On Conversations I'd Rather Not Be Having

Thinking back over the past, say, 2 years, just about the time my little girl really started to take in the world around her and ask questions and remember absolutely everything that she sees or hears, I've had to explain some pretty bad things to her.

The list includes, but is not limited to, tornadoes, hurricanes, power failures, racism, school shootings, and now, terrorist attacks.

I'm not saying I'm any good at having these conversations, but I have had a lot of practice.

Some of these are pretty easy.  Natural disasters happen, they can be a little scary at times, but when you break it down for the kids ("The wind gets going so fast that..."), eventually they stop asking to hide in the basement every time they hear thunder.  (She really only hid in the basement because she thought it was fun.)

Some others, the ones perpetrated by other people, are harder to explain to a little kid.  How do you make them understand homophobes, or racists?  How do you explain someone walking into a school with a gun, or planting a bomb in a crowd of innocent people?  How can you ever explain someone willfully harming little children?  How can you make them understand what happened without giving the poor kid nightmares?

And how can I even begin to explain something that I can't even understand?

(And now it seems like I might need to explain ricin at some point in the future.  I don't even know what ricin is!  I'll have to Wikipedia that shit!)

Monday night, we didn't even try to explain.  We just sat and watched our little girl do somersaults and cartwheels in the living room, rather than sitting and watching the news.  I think that might have been the very best part of the day, because we were safe, and we were together.

And that gave me hope.

And hope, and love, are powerful things.

And as I watched her, I thought about what I will say when she does finally start to ask questions.

I'm not trying to give out any advice here. I'm not saying that my way of thinking about this stuff is right.  But I am saying that I (like, I suspect, too many parents lately) have struggled with these questions, and have found myself wondering what to say about the unspeakable, or if to say anything at all.

(Brief political sidebar:  Please, please, please pass some kind of gun control act that will at least make these conversations a little less frequent.  This is exhausting.)

Can't I just pretend nothing happened?

No.

Don't hide this from your kids.

I don't know exactly when or how kids managed to process that there are good people and bad people in the world.  Maybe it comes from cartoons where heroes fight villains, or maybe it comes from seeing adults act like jerks for no good reason, but by the time kids reach the point of starting to build an understanding of the world around them, they know bad people are in the world somewhere.  Pretending nothing bad ever happens will only backfire, when they hear someone else, either another child or another parent or a teacher or just someone on TV talking about it.  And then, you lose the chance to control the information they are getting.  And, in case you haven't noticed, every time something horrific happens, half the information that comes out about it is dead wrong and potentially more damaging than the truth.

So talk.  Keep it simple, keep it within their vocabulary, don't recite the entire history of violence since Cain and Abel, but talk about it.

Perhaps the most important thing I want to stress to my daughter is that she is safe.  The reason terror works at all is because it reminds us that we are not safe, that something bad could happen to us at any time.  And this is true, but no more true than something amazingly good happening to us, like winning the lottery.  Right now, she is safe, she is surrounded by people who love her, and will do everything humanly possible to keep her safe.

And I'm going to let her lead me on what she wants to know, and what she is worried about.  I'm not going to force her to listen to me if she really just wants to turn cartwheels in the living room.  Cartwheels are good; never interrupt a kid doing cartwheels.

And there's something else that sticks in my mind at moments like these, besides the need to hug my daughter so tight that she starts squirming and saying, "Daaaadddd," in that voice that clearly expresses that I'm interrupting cartwheels when I said that was something you should never do, and that's just how many good people there really are in the world.

We don't know yet who set those bombs in Boston.  But we will.  Very few acts of terrorism have gone completely unsolved.  They even caught the Unabomber, eventually.  But whoever did this, be it one nutcase or one small group of nutcases, he or they are nothing compared to the thousands of people who are now working day and night to help those who were hurt, or find those responsible.  In the world where cynicism is the easy way of understanding how people act, it's amazing to realize that for every one nutcase intent of doing harm, there are thousands, or tens of thousands, or even hundreds of thousands of good people dedicated to keeping us safe, to stopping bad things from happening, to helping people after bad things do happen.  I'm talking about police and firefighters, and paramedics, and doctors, and soldiers, and (yes) politicians, and I'm also talking about teachers, and neighbors, about other regular folks who lay flowers at memorials, who give blood, who organize fundraisers, or who do something as simple yet as amazing as walking in a Starbucks with a $100 and buying coffee for total strangers.

