Hello, beer lovers.

Welcome to Prost - a new monthly column all about beer.

I'm not a beer scholar, never judged an international beer festival, haven't written a beer book and haven't earned a beer-around-the world T-shirt from any bar. I did purchase a very slick and helpful guide to rating beer. My qualifications are that I really love beer and its historical, cultural and social significance, and Food Editor Melody Parker remembered me saying I liked beer and asked me to write about it. Did I mention I'm a photographer and not a writer?

Now that I've established my lack of official credentials and relieved myself of meeting any measurable performance goals, I hope to have fun sharing the world of beer as I continue my own informal and enthusiastic exploration.

My tastes are both nature and nurture - a combination of German heritage and growing up in Dubuque, where they know a thing or two about beer (unofficial city motto: "Beer - not just for breakfast anymore"). A two-year tour in Germany with the U.S. Army revealed a world of beer beyond the very affordable Picket's, Old Milwaukee and Pabst Blue Ribbon of my formative years. On my first night in Germany, a few of us ventured out on the town to try the only two German words we knew: Bier and taxi. Soldiers love a good joke at the expense of the unsuspecting, and none were more ignorant of the effects of dopplebock beer than I. To this day, that's all my lawyer allows me to say except to offer a boilerplate legal apology to owners of the tulips and the poodle.

That experienced opened my eyes (after four hours of sleep, a bucket of coffee and an unhealthy dose of Tylenol) not only to the deviousness of my fellow soldiers but to the astounding variety of beer. Until then, I didn't even know it came in different colors! Suddenly I was in a place where each town, sometimes each bar, brewed its own beer.

I was off to the races - sampling pilsners, bocks, hefeweizens, keller bier, dunkels, and ales, as if all that kept the Russians on the other side of the fence was my selfless and patriotic willingness to sacrifice brain cells. I didn't keep accurate records of what I drank, unless you count souvenir steins, but I don't recall drinking a bad beer. (Excluding the one at the Bamburg McDonald's - yes, beer at McDonald's --that tasted like they'd confused the tap hose with men's room plumbing). For purposes of comparison, I also drank beer in Italy and France. (There is a reason you don't hear French beer mentioned with the same reverence as French wine.)

You might have the impression that I was an indiscriminate souse. But beer is such an integral part of German culture with specific offerings for seasons, meals, and occasions that you drink it in the same way you put on a warm coat in cold weather. It just seems appropriate.

At first, Germany ruined me for American beer. The melting pot is good for American society, but it diluted our beer, with the large breweries gradually trading flavor and distinction for low calories and by-the-pitcher ease of drinking. I was reduced to yammering to friends and family about German beer like a great uncle recalling his glory days until you want to smother him with a pillow.

Imagine my joy and relief at the microbrew phenomenon of the early 1990s. Beer was back in America. Not only was there a cornucopia of fine new domestic brews but renewed interest brought a flood of imports to our shores. Not only would I not die at the hands of someone unlucky enough to be stuck in an elevator with me, but others could now understand what I was talking about.

Now that I have official license to annoy a wider audience about beer, I welcome your conversation, comments and suggestions. If you have favorites, I'd love to hear about them. Just please, keep your pillows to yourself.