Where I grew up in New Jersey, there were plenty of ski areas within easy driving distance, but the quality of the trails and the length of the lift lines always left something to be desired. It might take 15 minutes to hurtle down a dangerously crowded, icy slope from the summit, and then you’d have to wait another half hour or more in the bitter, biting cold for another run.
When I look at a wine list or scan the bottles behind a bar, I look for the unfamiliar — and not just unfamiliar. In fact, the weirder the better.
So when I’m confronted by a list of Napa cabs and a shelf full of easily recognizable Russian vodkas, I opt instead for a seasonal beer on tap. At least I know it will disappear soon enough.