I truly believe that people are good.  It just seems that sometimes we need to remind ourselves of this.  I hope in the future, we can find a less horrible way of doing it.

And that's what I want all parents to do: to remind their kids how much they are loved, and how much they should give love in return.  Because if we do our jobs right, if we instill empathy toward other human beings, if we teach that love if greater than hate, that hate is just fear and anger and misunderstanding twisted together, we can stop violence in the space of a single generation.

Because we can raise a generation that doesn't hate.  And the cycle stops.  Forever.

Finally, I would like to give one piece of advice which I believe could do a great deal of good in the days to come.  (I know, I said I wasn't going to give advice.  But just this once.  Full disclaimer:  I not an expert on anything, except maybe alcoholic beverages.  Take this advice, or not, with that in mind.)  This advice goes for adults as well as kids, and it's this:  Take a break!

Turn off the damned TV.

Stopped reloading cnn.com every 5 seconds.

Stop watching that video over and over again.  (Really, once is enough, or even too much.  Just stop.)

Take a break, and limit the media exposure.  The media has, as it always does, latched on to this story and won't let go.  They try to pry everything they can out of everyone, they listen to anyone who claims to know anything, and they take little of no time to check the facts and make sure they are reporting accurately.  I understand why this happens, why every news outlet is afraid of falling behind everyone else, why everyone wants to be the first to "break" the story, but the only things they are breaking is our sanity.

We do not need to be exposed to this stuff over and over again, especially now, when half of everything said is total bullshit.  The truth will come out in time, but right now we are being inundated with half-truths and misinformation, with a couple nutty conspiracies theories for flavoring.

Just take a break.

Do some cartwheels in the living room.

You'll feel better. I promise.



For more advice, from people who, unlike me, actually know what they're talking about, you can do a lot worse than the amazing folks at onetoughjob.org.  (Full disclosure:  I'm married to one such amazing person, and I'm damn lucky to have her at times like this.)  That said, trust no one else on the internet, ever.  Including me.

Whiskey: A Drink-Along Guide

Yes, just in time for St. Patrick's Day, a post that has nothing to do with beer!

Wait... what?

I love whiskey.  Which is why it pains me to hear (as I often do) people say something along the lines of, “I just don’t get whiskey,” or, “How can you drink that stuff?”  On a rare occasion, I may get a genuine, “I’d like to learn more about whiskey, but I don’t know where to start?” This isn't a surprising reaction, since whiskey is a sadly misunderstood drink, something only old men and hardened gamblers drink, when, in fact, whiskey presents a journey of discovery unparalleled in the beverage world.

 So, with that in mind, sit down.  Make yourself comfortable.  You’re here to learn something about whiskey, that golden elixir that has built and shaped much of Western Civilization as we know it.  This is an interactive experience, and I encourage you to follow along at home.  You’ll need some supplies.

- Several glasses (snifter glasses are best, but old fashioned or highball glasses will also do).
- Chilled (but not ice cold) spring or filtered water.  (More on this in a minute.)
- A beer (ale, preferably homebrew)
And a bottle of each of the following:
- Bushmills
- Johnny Walker
- Macallan
- Laphroaig
- Maker's Mark
- Crown Royal (or similar)

Stand tall, laddies.  This is our big number.

