Kirkland Helles lager

Best beer value

 Kirkland Signature — a name that conjures bulk toilet paper and thirty-pound bags of trail mix — also makes beer. Or rather, they commission beer. And not just any beer. These cans of budgeted bliss are contract brewed by Deschutes Brewery, which, as far as breweries go, is like finding out the gas station hot dog you just ate was actually made by Thomas Keller.

Their Helles — that’s “light” in German, though in beer it just means “not IPA” — is clear, golden, and practically screams, “Drink me while wearing cargo shorts.” At 4.5% ABV, it’s light enough to keep you from falling face-first into your lawn after three, yet satisfying enough to make you think, “Huh. Maybe Costco does know what they’re doing.”

It’s crisp, bready, ever-so-slightly bitter, and—perhaps most importantly—cheap. $14.60 for a twelve-pack (that’s 276 pesos if you’re playing the home game in Mexico). It even won a gold medal at the 2023 GABF, which makes it, technically, an award-winning beer you can pair with discount socks and an eight-pack of canned tuna.

Meanwhile, back in my kitchen, things were less award-winning and more—how shall I put it—frontier survival. I’d just finished mashing in a batch of my Black Butte Porter clone when the power cut out. Mid-sparge. That’s like getting halfway through brushing your teeth and realizing the water’s been shut off. With no pump to move water from the hot liquor I had to resort to the tried and true technique of scoop, pour and repeat. Like a one-man bucket brigade at a slow moving fire.

Wort collected, I faced another problem: boiling. Not the act, which is simple enough, but the timing. I couldn’t risk starting the boil without knowing I’d be able to chill it down and transfer to the fermenter. Because nothing says “tragedy” like a kettle of lovingly hopped wort gone tepid and sour in the dark.

So I waited. Sanitizing obsessively and checking the lights every ten minutes like a raccoon hoping for leftover pizza. Four hours later, the power blinked back on, and I fired up the burner like I was reviving Frankenstein.

In the end, the beer made it safely to the fermenter and seems, at this point, to be fermenting peacefully—unaware of the domestic drama that brought it into the world. This little mishap did get me wondering whether I should rebuild my old gravity-fed brew setup from California. A solid Plan B, sure, though still powerless against the whole "needing to chill the wort" issue unless I also invest in a hand-cranked glycol chiller powered by anxiety.

Anyway, I’ll keep you posted on how the porter turns out. If nothing else, it’ll pair beautifully with a bulk package of relief and a Kirkland hot dog.

Cheers.

Brewing an IPL

  India Pale Lager (also called a Cold IPA in some corners of the beer world) is, at its core, an IPA fermented with lager yeast at cooler, lager-friendly temperatures. It’s not rocket science—just a way to get all the bold, hoppy character of an IPA with the clean, crisp edge that comes from cold fermentation.

I like them because they are the complete opposite of the beers I truly abhor: those murky, overly fruity New England IPAs. India Pale Lagers are a West Coast style, which naturally means they’re superior to anything being brewed in the Midwest or East Coast. (Sorry, but it had to be said.)

And let me just say—it’s been refreshing to see the haze finally clearing from tap lists. If I'm lucky, the hazy craze is on its way out, and clear beers are reclaiming their rightful place in the lineup at my favorite breweries. If I'm really lucky, those “hazies” will occupy a single tap which I believe is a fair share of the taproom landscape.

It’s been a long, sticky run for the sweet, cloying, muddy, and wholly undrinkable haze bomb. Why anyone wanted that style in the first place is beyond me. But brewers delivered—oh, they delivered. Gazillions of gallons of gooey, juicy sludge. My personal conspiracy theory? Some enterprising brewing collective took a failed batch, realized it looked like a yeast smoothie, and spun it into gold. They reproduced the mistake, marketed it as the next big thing, and convinced a shit-ton of other brewers to jump on board. Honestly? Genius.

But I digress. The real reason for this post is to share a recipe that hits the holy trinity of what makes a great India Pale Lager: clean, clear, and unapologetically hoppy. Let’s get into it.

