Zen and the Art of Home-Brewing: Part 1

Lesson 1: Preparation is Serenity

When I started home-brewing, I believed that the process could be best described as long periods of waiting punctuated by moments of panicked activity. As I continued brewing, I learned how to use the time I had spent passively to organize my supplies, sanitize containers and re-read my recipe. Now, if I catch myself killing time during a brew I go over a mental checklist of what I could be doing to prepare for the next steps in my recipe.

Brewing beer is a long process and it is tempting to take some of the time to read a book or update my Spotify playlist that is a cover of a David Bowie song followed by the original David Bowie song. I have, however, learned that to fully occupy myself with my work is a moment of true serenity that cannot be matched even by finding the perfect cover of "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide."

Lesson 2: Don't Count Your Bottles Until They're Conditioned

The first step in brewing is creating a recipe. As you select grains and hops, a flavor starts to develop in your mind and you drift forward to the moment when you will taste your beer fully conditioned. The time between brewing and drinking is 4 to 6 weeks on most regular bodied beers, so this anticipation is necessary to propel you through the process. Without the perfect version of the beer to come that exists in our minds, most home-brewers would do the rational thing and get our beer in the way that goes "Want beer-->Pick up six pack of Shiner Bock-->Put money on counter-->Own delicious Shiner Bock which can be consumed immediately."

The important thing to remember is that you may never get to taste the beer in your mind. Little things can happen; your hops might be more forward than you expected and the beautiful Summer Ale you imagined drinking on your porch swing is piney and bitter (when this happens to me, I just tell people I made an IPA. Nobody knows that IPAs aren't supposed to be punishing, so they don't ask questions.)

Sometimes, larger challenges strike your brew. I was brewing a saison using the "Brew in a Bag" method, which requires hanging up a bag of wet grain and letting the wort drain out through the bottom. It is, of course, logistically difficult to hang 20+ pounds of sticky grains fully saturated with 160 °F water, I used to get by with a pot rack above the kitchen island and a reckless disregard for my forearms. This worked well enough until it didn't. On this particular saison (which I was going to call "Saison of the Witch") a large chunk of my ceiling decided that I had put it through too much and leapt into my brew kettle. I was doing everything right and that saison was delightfully sour on my tongue, and then suddenly I had nothing but a mess to clean up.

An Open Letter to the People Trying to Get onto the Howard Bound Red-Line Train at Lake Street Station at 5:45 PM

Dear People Trying to Get onto the Howard Bound Red-Line Train at Lake Street Station at 5:45 PM,

It is with a heavy heart that I write this missive. You want to get on this train. For some of you this train is salvation, it is the promise of home and family--an aluminum chariot that will deliver you to the reasonable proximity of your neighborhood. Well, I have news for you; it's not happening. Not this train--no sir.

You see, this train is full. There is literally no room for you. You will see a few people get off the train when the doors open. That doesn't mean that room is for you. Ideally, people will get off and no new people will get on. This train is packed; there isn't enough room to go around, and frankly I think you should respect that.

If you listen to the conductor, he is telling you that there is an immediate follower. Wait for the follower. 

Now, I fully concede that when the conductor said the same thing at the station I got on at I ignored him. In fact, I didn't believe him about the follower. I thought it was bologna. But that was three stations ago. It was a very different time. The train wasn't nearly as crowded, and in the time I've been on the train I've come to believe in the follower. The follower is there, and it is immediate. I mean, it will be hear like *snaps fingers.* 

OK. This is not cool. When the doors opened, 3 people got off and now 12 of you are trying to get on. Look, if you had had the foresight I had and gotten on this train 3 stops ago, you would have had a space, but the train is different now. This is a train for people who have been here, not a bunch of Johnny Come Latelies who feel entitled to a space just because they were able to get a spot on the platform. A spot on the platform doesn’t equate to a spot on the train. It won’t work out anyway. It’s too late for newcomers to learn the politics and customs of this car. Would you know why we made a circle of space around the pregnant woman with seven shopping bags? No. You wouldn’t. You would push in and force us to take away that space from her. Would you realize that the two large men sitting across from each other are actually vital to maintaining a block in the conversation of the two insurance adjusters who got on last station? Of course not. One of you might even accidentally reignite their banal conversation.

Look. I’m not a bad guy. I just want you to know that you’re not getting on this train. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. You’re not like us—we are on the train already. Obviously, we did something right to get here.

What the hell? How are they doing it? No! No! No! All 12 of you made it. This train is ruined.

Alright, listen up newbies. The past is the past. The important thing now is that no one is getting on at Clark.

Best Wishes,

Now We are Two

One of the most frustrating things about living with an infant is that they aren't very good at making their desires known. They are good at making it clear that they are dissatisfied, but getting beyond that to a root cause that you can actually do something about is quite a bit dicier. An infant's wail of discontent could mean anything from "feed me," to "change me," to "I desire more Portuguese covers of David Bowie songs."

Toddlers are a bit better at articulating their desires. They generally accomplish this through pointing, a skill at which the typical toddler could be more precise. When a sobbing toddler points to the cat and then a chair, the obliging parent makes a good faith effort to put the cat on the chair; when this accomplishes nothing but annoying the cat, the parent might notice that the chair was next to a bag of puffed rice snacks and the cat was covering up the toddler's bowl. But still, a big improvement over indiscriminate wailing.

And then comes two. At two, a child can somewhat clearly articulate what they want and, generally speaking, what they want is ridiculous. M will often beg to stand in the refrigerator so that he can pick out food for his lunch or his snack. I'm happy to oblige him in his independence but what he pulls out would look more in place in the baskets on "Chopped" than a child's plate.

"Alright, contestants. Your baskets today include: a tub of margarine, an orange, vindaloo paste, and tortillas. You have 15 minutes to make a toddler's lunch. Good luck!" 

At two, you also learn what some of your child's "words" mean. For instance, "hough," which I thought for the longest time meant "cow," actually means "help," which further stands for "please help me get some more juice."

The most recent struggle with M has been the transition from his crib to a toddler bed. Now, in theory, his toddler bed should be a big upgrade for him. For one thing, it means that if he finishes his book before he falls asleep he can get out of bed and get himself a new one. But there must have been something comforting about the confines of his crib; four walls that establish the boundaries of a space that is set aside for sleeping. The bed has a stifling liberty to it. It is too much responsibility for him to choose to stay in his bed minute by minute. As I sit in his room next to his bed, listening to him strain against his desire to flex the boundaries of his new freedom I think about the tyranny of choice.

I trick myself into thinking that more choices will make me happier, but often it is just the opposite. I convince myself that I am choosing between one TV show and another, but really I am also choosing against all the TV shows I could be watching as well as making a sandwich, writing the great American novel, taking a bath, rebuilding a carburetor, founding a restaurant chain, and an infinite number of other actions and inactions.

Minute by minute I have to choose to be an adult. I have to choose to be responsible and reasonable, because it seems like "being a grown-up" is never going to become innate. Fortunately, the reason I need to be this way is nearby, breathing softly as he sleeps in his big boy bed.