 Now, before we dive head-long into the history, philosophy, and spiritualism of whiskey, a couple of disclaimers and words of wisdom.  First, let’s look at how we choose our liquors.  You’ve heard terms like “top shelf” and “bottom shelf,” and that’s a good place to start.  Liquor stores are set up to have the cheapest stuff on the bottom, the most expensive at the top.  When choosing a whiskey, price is one consideration.  Generally speaking, the more expensive the whiskey (the closer to the top shelf), the better the quality.  A fifty dollar bottle of whiskey will almost without fail taste superior to a ten dollar bottle.  However, will a three hundred dollar bottle of whiskey taste better than a hundred dollar bottle?  Probably, but not so much that you’d notice.  Eventually, price becomes a status symbol, rather than an indication of quality.  The second indicator of quality is age.  Whiskey is aged oak barrels, which contribute significantly to its taste, its complexity, the overall enjoyability.  Most whiskey must be aged at least three or four years just to called itself whiskey.  Many brag about how long they’ve been aged right on the label.  If it doesn’t brag, it’s younger, probably between four and eight years for an average whiskey.  So what’s the difference between twelve years, twenty years, or thirty years?  Well, without going into too much detail, a twelve year aged whiskey will be richer, smoother, and more complex than a younger whiskey, while a twenty-year-old whiskey will be richer and more complex than a twelve-year-old.  (If this is making you think you accidentally signed up for a wine course, you’re getting the idea.  Many wines are aged to improve their taste and complexity in the same way, and many whiskeys are aged in barrels that once aged wines.  Having no patience for words like “playful” or “nuanced” when it comes to beverages, this will be the last time I reference wine culture, I promise.)  But does the difference in taste correspond to the difference in price between a twelve year-old and, say, a thirty year-old?  Not in my opinion, though I’m sure many people will argue with me on that point.  (Please, try to convince me!  You’re buying!)  Like with price, you want to stick with the middle of the road, at least until you’ve gotten your feet wet and are ready to become more adventurous.  So find something in the $20 or $50 range, aged more than ten years, and you’ll be alright.

Now, we come to the question of neat versus on the rocks.  Ah, the age-old debate.  Here, I have no absolute answer.  I like to drink neat when I’m enjoying the whiskey, or on the rocks  (literally: my wife got me whiskey rocks for Christmas) when I’m just enjoying sitting back and relaxing with a drink in hand.  The cold of the ice tends to hide some of the flavor in the whiskey (by numbing the tongue).  Instead, add an ounce or so of chilled water, just to cut into the alcohol taste and open up the other flavors to better enjoy them.

And where do we start this world tour education of whiskey?  Why, in Ireland of course!  (Admit it, you’d guessed that already.) 

"Wait...what?" - Scotland

 

 So grab yourself a pint of ale and join me at the bar!

 Excuse me, did I say this post had nothing at all to do with beer?

I lied.

Just sit back, enjoy the beer, and consider what beer is.  Beer is one of the oldest fermented beverages in the world.  It is made from fermented barley malt, spiced with bitter herbs, most commonly hops.  Beer has played a vitally important role in society in Ireland (and England, and northern Europe) for centuries, and for very good reason.  When people started getting together in larger communities, namely cities, for the first time thousands of years ago, they quickly ran into a very simple problem, but one with no simple answer: What to drink?  Because they usually settled near a source of fresh water, often a river or stream (good), and because all the waste from the people, and the animals the people kept with them, went into the water (bad), and because there were other cities sprouting up upstream that did the same thing (very bad), they quickly found drinking the water made them sick.  They didn’t know why drinking the water made them sick (germs would have to wait a millennia or two to be discovered), they just knew the outcome, and they knew they needed to find something else to drink.  Around the Mediterranean, grapes were turned into wine, and wine was found to be by and large safe to drink.  Further north, like, say, in Ireland, grapes were not abundant, but barley grew well, and barley that was allowed to malt and fermented into beer was also safe to drink.  And, by the way, got you good and drunk!  Slainte!

So check this out: without the benefit of alcoholic beverages (and later drinks like tea and coffee, based on boiled water), humans would have never been able to form large communities without literally making each other sick.  So when I say cities like Dublin or London could never have existed without beer, I’m not exaggerating.  At some point, distillation came over to the Emerald Isle.  When, exactly, this happened, no one is exactly sure.  What is sure is this:  Distillation of alcohol was invented by Arabic chemists in the 8^th century, and became a staple of alchemy.  It was used primarily to create medicinal mixtures, mostly from wine, which were considered so strong that they were referred to as aqua vitae, or “water of life.”  This technique was eventually picked up by monks in Europe and it spread from monastery to monastery.  In time, it came to Ireland, where it was used to distill beer (wine being in short supply).  The resulting distillate was also called the “water of life,” or, as it was rendered by the native celtic speakers, “uisce beatha.”  A few rough and tumble translations into English, and that soon became known as whiskey.

