The best sour beer that Scott Russell made happened by accident.

Smoking was a habit I gave up in graduate school, but on some days, I find the smell oddly pleasant. It signals nice weather, camp fires and drinking beer in the Adirondack chair.

“Chimay. That’s some good stuff.” — Devon Herrick

There were seven of us who were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner — for many, our first holiday away from family — when one of the guests walked in with a bottle of Chimay Premiere.

I had no clue what this tall bottle with a cork and cage was all about. This was more than a decade ago, and my education in craft beer had just begun. Even the best beer I was drinking then was sold in six-packs and required a bottle opener. This bottle looked like something I’d bring to a New Year’s party.

Everything changed that Thanksgiving. How could I possibly be tasting rum-raisin and plum, chocolate, clove and pepper, all in one glass and well before the dessert course. No dish on the table stood a chance. This beer was the highlight.

Chimay Premiere (the red label) is a dubbel, a style that I have since always seemed to be in the mood for.

Who will win THIS bracket? (There’s free beer for you if you guess correctly.)

The mission was to create a beer for someone with a strong sense of her German heritage and who preferred dark beers.

Experiences like Aaron Brown’s are why you can’t cut corners at bottling time.

Steve Lubrano has one of the most awesome home pubs I’ve ever seen.

Your hands are sticky with the golden resin. There are shopping bags full of green cones in a spare room, waiting to be used or dried and stored for later.

Two weeks ago, I set off for the grocery store to buy as much honey as I could drink.

It was an inspired — some might say rash — project, the kind of demon-driven need I get every couple of weeks to make something fermentable.

Mead was my goal, and to be quite honest, I had little idea of how to accomplish it. I’d read a magazine article and watched a few videos on YouTube while my son napped. Beyond that, I did almost no planning. (Which also is how I ended up at the co-op, 30 minutes from home, with a large toddler who smelled like the back end of a garbage truck and I had no diapers or wipes to change him.)

Nope. Absolutely zero forethought. And yet, despite myself, I have a delicious honey wine fermenting away in my closet.

The point being that making a basic mead is almost idiot proof. We’re talking Pop Tarts and paint-by-numbers kind of ease. Heat water, mix in honey, throw in a bucket with yeast. Wait.

Saisons are the perfect blend of sophistication and drinkability.