On Tuesday evening, I felt like Zeus, aloft on Olympus, eyeballing the humans' wives for my next encounter: Mead, courtesy of this place in Ferndale, Michigan, and my brother-in-law who came down for a visit.
It wasn't bad, but it was closer to a liqueur than wine or beer. I took a sip. Paused. Thought, "Heck, that wasn't bad," then poured myself a big glass. That was a mistake. After six ounces or so, I didn't want anymore. It's a very filling drink, but I recommend it for sipping after dinner.