One of my favorites

My IPL recipe:

I brewed an 11 gal. post boil batch anticipating 2 full 5 gallon kegs after fermentation. I referenced Bru'n water pale ale water profile and used 75% reverse osmosis water.

Efficiency 88%,  Attenuation 87%,  ABV 7.35%, SRM 5.5, IBU 66, OG 1.064, FG 1.008

20 lbs. Pilsner malt (Weyermann)

  1 lbs. Crystal #20 

  1 lbs. Dextrin malt

  2 kilos refined sugar at start of boil

Mash in at 152f. in 6 gal. h2o for 60 minutes.

Sparge for 45 minutes with 170f. h2o 

Boil 60 minutes with:

FWH : 60 gram Mosaic 13.6 a/a % for 21 ibu's

60 min. add: 100 gram Chinook from previous dry hopped batch est. 31 ibu's

20 min. add: 30 gram Chinook 11.4 a/a% for 11 ibu's

 5 min. add: 30 gram Columbus 14.7 a/a% for 3 ibu's 

20 min. Cool Pool addition at 160f. with 120 gram Columbus and 120 gram Idaho 7

Chilled down to 50f., transfer to fermenter and pitched salvaged 34/70 lager yeast. After 3 days raised temperature to 53f., after 3 more days raised temp. to 57f., after 3 more days raised temp. to 62f. for 1 day.

Then, lowered temp. to 55f. and dry hopped for 12 hours with 60 grams each of Columbus and Idaho 7, then another addition of dry hops for 12 more hours with 60 grams each of Columbus and Idaho 7.

Transfer to kegs and lagered 1 month in refer at 40f.

On tap now at my house if you want to come by for a pint. Cheers!

Where's the head?

 Why IPA Foam Ain’t What It Used to Be

After spending two years nestled in the warm tortilla-fold of Michoacan, Mexico, I returned to California expecting certain things: traffic, overpriced avocados, and IPAs with foam — you know, the normal stuff. But no. The craft beer I once knew had changed — like an old friend who used to be the life of the party but now sighs a lot and wears Hokas.

What struck me most — and yes, it felt personal — was the absence of head. Not mine, though arguably that’s long gone, but the kind that used to crown a pint glass with snowy, cloud-like dignity. These days, every IPA I’m handed at the bar or I pour from a can has the low carbonation of a forgotten bottle of sparkling water that’s been sitting in the back of the fridge since last Christmas, and the lack of foam that makes me question everything I thought I knew about what a good IPA should be. There it sits in front of me, hoppy as hell, yes — but also just liquid disappointment and the faint echo of better times.

Flat: My Sudsy Disappointment

Modern West coast IPA's have a way of showing up at your table looking like they’ve already been sipped. One big culprit is dry hopping. Great for aroma — really, it’s why your beer smells like a bag of grapefruit peels and why you love it, but when brewers load it in late, they also add oils and compounds that kill foam. It still smells amazing, but the head takes the hit.

A lot of these West coast beers also use low-protein malts, or even adjuncts like rice or corn to keep things light and crisp. That works for keeping the malt flavor low to highlight the hops, sure, but it means there’s less structure to hold any foam in place. And then you’ve got all the filtering and fining — the stuff that makes the beer clear and pretty, but strips out the proteins that help with head retention. Crystal clear often means no drama in the glass. That said, there are many that are unfiltered or purposely hazy that still present headless and low in carbonation.

Some yeast strains don’t help either. They’re chosen for a clean finish, or bio-transformation but don’t bring much to the table when it comes to foam. So the beer drinks smooth and fruity, but looks like someone forgot to finish pouring it.

