Springfield Brew Co., there are so many reasons that I love you. Your mouthwatering deep fried pickles are better than any I’ve ever tasted. Your macaroni and cheese, with its deep, buttery richness and toasty golden brown bread crumbs simultaneously make me want to never stop eating and have a heart attack. Your seasonal brews make my stomach smile with happiness. Those deep fried Scotch eggs … well, they’re kind of weird, but hey, at least you have the Bavarian pretzels as backup to make that Brewmaster’s Sampler pretty much a little slice of heaven.

But my, oh my, Brew Co., you almost lost me when I parked my car. That’s because before I ever walked in the door, you were claiming that your ales and lagers had something to own. I’m sure, technically, they own the hearts of the locals. But when you’re written on a sign, those apostrophes are definite no-nos.

It is your faulty signage that makes me feel ill before the tub of butter that’s mixed into my mac and cheese puts a nice greasy coating over my belly, helping take some of the emptiness away. If it weren’t for that sign, I’d probably visit you more than every six months, which is generally when Deep has a new writing candidate in town.