I find it funny that everyday, seemingly inconsequential, memories are often those that last. When these moments are peppered with sensory input, especially in the form of aroma, they seem to linger the longest. Perhaps that’s why I distinctly remember making beer bread in the kitchen of my mom’s friend Beth’s home many many years ago (I’d guess I was around 7 or 8). The piquant, yet warm aroma (or as my siblings put it “spicy”) of yeast emanating from the oven as the bread baked was truly intoxicating, and further cemented my burgeoning love for all (OK not ALL) things fermented. To a beige food eating, not quite tween/pre-teen/whatever they’re calling that age group these days, beer bread seemed exotic, mature, and a little bit naughty due to its inclusion of alcohol.