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Brewing Once Again

After brewing with my brother, it would be a long, five-years until I would brew again. This is not because I didn’t enjoy the process, far from it, but it was merely a problem of logistics: I had moved into a somewhat cramped London flat and no longer had the space appropriate for a brew kit, nevermind storing 40 pints of it. I was also earning very little money, so didn’t have the (admittedly small) finances to invest in a kit.

It was a sad thing but that tragedy, however, kept the brewing flame alive.

This came when I moved to New York. My apartment in Queens was considerable larger than my former abode in Crystal Palace (I realise the irony of having a tiny flat in a place called “Palace”).

My 25^th birthday was on the horizon and my Mum asked me what I wanted for a present. In a flash I realised that I now had the opportunity to re-find this long-lost hobby of mine “A home-brew kit would be great!” I said, my enthusiasm not lost over the pixilation of Skype.

We did a quick bit of research and realized that shipping a whole kit over from the UK would cost more than buying a new one over here, so we agreed on an Amazon gift-card.

Now, it being New York, there were still a few issues that arose: 1. Time (I didn’t want to spend all day brewing at home when I could be out in the Lower East Side with my mates, also I worked 12-hour days); 2. Space (although my room was now twice the size, a five gallon bin would be a little inconvenient) and 3. Money (NYC is the most expensive city in the US).

But once again the Internet prevailed, introducing me to the one and only Mr.Beer, the world’s favourite home-brewing system.

Their kits were the perfect solution: they were cheap (about $40), quick (brew in as little as two weeks) and they were space-friendly (their all-in-one kegs were only 2-gallons in capacity, so fit perfectly in my large-ish closet).

And so I re-found the path I had previously wandered from. I keenly placed my order, sat back and basked in thoughts of future brews

Oh, joy of joys.

My patience was rewarded a few days later by UPS. The package was received by my wide-eyed, over-excited self and I quickly told my colleagues about the New World Order I’d (sort of) bring to brewing. Being the excellent friends they are, they very kindly humoured my aspirations with encouragement and pffers of taste-testing.

That night, back in Queens, I opened the box to begin the alchemy again. One hour later, 2-gallons of American Lager sat on my shelf, brewing away and over the next few months I increased production, purchasing 2 more Mr.Beer kits, turning my closet into a mini-brewery, making Wheat Beers, Oktoberfest lagers, Vienna-style lagers, brown ales and red ales.

I even made a Pumpkin Ale, which was my very first attempt at experimenting with other ingredients. The recipe required pumpkin puree, ginger, nutmeg and cinnamon. It tasted great, had a deep orangey colour and went down a storm at dinner time. That was around the time I first started thinking about making more than just a plain beer.

The stage was now set for further experimentation and my creative juices, like my beer, were flowing nicely.

Brewing With My Brother

I want to tell the story of how I got into home-brewing and how it is slowly becoming my passion (not in a Mel Gibson way). But seeing that it's quite a long tale, I'm going to split it up into a few posts.

Here is the first, about my introduction to the world of Home-Brewing...

In 2006 I shared a flat with my brother on Bayswater Road in West Jesmond. This neighbourhood in Newcastle is very popular with students as it's fashionable, the rent is/was cheap, and the main road through it, Osbourne Road, has a string of pretty decent bars there making it a good place to pre-game before a night on the lash.

Anyway, it was the beginning of December, maybe the very end of November. James (my brother) and I were talking about the red wine he brewed with his old flat-mates the year before (it was rougher than Byker High Street) and he suggested that we brew our own beer in the space under the stairwell. Yeah, why not, I thought, half expecting it would turn me blind but whatever.

So we went to Wilkinson's, a home-ware store in the centre of town, and got the kit for about £25. He made me carry it all the way back in the rain, the bastard. Don't know why I let him, though, so maybe it's my fault, haha.

Anyway, we got home, dried off and set to work. We sanitised everything as instructed, then heated up the can of malt-extract which would give us the 40 pints of lager we were after. Now, James is a mechanical engineer, so everything about this process absolutely had to be precise.

He made it like a science lesson, which looking back is kind of cool (education-wise) but at the time, when I was an art-school student just wanting to get pissed, I found it all pretty tedious. He even made a chart on Excel showing the various stages of the process. God loves a trier.

Anyway, you can only imagine my face when he showed me all these mathematical equations. The only one I did pay attention to was the chart showing the amount of alcohol we'd get depending on the amount sugar we put in. That chart I fucking memorised. When it came to adding the sugar, I very generously offered to take care of it. I distinctly remember James being very clear about exactly how much to put in. Four tablespoons only. He said it three times.

Obviously I put in 8.

When it came to bottling we made quite a few basic errors. The main one was the containers that we used: we didn't buy enough bottles (the ones we did get, due to the high sugar level, kept getting their  corks blown off) so we put the rest of the beer in 2L milk cartons.

