05/22/2026
Brewing With Appalachian Allspice (Spicebush)
I grew up in eastern Ohio where it meets up with Pennsylvania and West Virgina, and certain smells from those woods never leave you. Spicebush is one of them. The berries are bright red, tucked under the Latin name of Lindera benzoin... carry a scent that feels older than any recipe book. People around here sometimes call them Appalachian allspice, but that nickname barely scratches the surface. Caribbean allspice leans sweet and clove‑heavy. Spicebush is sharper, cleaner, more electric. Crush a berry between your fingers and you get pepper, citrus, and a faint evergreen warmth. It smells like wet leaves after rain, like a hillside waking up in spring, like something your grandparents would’ve kept in a jar without ever writing down why.
When I brewed Altar of Bear Skulls, I added spicebush because it’s part of where I’m from. It’s a smell I grew up with, from the same woods I ran around in as a kid. I wasn’t trying to be clever or show off some wild ingredient...it just belonged in the beer. The moment those berries hit the hot wort, the whole brewhouse shifted. That pepper‑citrus steam rolled up, and for a minute it smelled exactly like a memeory of home. It’s the kind of thing that makes you stop what you’re doing and just breathe it in.
There’s a reason it hits that way. When spicebush berries heat up, they release a mix of compounds such as citral, linalool, and a handful of phenolics, the same families of molecules that give citrus its brightness and peppercorns their warm bite. The berries also carry volatile terpenes that flash off fast in the boil, which is why the room fills so quickly with that lemon‑pepper steam. Not all of those compounds survive fermentation, but the ones that do leave behind a clean, resinous warmth in the finished beer. It’s just enough science to explain the magic without taking the mystery out of it.
In the glass, spicebush becomes gentler. It doesn’t take over Altar of Bear Skulls or drown out the malt, the light cherry‑wood smoke, or the Appalachian yeast character. Instead, it cuts a clean line through the sweetness and leaves a warm, bright backbone that holds everything together. The flavor lands somewhere between cracked black pepper and lemon zest, with a little resinous hum underneath. Even at low levels, it gives the beer direction. It sharpens the edges. It keeps the body lively. And more than anything, it brings a sense of place a real one, not a marketing invention.
That’s why I keep coming back to it. Spicebush is one of the few native Appalachian spices that can stand up to the brewing process without fading into the background. When you use it, you’re not just adding a flavor. You’re adding the woods themselves. You’re adding memory. You’re adding a part of home.Working with it in Altar of Bear Skulls also reminded me how much range spicebush has. It’d be awesome in a Witbier, where that citrus ‑pepper flavor can shine, and it fits right into mead like it was made for it.
Altar of Bear Skulls didn’t become a “spiced beer.” It became a beer with a bright, peppery thread running through it a beer rooted in the land that shaped me. Spicebush didn’t shout. It just sharpened the beer and left the Appalachian woods humming quietly underneath.
Cheers and Keep Brewing!
Jon Talkington-Fermentattion Professional at The Brimming Horn Meadery and Bear Cult Brewing