But let’s start with the beer.  Take a nice, long sip.  Taste the malty sweetness, the bitterness of the hops, and the refreshing effervescence of the carbonation.  Now, kiss most of those flavors goodbye.  Focus on the malty taste.  That’s the first basic taste of Irish whiskey. 

Now, pour yourself a glass of Bushmills.  

 Here is where the magic happens.  Whiskey is made, most basically, from the distillation of beer.  Beer is warmed in a pot still until the alcohol evaporates (which happens before the water).  The vapor travels through a tube until it reaches a kind of water-submerged roller coaster called a worm, which cools the vapor back to liquid which has a much higher alcohol content than the beer.  The resulting clear liquid is then aged in oak barrels, where is takes on the second major characteristic of whiskey: oak.  So, why would anyone do this?

Well, at first distilled alcohol was used strictly for alchemical or medicinal purposes.  The transition to social beverage has as much to with simple economics of barley farming as anything else.  Imagine you have a few acres of barley you just harvested and you want to sell it at market.  The market is some miles away, and you have one wagon and a horse.  An old, sick horse.  The trip will take at least two days, and it will be nearly impossible to transport all your harvest in one go.  But, cook the grains and let them ferment, and those acres of grain become a few barrels of beer, much easier to pile into the cart and bring to market.  But the real economic revelation was that you could distill the beer, and turn a few barrels into one barrel, and it will fetch more money at market than the barrels of beer or the raw grain.  Furthermore, this likely led to the greatest innovation in beverages since the invention of distillation.  Imagine you’re carrying a barrel of whiskey (a colorless, fiery distillate) to market, and you stop at a tavern, have a few too many pints, sleep late, get caught in a freak storm, then get lost a few times, and a trip that should have taken a couple days ends up taking a month.  When you get there, you offer a sample of your whiskey, and are surprised to find the colorless liquid is no longer colorless, and is a lot less fiery.  You’ve just discovered the benefit of aging.  And your whiskey is suddenly worth more.

Now, for those of you who neglected my advice against drinking on the rocks, the ice in your glass should be pretty well melted after that informative, but ultimately pointless, historical tangent.  Good.  On to the whiskey!  First, take a sniff.  Inhale deeply, but slowly; snort too fast and you’ll smell nothing by the burning odor of alcohol.  Detect the other notes in the glass.  Now, take a sip.   

Whoa!  I said a sip, contrary to another common and popular drinking habit: shooting.  Shooting, I don’t have to tell you, involves drinking the full tiny amount of whiskey at once, in one gulp.  It’s intended to minimize the amount of taste you get of the whiskey, and tends to emphasize the least desirable tastes, like the fiery, burning alcohol taste.  No doubt about it, this stuff tastes serious, and strong.  But take another sip, and start to taste the malty sweetness of it.  Reminds you a little of that beer, doesn’t it?  (Well, okay, very little, but the taste is still there nonetheless.)  And that oak aftertaste that lingers in the mouth, that’s from the aging.    

This is the beginning of the celtic “water of life,” in all its splendid forms.  The glory of whiskey is that it has always taken on unique characteristics of the region where it is produced.  And as whiskey makers move, they take their knowledge with them and apply them to the new regions where they end up.  The Celts of Ireland have a long history of fraternity with the Galls of Scotland, so it is no surprise that whiskey-making eventually passed on to the Scots.

Pour yourself a glass of Johnny Walker.  And here, we need to have a quick spelling lesson. Johnny Walker is a brand of Scotch Whisky, whereas Bushmills is a brand of Irish Whiskey.  So what does that “e” have to do with the differences between the drinks?  Absolutely nothing, except for geography.  To simplify things a little, I will be referring to Scotch Whisky as Scotch for the rest of this lesson.  If I lived in Scotland, I’d just call it “whisky,” but I’m not that lucky.  If I called it “whisky” here in America, I’d have to risk including Canadian Whisky, and I’m not quite there yet.  That’s a digression for another time.  Why did the Canadian’s adopt the Scottish spelling, while the American’s took the Irish?  To quote They Might Be Giants, “People just like it better than way.”

