​When I bumped into my neighbor the other day, we got to talking about sausage. He'd recently acquired a beautiful new meat grinder and has been having a great time with it. I, coincidentally, have always wanted to make my own sausage, and asked if he'd show me how. "Of course!" he said. "I have some wonderful, grass-fed buffalo in the fridge I've been meaning to use, and it helps to have an extra pair of hands -- and some beers, of course."

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Roomano from Holland with Haystack Mountain's Aspen Ash.

​I recently visited family and friends in New Orleans, and needless to say, we ate very, very well. Not to sound like a homer, but the food scene in that town truly is like no other. Flavor, for lack of a better descriptor, is intoxicatingly ubiquitous and engulfs you much like the ever-present humidity. And one of the flavors that impressed me the most was roasted grapes, which were a featured ingredient at two of my favorite places (Dante's Kitchen and Sylvain...phenomenal). I couldn't wait for an excuse to make them myself. A craving for cheese provided as much.

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​I've never been a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I don't eat much meat for one, and I'm just as content with potatoes being the main course as I'm with their being on the side, if not more so. My buddy Jeff, on the other hand, is that type of guy, not that there's anything wrong with it. I love the dude, and have no problem whatsoever with his preference for a well-proportioned plate of protein and starch punctuated by some sort of vegetable. What does bother me, though, is that his predilection has become an excuse not to make it himself.

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​I'm sad to report that I recently tried the pizza at a local popular purveyor of it and was quite disappointed. I won't share the name of the place, seeing as how we're all especially fervent about our favorite pizza joints, and I'd prefer not to step on anyone's dough. I will say, however, that the space is way too big, that I could barely hear myself think, and that it pains me greatly to see large groups of people going there for dinner.

In my opinion, if a bunch of people want to get together and eat, then they should pick a house and cook. Which is exactly what my friends and I did a few nights later, and we ended up throwing down a pretty impressive pie, if I do say so myself.

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​February is Stout Month for the Mountain Sun group, which means all three locations will be featuring a rotating draft selection of stouts (including some stellar guest taps), along with various other happenings in honor of the increasingly popular style. It's an annual tradition that's become a much anticipated festival of sorts.

So much so that this past Saturday, the folks at the Vine Street location decided to host an exclusive preview of what's in store. For $50, dark ale enthusiasts were treated to a sampling of specialty stouts paired with creative snacks from executive chef Annabelle Forrestal, as well as a sneak peek at their brand-new, long-awaited brewing facility.

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​My close friend-slash-accidental mentor, Allen Johnson, is visiting from Mississippi this week. It's always bittersweet to see him, only in that it sucks to see him go. He happens to be one of the most inspirational people I've ever met, especially when it comes to cooking. His professional advice aside (he's spent time in the kitchen at Trattoria Stella here in Denver as well as various restaurants down south), it's his ability to improvise that I admire most.

I'll never forget, years ago, drunkenly raiding the kitchen together for a late-night snack. I stared at a pile of completely unrelated ingredients we'd collected, doubting that anything remotely palatable could come from them. "Dude," he slurred in his strong Southern drawl as he turned on the stove, "it's pretty hard to fuck up good ingredients."

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​In a world where our food has become increasingly and frighteningly far removed from its purveyors, the timeless art of butchery represents a comforting connection to the way things used to be. There's something incomparably refreshing about having a friendly chat with a trustworthy expert about your food, especially with regard to meat.

And some of the best butchers in town are behind the counter at Marczyk Fine Foods, including Tyler DuBois.

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​Unfortunately, because it's winter, a good portion of the produce in stock in Colorado right now, including In Season Local Market is from California. I'd been planning to buy some sweet potatoes for a soup recipe that's been hanging on the fridge and was bummed to hear the news. Alas, that's what I get for not anticipating the obvious and stocking my freezer at the peak of the season.

They did have some massive, white sweet potatoes, though, and even though they'd traveled over a thousand miles, I figured my money was better spent at In Season than at some major grocery store.

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​Truth be told, I haven't celebrated Christmas with my family in years, much to their chagrin. I do take time to visit them on my own accord, though, which is why I'll be happily soaking in the sun down south and supping upon unpretentiously badass food with family and friends in a few weeks.

In the meantime, however, my girlfriend and I have our own celebration of sorts. She's Jewish (partly why I find her so attractive, in fact), and every Christmas morning she makes kugel with fruit: a traditional Jewish, slightly sweet casserole that's become our favorite holiday treat.

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​After working in the craft-beer industry for five years, writing about it for one and geek-ing out over it with fellow beer nerds for nearly a decade, I can honestly say I've never seen anything like the past year in beer.

The revolution is especially -- and not surprisingly -- evident in the Denver area. From the plethora of new breweries (we're deliciously close to coining the phrase "neighborhood brewery" in this town), to a massively expanded fan base that now includes a large number of hot and single women (definitely not the case six years ago, trust me), this city truly embodies pride and passion in one's beer of choice.

And there are so many wonderful selections to choose from. I can barely keep track of all the local beers I've fallen in love with, but when I reminisce over the past twelve months, I can't help but remember Bligh's Barleywine from Dry Dock Brewing Co.

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