Guinness doesn’t rock my world.
And here, I fear, is where the lynching begins.
When I first started writing about food in Boston five years ago, I had to take an oath stating I would never admit my lukewarm feelings toward Guinness. The same went for Jasper White’s Summer Shack.
During that time, I’ve had to make many excuses for my beverage choices.
Why isn’t there a Guinness in your hand? Because I’m pregnant. What about now? Now, I’m nursing. You can still hold the Guinness? But, my arthritis. At least gaze lovingly at the Guinness? The sun, the blinding sun.
Now that I have my own blog, I can write whatever the hell I want. And the truth of the matter is that, to me, Guinness tastes like a Slim Jim milkshake. A really good Slim Jim milkshake, perhaps, but I’m not a big fan of Slim Jims. Or, really, any meat in my milk.
Although I’m quite fond of the Irish, I can’t let a little thing like marriage cloud my judgment. Now, Boddingtons is a beer I can stand behind. I like a quality ale. And I wouldn’t turn down anything from Belgium, either. But, unless you plan on cooking that Guinness into a shepherd’s pie, à la O’Connors in Worcester, don’t waste it on me. Drink up, and then report back and tell me if you didn’t find it just a little bit Slim Jimish.