Take a sip of the Scotch.  You’ll immediately notice that stronger taste.  Call it more smokey, or more oakey, or whatever you want to say.  I’m not going to get all wine-snob on you now, but just realize that they taste different.  Very different.  Most Scotch is distilled twice, while most Irish whiskey is distilled three times, causing the Scotch to have more malt taste.  Also, many Scotch makers utilize barrels for aging the Scotch that were previously used for aging wines or bourbons, lending very different flavors than are found in most Irish whiskeys. 

 Whiskys made in Scotland are considered Scotch.  But even within Scotland, Scotch from different regions can have very different and unique characteristics.  For me, one of the greatest benefits to Scotch is the sheer variety and depth of flavors that one can encounter while just casually tasting a handful of different labels.  Johnny Walker is a blended Scotch, and blended Scotches are the most common, but many distillers now produce single malts that show off the different tastes of each distillery, in each region.   

Pour yourself a Macallan.  While every single malt has its own flavor profile, and an exhaustive list of the flavors in each distillery’s single malts would go on for pages, each region also has its own defining characteristics common in Scotches made in the region.  Many of these are the result of local variables, like the water used or the way the barley is malted.  The Macallan, for instance, is from the Speyside region, where many of the world’s most popular Scotches are from.  Take a sip.  Speysides are well-known for their smooth finish, generally attributed the mineral-rich mountain water used to make them.

Now, to understand how different geography within the same country can impact the flavors of a Scotch, pour yourself a glass of Laphroaig.  Laphroaig is from the Isle of Islay, off the western coast.  Islay is known for its peat, which is used to dry the barley during the malting process.  Peat, by the way, is a kind of partially decayed layer of vegetation usually found in bogs and wetlands.  Sounds just like the kind of thing you’d like to put in your drink, doesn’t it?  But peat, in lowlands where trees and firewood scarce, is a valuable asset that can be burned, kind of like coal, and has kept people warm for generations.  Using it to dry germinated barley is just one more use it’s been put to, and the unique, earthy, smoked taste it adds to the barley, which is retained in the Scotch, is just an added benefit.

Take a sip.  Yep, that’s the peat!  Sure, it’s got a strong, almost overpowering taste, especially when compared to the smooth Speyside Macallan.  I’m guessing, as a Scotch novice, you’re inclined toward the Speyside yourself.  You probably think the peat of the Islay is a little too strong.  But then again, if you spent your day working in a peat bog, you’d probably want a strong whisky to drink afterwards.  As with all whiskeys, Scotches, bourbons, or what-have-you, accept it and understand it for what it is, where it comes from, and what it represents.  You might never enjoy the peaty taste of Laphroaig (though you might, as I do), hopefully, you will at least be able to respect it.

 As with many poor residents of the British Isles, looking to start a better life, Scotch and Irish distillers crossed the Atlantic Ocean in the 18^th and 19^th centuries to try their luck in America.  Distilling was hardly new to America, even then.  But before the American Revolution, the prevalence of cheap molasses streaming in from British sugar plantations in the Caribbean led to distillers focusing on producing massive amounts of rum.  But after the break with Britain, rum fell out of favor with Americans, and they turned once again to grain alcohol, turning to the locally grown grains, namely rye and corn.  Rye whiskey was the most popular immediately following the Revolution (so popular, no less an American than George Washington owned a distillery making rye whiskey), and it was rye whiskey that got the nation in trouble early on when a tax on distilleries caused a revolt in Western Pennsylvania.

Following the quashing of the Whiskey Rebellion by George Washington in 1794, some, though by no means all, rye distillers moved south and met up with corn distillers.  We'll get to them in a minute.  But rye whiskey was still being produced in northern states like New York and Pennsylvania, up until Prohibition.  Following Prohibition, the distillation moved further north and met up with Canadian distillers, creating a class of Canadian Whisky.  Here, again, we run afoul of some confusing legal distinctions.  Rye whiskey (with an “e”) in the U.S. must contain at least 51% rye (similar to Bourbon requirements).  Canadian Whisky (no “e”) is any whisky made in Canada, but many contain rye, and some are therefore called “Canadian Rye.”  But no minimum rye percentage is required for the designation, and in fact, Canadian Whisky can contain any number of grain alcohols blended together.  This makes my patented form of broad generalizations very difficult, but pour yourself a glass of Crown Royal, and we’ll do our best.  Canadian whisky has something of a bad rep among whiskey snobs, because of the loose definition for the appellation, but the way I see it, that also provides a huge range of potential flavors of whisky.  In the Crown Royal, you’ll find tastes reminiscent of Irish whiskey.  It has a stronger bite, not as mellow as a blended Scotch, but a distinctive taste that some people are fond of blending into mixed drinks.

