And so there was one can of beer left.
It had been there in the fridge for quite a time - something of an achievement in the survival stakes given my penchant for the occasional ale.
But it was nothing really special.
Just the lone survivor of what had once been a band of six brothers.
Six brothers adorned in coats of green who had once shared a strong and common bond ... namely a slice of plastic webbing which held them all together.
Three had left the band on a warm autumn afternoon and another trooped off the following night (I needed something to amuse me while I burned the pizza).
The fifth fellow went the way of the first three ... a warm afternoon after work accounted for him.
And so, there was one.
He sat in the corner of the fridge, looking disconsolate between the tub of coleslaw and the cup of water containing half a peeled potato.
His companions had gone - I daresay he heard the rattle of their vacant uniforms as the recycling boys called by.
So I did not consume that last can.
I cooked it. Well, no, to be more accurate, I baked it.
I had seen the last moments of one of the few television cooking and lifestyle shows I can actually digest without feeling queasy ... about a chap living in a rural backwater somewhere in Dorset ... and I watched as he mixed, kneaded and baked a loaf of bread without any of that scientific yeast-rising, temperature-control palaver which would have otherwise scared me off.
No, he donned the gloves and pulled this crusty looking loaf out of the oven within an hour of putting it in there.
And the ingredients list was wonderfully basic.
Flour, baking powder, salt and ... beer.
And whatever else might take your fancy in terms of adding flavour or colour to the thing.
Too easy.
So that last member of what had been a six-strong band of plastic-bound brothers acquired a name.
"Crusty."
I would not be taking a frosted glass to him when the time arose ... I would take a knife.
The episode which showed a rural chap in Dorset making a loaf of bread using a can of ale as a fundamental ingredient was not my only inspiration to give this breadmaking thing a shot.
I was also inspired by attempting to complete the third part of a trifecta which began in my fourth form year - 1969.
It was metalwork, and we each had to create some appalling thing out of mild steel or copper or whatever else the school could afford to let us ruin.
I made a candle holder.
It was sort of a tripod thing which unfortunately leaned to one side. It had a little cylinder brazed to the flat base the legs of the tripod were badly riveted to.
It was never used to hold a candle however, although I recall using it for fireworks.
But at the end of the day, I was a candlestick maker.
Fast forward to three years ago when my son pulled a fine gurnard from the sea at Awatoto. It was duly laid out on the barbecue table atop a newspaper-smothered slab of hardboard.
Off came the head and the tail, and going on instinct (I could see the fleshy flanks were on the sides, I carved it the best I could and that night we had fresh, if slightly modest, strips of gurnard as an entree to tea.
So at the end of that slightly messy day, I was a butcher.
Righto then, I mused.
According to the grand old 18th century nursery rhyme 'Rub-a-Dub-Dub' the only thing missing in my CV was "the baker".
And so it came to pass that having access to what was essentially an idiot-proof recipe meant I could complete this twee little rhyme.
"The butcher, the baker ... the candlestick maker!"
So the oven was set to 200C, the mixture was created and the can of ale tipped in. Some freshly chopped bits of basil also went in ... to give it that cultured "I know what I'm doing" look.
And into the greased tin, and into the oven, it went.
After a glance at the 50-minute mark it looked rather marvellous, and five minutes later it came out.
Looked a picture and smelled ... kind of bread-like.
So how did it rate?
Well ... the birds liked it.
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly offcentre.
OPINION: Serpentine route battered by storm and floods.