Published September 29, 2026

I didn't set out to become a mead maker.

In fact, mead wasn't even what I was looking for.

I was looking for something hot.

I had been working on a batch of jerky and wanted to add some heat to it. I had already tried using another honey that was marketed as "hot honey," but when I put it to the test, the name turned out to be doing most of the work. There was honey. There just wasn't much hot.

I wanted something with some attitude. Something that would bring the sweetness of honey together with enough chili heat to make you notice it.

Then, through a brewer I knew, I ended up with a jar of chili-infused honey.

I remember setting that jar down on the table and looking at it.

The honey had a completely different character. You could almost anticipate the flavor before you even tasted it. It wasn't just honey with a fancy label—it had possibilities.

At the time, I was still thinking about jerky.

Then a friend looked at the jar and said something that, at the time, seemed like nothing more than an offhand comment.

"That would make a really good mead."

I looked at the honey.

Then I looked at my friend.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a little switch flipped.

Mead.

I'd had mead before. I knew what it was. Honey, water, yeast, fermentation. But I'd never really looked at it as a blank canvas.

Until that moment.

Suddenly, I wasn't thinking about jerky anymore.

I was thinking about what that chili honey would taste like after fermentation.

How much heat would remain?

Would the honey's sweetness soften the chili?

Would the fermentation change the character of the peppers?

What if I added something else?

What would happen if...

And there it was.

The first idea.

I had no idea that a jar of chili-infused honey sitting on my table was about to open the door to something that would become a passion.

But that's exactly what happened.

From that one conversation, the ideas started coming.

One became two.

Two became five.

Five became more than I could keep track of.

And eventually, I found myself with over 100 mead recipes, with 71 of them actually made to date—68.27% of the recipes I've dreamed up.

And I'm still coming up with ideas.

Because somewhere along the way, making mead stopped being about following a recipe.

It became about asking a question:

"What if?"

Mead Is a Blank Canvas

One of the things I love most about making mead is that honey gives you an incredible starting point, but it doesn't dictate where you have to go.

Honey can be the foundation for something simple and traditional, or it can become the base for something completely unexpected.

Fruit can change the entire character of a mead.

Herbs and spices can take it in another direction.

Coffee can create something rich and familiar.

Chocolate and cacao can add depth.

Oak can bring structure and another layer of character.

Chilies can introduce heat—but heat isn't the goal. Balance is.

Spirits can add another dimension.

Even ingredients that seem like they have no business being in a mead can sometimes make you stop and think, "Wait...what if?"

And that's where I think the art comes into play.

The Creative Process

There is a difference between simply following a recipe and creating something.

A recipe tells you what to put together.

Creating a mead is asking why those ingredients belong together.

What am I trying to accomplish?

What flavor do I want to highlight?

What should be in the background?

What should hit the palate first?

What should linger after the sip?

How much is too much?

And perhaps the most important question:

Will all of these ingredients work together, or am I just throwing things into a fermenter because I can?

That last question has saved me from more than a few questionable ideas.

The creative process is part science, part experience, part experimentation, and probably a little bit of madness.

You have to understand your ingredients, but you also have to be willing to experiment with them.

Sometimes the idea works exactly the way you imagined.

Sometimes it doesn't.

Sometimes it becomes something completely different—and better—than what you originally envisioned.

That's part of the fun.

There Is a Lot of Patience Involved

One of the hardest parts of making mead is that you can't always rush the process.

You can have an idea today, put the ingredients together tomorrow, and still be waiting months before you know whether your idea truly worked.

That's a strange kind of anticipation.

You watch the fermentation.

You make adjustments.

You taste along the way.

You make decisions about additions, aging, sweetness, oak, fruit, spices, or whatever else the recipe calls for.

Then you wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

But that waiting is part of what makes the finished product so rewarding.

Because eventually, you get to pour a glass.

And that glass represents much more than honey that fermented.

It represents an idea that existed in your head months earlier.

The Reward

There is something incredibly satisfying about tasting a finished mead that started as nothing more than a thought.

Maybe it was an ingredient sitting on the kitchen counter.

Maybe it was something I tasted somewhere else.

Maybe it was a combination that just seemed like it should work.

Maybe it was an experiment that had no guarantee of success.

Then, months later, you open the bottle, pour the glass, take that first sip...

And there it is.

The idea became real.

That's the reward.

It's not just drinking something you made.

It's knowing that you created it.

You chose the honey.

You chose the ingredients.

You developed the recipe.

You made the decisions.

You watched it ferment.

You waited for it to mature.

And eventually, you get to experience the result of all of those choices.

That's a pretty good feeling.

And Then My Brain Starts Again.

The funny thing is that finishing one mead doesn't necessarily mean I'm finished.

Quite the opposite.

I'll be enjoying a glass of something I've made and suddenly I'll start thinking about the next one.

I'll see an ingredient at the store.

I'll find something interesting at a specialty shop.

I'll taste something I've never tried before.

Someone will mention a particular flavor combination.

And almost immediately, the wheels start turning.

"I wonder what that would do in a mead."

That's how you end up with over 100 recipes.

And 71 of them made so far.

The other recipes are still waiting their turn.

Some may eventually become something great.

Some may need to be changed.

Some may never leave the notebook.

That's okay.

Because the point isn't necessarily to make every idea work.

The point is to keep creating.

The Art Is in the Journey

For me, making mead has become much more than making an alcoholic beverage.

It's creativity.

It's experimentation.

It's patience.

It's problem-solving.

It's learning.

It's occasionally getting something completely wrong and figuring out why.

And sometimes, it's simply standing there with an ingredient in your hand and wondering what would happen if you put it into honey.

That's the part I love.

There are endless possibilities.

Honey gives me the canvas, and the ingredients become the colors.

The fermentation is where the painting starts to take shape.

Aging gives it time to develop.

And that first finished glass is when you finally get to see what you created.

I never expected a search for hot honey for jerky to lead me here.

But one comment from a friend—"That would make a really good mead"—changed everything.

And now, every time I see something interesting, I can't help but wonder:

Could I make a mead out of that?

More often than not, the answer is:

"Let's find out."