But, as I said, following the Whiskey Rebellion, some rye distiller went south, where they met with other distillers who were making whiskey out of corn.  As time went by, the whiskey evolved, mixing in other grain, but keeping a majority of corn in the mix.  It was aged in American white oak barrels, and they soon found that charring the inside of the barrel improved the aging process.  (I’d love to shake the hand of whoever first decided to char the inside of oak barrels.  That guy should've been given a Nobel Prize.)  And in the wilds of what was at the time the Kentucky frontier, a new kind of whiskey, named after the region where it was being made, was born: Bourbon.

 Pour yourself a glass of Maker’s Mark.  Bourbon whiskey is defined and protected by law, to meet certain exacting standards.  Considered the national alcoholic drink of the United States, Congress has deemed that Bourbon, by law, must contain at least 51% corn, must be aged in charred new oak barrels, and must be aged for a minimum of two years, along with several other more esoteric guidelines.  Many of the best bourbons still come from Kentucky, where the climate contributes to a faster aging period.  Before you drink, look at the bourbon, compare it to the scotches.  Note the reddish-amber hues.  Now, take a sip.  You’ll notice the enormous difference in taste between the corn-based whiskey and the barley-based whiskeys you’ve tried thus far.  You’ll find a corn sweetness, and also a sharp alcohol tang, but with a fairly classic whiskey oak finish.  Bourbon has developed a reputation as a quality liquor, the legitimate and respectable cousin of the burning, unaged mountain moonshine that is the true American classic “corn likker.”  Bourbon barrels, since they cannot be used over again, are prized for aging everything from scotch to brandy to rum to even beer, imparting a subtle flavor from the bourbon whiskey in countless other liquors produced the world over.

Sidenote about "Tennessee whiskey":  Tennessee whiskey is, essentially, Bourbon (he says after surreptitiously looking around for lurking Kentuckians ready to pound his head in for saying so).  Both are made primarily from corn and both are aged in charred new oak barrels.  The difference between them is the Lincoln County Process (Lincoln County being where Jack Daniels is made), in which the whiskey is filtered through sugar maple charcoal before aging.  That's the only difference, and it's one I don't think you can taste (Sorry, Jack.)          

 Bourbon, having a somewhat stronger taste than prized single-malt scotches, and having an underlying sweetness missing from the all-barley whiskeys, is commonly added to whiskey cocktails, most famously the mint julep.  And while the mint does compliment the delicate corn and slightly burnt taste, how can anyone is good conscious take something that has rested and matured usually for more than half a decade in the darkness of a warehouse, giving up its angel share (that’s what they call the small amount of alcohol that evaporates away through the barrel) to mellow and take on the flavor of the charred oak, and just add sugar to it to mask and subvert the complex flavors it developed?  It should be a crime.  Yet judging from the one hundred and twenty thousand mint juleps served just during the Kentucky Derby, it’s not.  God Bless America!

 Although these major styles of whiskeys have strong regional roots, each based on the materials distillers in a particular environment had to work with, they have managed over the years to reach across those regional lines and become beloved by whiskey drinkers all over the world.  So there you have it, Irish alchemy distilling the essence of life from malted barley, oaked aged to perfection in the Highlands of Scotland, traveling across the Atlantic to create not one but two (three, if you consider true rye whiskey in a class of its own) unique whiskey styles; proof positive (in any were needed) that good whiskey can be found anywhere!

All thanks to the Irish!

Wait...what?

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Makin' Lamic (Part 2)

Constant readers of this blog (both of you) will know that I’m a little obsessed lately with sour beer.

