Updated: Oct 3, Having recently graduated from a small liberal arts school in Portland with a degree in business and a minor in art history, I was feeling the ambivalent aimlessness so many young college grads struggle with and the abrupt lack of structure was both liberating and ominous. I set about the job of figuring out what to do with my life by learning to survive while rudderless. I taught swimming lessons at the Y, lifeguarded at a fancy private club, and checked groceries at a small local super market.
The home budget was based on the most severe economic austerity measures, and I stopped paying car insurance so I could buy a new commuter bike. Ramen, tuna, and beans and rice were the foundation upon which most every meal was based, and collecting bottles and cans for deposit was the way we afforded our beer. And in that moment, the idea of homebrewing was rekindled. My roommate Pat Meyer and I began brewing in earnest in the kitchen and garage of our cheap rental house on Palatine Hill.
The the air was always sweet with the smell of boiling wort from the Weinhardts brewery and the DIY attitudes that created punk and grunge permeated the underlying artistic culture. And, as our brewing passion and acumen evolved, we began to meet like minded mad artisans, less like the industrial brewers of Olympia, and more like the Grateful Dead versions of Willy Wonka.
As for me, I was hooked. All I needed was a way in. It felt like I finally had a pair of oars to row with and a rudder to guide me, now all I needed was a boat! This world I craved entry to was still so underground and obscure, how was I to find my way in?
As I pondered what ever steps might take me closer to my newly all consuming passion, I never could have foreseen that the one opportunity that would crack the door to entry into the world of craft brewing would be bagging groceries at the tiny Burlingame Market.