At the time we thought that, because they held milk, they would also hold in carbon dioxide. Not true. We had so much lager though, that by the time we got to the milk cartons it was all completely flat. It was still quite nice, though and got us fairly drunk.

That was the first experience I had of home-brewing.

Strange News Friday

The Pope loves Fanta.

The Daily Record revealed that Pope Benedict XVI loves to "guzzle down four cans a day" particularly enjoying it with dinner (gross).

There are two things that strike me as hilarious about this story:

1. Fanta, like the Volkswagen, is a product of Nazi Germany. Due to a trade embargo Coca-Cola syrup was unavailable in Germany, so instead they created their own version and called it Fanta.

2. El Padre is also a product of Nazi Germany and was a fully signed-up member of the Hitler Youth. This is most likely where he first found Fanta.

Happy Friday!

My New Favourite Band

I hear they're writing Jessie J's new song.

Appreciation

A wonderful servant of my beloved Sunderland AFC has moved on to Fulham FC. Through many managers and team variations he always worked his socks off and that's all a fan ever asks for. He'll also be very well remembered for this beautiful piece of football:

Cheers, Kieran!

UPDATE: Here's the same wonderful goal, from another angle (love the crowd's reaction):

Friday Night, Going Home

Everything has a wet sheen to it from the day’s rain. It reflects the night lights of London and meshes them into a blurry mess that makes everything look like a Manet. Even more so now because I am incomprehensibly fucked on cheap lager.

In the game of life it was one-nil to me – a cracking goal to open the night’s proceedings. Although I knew the world would get the equalizer and then the winner in the coming hours. I was happy to bask smugly in my short-lived winnings for now, though. Yeah, I am a king. I smile broadly, on the verge laughter.

Cheap lager silences all the senses one usually hosts in day-time sobriety and thus here I am, waiting in the shadow of Horatio for the number 3 back to Crystal Palace. If you ever wanted to know what eternity feels like, come to Trafalgar Square anytime after 8pm and wait, like a plum, for this infernal double-decked red devil. It is shit personified.

This part of the whole fucking farce is far more tedious than the hangover will be, that’s for sure. Bitter experience has taught me this. I curse the number 3 out loud “Lucky, my arse!” I remind myself that this is why my rent is so cheap. The boil reduced to a simmer.

I squish my hand into my jeans’ pocket and withdraw my phone so I can check the time. It falls on the floor.

“Fuck.”

I say it out loud. Life is now an unfair burden and it has pulled back that inevitable equalizer. The European tourists who’ve been staring at me since I arrived shuffle themselves a few feet further away, pulling their tired and confused kids behind them. Jesus, I’m just a drunk bloke who wants his bed, no need to martyr yourself as a human shield.

Arseholes.

My anger builds again, like the froth in a boiling pan of pasta. It’s about to spill all over the Italians when the bus arrives. Its headlights shine over me as it turns the corner towards us, cleansing me of my anger. My smile returns.

My warm, cosy, soft bed with its clean sheets, plush duvet and the all-goose-feather pillow envelopes all previous thoughts. I imagine Heaven feels a lot like this.

I let the tourists on before me. I feel like a knight once more. Drunken and glorious. I take the lead again, from a beautiful, indefensible set-piece. A cracking goal, if I say so myself.

In celebration I pay the fare. Climbing the stairs up into the light my body slumps down on an empty seat, settling against a window drenched in condensation. Within minutes, the efforts of my patient endurance check out and my head begins to bob up and down with a heavy fatigue, whilst my eye lids match its slow beat.

In an effort to keep myself awake long enough to prevent me from missing my stop I blast John Mayall’s “Bare Wires” into my eardrums like a water-canon at a protest.

It’s only moderately effective. I even mumble along to the words, out loud. Thankfully the other passengers don’t pay me much notice. Gawd bless Britain’s love of silent judgment. Who knows, maybe they’re just as ruined as I am. I hope so.

This feels fucking great.

The bright, medical lights of the upper deck illuminate the insides of my eye-lids, giving everything a hot-red glow. I slowly twist and turn my head to get away from it. This is obviously impossible. I should know that this technique doesn’t work and that this is all just the fore-play before I fall asleep but I continue the game nonetheless.

Resistance is futile. I imagine the half time whistle blowing as I tumble over the edge and into a deep sleep.

I snatch my eyes open on the up-swing of my bobbing and quickly look out the window.

We are now pulling into Crystal Palace Bus Depot, John Mayall has finished, the driver receives my slurred thanks, and the temperature suddenly changes from the balmy Saharan heat of the bus to the very real embrace of this frigid South-East Winter. The slap of reality reinvigorates me and on the spur of the moment I decide to sprint home, so my bed and I can be together sooner.

The street lights and other drunks blur past me, The Human Concorde.

In no time whatsoever I am in bed and it seems that I scored the winner after all, thankful that at least for tonight, three is my lucky number.