Why?  What’s the appeal of beer that’s been intentionally turned bad?

I don’t know, to be honest.  No the other hand, ask your average homebrewer why he wants to brew something topping off at 100 IBUs.

(IBU, for you non-homebrewers out there, is a standard measure of beer bitterness.  It stands for International Bittering Unit, and it’s calculated by measuring the type and amount of hops in beer, how long the hops are boiled for, the conversion rate of the alpha acids in the hops, and a bunch of other stuff you don’t care about.  Put it this way: more hops=higher IBUs=bitter beer.)

Homebrewers, perhaps because commercial brewers were for a long time reluctant to make bitter brews, love highly hopped beer.  Which explains why there are so many homebrew variations on the IPA, a traditionally bitter type of beer.

I am not a fan.  So instead, I guess in a kind of almost teenage-like rebellion, I went the other way, and embraced the sour brews.  Now, I can’t stop.

About a year ago, I wrote here about my attempt to create a homebrewed lambic.  I said it would have to age for at least a year before I could do anything with it.

Well, the year is pretty much up.

Time to bottle?

Not on your life.  But it is time to sample, and the sample tastes amazing!  Perfect acidic bite, perfect weirdly “off” flavor.  Excellent, but not done yet.

Instead, I brewed ANOTHER batch.  Originally, I was just going to brew a 1 gallon mini batch, but that seemed a terrible waste of yeast and bacteria, so I scaled it up to a full 5 gallons.

After a little more than a week of primary fermentation, producing a suitably horrible-tasting very young lambic, I racked off 1 gallon, which I poured into the aforementioned aging lambic.  Then, I racked the remaining new lambic onto cherry puree, which will eventually result in a sour cherry lambic, known as a kriek.

Now what?

Now, I wait.  Lambics, as I’ve said before, take a lot of patience.

Some months down the road, I will bottle these two batches, and let them age more.

In general, time is the enemy of beer.  That’s one of the great things about homebrewing; the beer is fresh, in a way that beer from almost anywhere else isn’t.  Beer tends to lose flavor as it ages, and the other flavors it develops tend to not be very good, resulting in skunky, stale, or at least very bland beers.

There are some exceptions.

Every time I bottle a batch of beer, I put a couple bottles aside, partly to give me a quick visual record of my brewing, and partly so I can revisit certain beers, if the fancy should strike me.  

And recently, I was struck by just such a fancy, grabbing two beers that were more than 2 years old.  One, a doppelbock, had matured beautifully, and tasted much better than I remembered.  The second, a spiced Christmas ale, did not fare so well.  I drank it, but found the experience wholly unsatisfying.

The stronger the beer (from an alcohol point of view), the better it seems to hold up to aging.  And considering the glorious alchemy that occurs in a whiskey barrel as that harsh liquor ages, that makes perfect sense. However, the specific chemical reactions the go in the bottle (or in the carboy in my case) involve the complex reactions of various chemicals, oxidation rates, temperature, and the whole process is pretty poorly understood.  Poorly understood by me, anyway. But from my experience, the doppelbock, at 8% abv, was a perfect candidate for aging (which makes me regret drinking all the rest within the first month).  Stronger beers, like barleywines and Belgian Trappist ales (both of which I’m planning on brewing this year) are also perfect candidates for long-term aging.

And so are sour beers, regardless of strength.  After all, one of the great dangers of letting beer (especially unfiltered homebrew) sit too long is that it might turn sour.  Sour beers can’t turn sour.  And they can’t lose their hoppy bitterness (you can lose something you don’t have).  The kriek I’m making will probably start to lose its cherry taste, but that’s by design.  The cherry taste is supposed to slip into the background, providing just enough fruit taste to balance the sour tang.

So wait, I hear you say, you’re brewing 10 gallons of sour beer, and are planning 5 gallon batches of two high-alcohol beers that will require extended aging…so what are you going to drink in the meantime?

What do you mean?  That's just two bottles....

It’s a fair question.  But brewing requires patience.  And sometimes this homebrewer even 

demonstrates the necessary level of patience.  But not often.

After all, how will I know when the beer is ready, unless I’m constantly taste-testing?

Yes, it’s a burden, but somehow, I’ll survive.