precise, it was an ice-cold bottle of St. Pauli Girl, bearing the cartoonish likeness of a buxom lass whose flesh-and-blood poster would adorn my dorm room wall almost a decade later.

I took the beer, and Dad sat down next to me on the dock, the weathered boards creaking faintly as he pulled the opener from his back pocket and opened his own bottle, then mine. I could smell the beer at once, that yeasty aroma that in my adult years has signaled so many good times and marked the successful end of so many endeavors great and small.

I took my first sip, and it was almost my last. Prior to this moment, my beverage palate had been defined by Kool-Aid, soda and, when I couldn't get out of it, the milk and juice prescribed by various adults as "good for me." The taste of the beer was so strong, so ... different. Wanting to appear grown up, I took another sip, fought back a grimace, and set the bottle on the dock next to me.

There was no Norman Rockwell moment impending. We sat for a bit, talking about this and that, then Dad stood and walked back to the house. I continued sipping the beer occasionally, trying to figure out what it was about the flavor that made grownups seem to like it so much.

I finished the beer, and a sudden stinging itch behind my ear told me the evening mosquito squadrons were about to make their presence known in full force. I pulled in my now-sodden, completely untouched bait and plodded back to the house.

Looking back, I see that day as one of the steps into the world of adulthood. Sitting on a dock sharing a beer with my dad was the high point of that vacation. I had not yet hit the part of teen-hood that makes parents loathsome creatures, and the idea that the most important man in my life would share such an adult ritual with me was significant in ways I couldn't fully understand.

Of course, as an adult, I've come to enjoy beer (occasionally a bit too much), and have gained a great understanding for the Homerism: "Beer, the cause of and solution to all of life's problems."

Neither of those is exactly true, of course. Beer doesn't cause problems, nor is drinking it a solution to any problem other than cutting the dust off the back of your throat after mowing the yard. However, it is more than any other libation in American life the Great Social Lubricant. "Getting together for a beer" is our culture's preferred method of breaking the ice for an evening, weekend or vacation event. When a picnic is planned, one of the first questions settled is "Who's bringing the beer?"

And on the taste issue, I'm pleased to say that my 13-year-old self's taste buds have matured and learned to appreciate the subtle nuances and variety of flavors available from bottle or tap. From the richness of my beloved Shiner Bock to, yes, the crisp inoffensiveness of Budweiser, I can find something to like in just about any beer. The exception would be stout. Much to Ms. Morrison's chagrin, I just haven't yet learned to like the beer that drinks like a meal.

Mentioning the Beer Goddess brings me to my final point: experts. I've always been intimidated by people who "know" wine. They throw about terms I barely understand and seem obsessed with things like what time of year the grapes were picked and whether the person stomping on them had toenail fungus. The volume of arcana attendant upon becoming a wine expert is daunting.

However, even though beer is in so many ways a more complex, varied and expressive beverage, even though far more goes into creating a fine beer than a fine wine (wine lovers, send flaming e-mails here), beer experts don't scare me. I've never met one who treated me like some sort of Philistine because I didn't know the difference between a pale ale and a pilsner. Whereas I've met plenty of wine lovers who snorted at my inability to at first taste tell a California pinot grigio from one bottled in Italy, my encounters with beer aficionados have always left me with more useful knowledge ... and quite frequently a pretty good buzz to go along with it.

Don't get me wrong. I love wine. I have a rack full of some outstanding Clos du Bois, Dow port and other fully enjoyable vintages. Just don't expect me to expound at length on them.

Would adult life be possible without beer? Certainly. Would it be worth living? That's open to debate. I have two young sons of my own now, and someday, when they're older, it will be my turn to pass the torch ... or the bottle, as it were.

Got a question? Comment? Topic you'd like to see covered? Drop me a line, anytime!