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.
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.
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