I want to take the lessons I've learned from my sad experience with many of the current Ipa's I've drunk here and utilize them in my home brewery in Mexico when I return. I still want some of those hop bombs but may make some ajustments to my grain bill to mitigate this negative hop oil effect. I think most effective would be an increase in dextrin malt. My thought is that the added body may help. But I'm also willing to try tossing in some wheat or chit malt to help build that foam. I may ease up on the dry hops, I still want that aroma, but maybe I won’t go overboard. A lighter touch can mean better head retention and still get the point across that it's a hoppy beer. Finally, I'll try to dial in my carbonation levels to 2.5 volumes. I suspect that some of the canned beers I've had are low in carbonation out of fear of over-carbonation from a refermentation in the can due to hop creep. That's just me guessing.

In the mean time there are some West Coast breweries I would recommend that still build an Ipa with proper foam:

• Beachwood Brewing (Long Beach): West Coast bangers with killer head retention.
• Russian River Brewing (Santa Rosa): “Pliny the Elder” still crushes it with stable foam and big hops.
• Sierra Nevada Brewing Co. (Chico): Classic brewery, textbook foam quality.

Cheers!

Josephsbrau Hefeweizen Review

 The beer was called Josephsbrau. It sat on the shelf at Trader Joe’s with a label faded and forgettable, a name like a whisper in a language I used to know. There were no Boatswain lagers that day. No proof for the theory I’d come to test. Only this wheat beer. Amber and solemn. A thing waiting to be chosen.

I took it home.

It poured the color of dusted brass. Too dark, maybe. Heavy in the glass. The smell rose up like something old and honest—clove and banana and grain. A wheat beer from the old world. Or the ghost of one. I drank it and it was good. Not perfect. But good in the way something can be when it surprises you and asks nothing more than that you notice.

I believed it was brewed by Gordon Biersch, down in San Jose. And the name brought something back.

A restaurant in Aptos the Brittania Arms, years ago. A man behind a bar. Dan Gordon. There was a promotion, some cheap celebration. Buy a pint and get a mug. A man like me doesn’t turn down a mug. So I did. And the brewer signed it. A scrawl across the ceramic like a trail in snow. Illegible.

I looked at it awhile. Then returned.

I’m sorry, I said. I hate to ask. But I can’t read it.

He looked at me. The silence came like smoke from a train too far away to hear. Then he reached beneath the bar and signed another. Slow and careful. Like it mattered. And it did.

I kept that mug for a while. Then not. Things go. They vanish. But the memory stayed.

So now I drink the beer. The hefeweizen with the quiet label and the long shadow of a better day. And I think maybe this is what kindness looks like. Maybe this is what memory tastes like.

And maybe that’s enough.

Boatswain IPA Review

 

Do you remember that old Smucker’s jam commercial? “With a name like Smucker’s, it has to be good.” I suppose the idea was that no one would dare saddle a product with such an unfortunate name unless it had something redeeming inside the jar. I thought about that as I stared down a six-pack of Boatswain IPA at Trader Joe’s—the beer equivalent of an off-brand cereal trying its best to look earnest. At $5.99, it practically leapt into my cart, whispering, “I won’t hurt you... much.”

I wanted it to be good. Not out of optimism, exactly, but out of necessity. A beer that cheap has to be good, otherwise what’s the point of capitalism? But the name—Twin Screw Steamer—sounded less like an India Pale Ale and more like a nautical mishap. And sure enough, it drank like one. Imagine a rusty barge moored in a Wisconsin inlet, full of malt syrup, the scent of cardboard, and the gentle fizz of regret.

From what I could gather in the 37 seconds I spent Googling it, Rhinelander Brewing Co.—named after a town nestled somewhere north of Green Bay—contract brews this for Trader Joe’s. And while I’d like to believe they meant well, this beer has all the charm of a Midwestern uncle who tells you IPAs are "too bitter" but then hands you one that tastes like oxidized raisin bread.

It’s dark, overly sweet, low in carbonation, and bears all the head retention of a root beer left out overnight. As for the hops? I sniffed. I swirled. I wondered briefly if I’d lost my sense of smell. Nothing. It's not that it lacks bitterness entirely—it's just that it's the kind of bitterness you get when you’ve bitten into a stale dinner roll expecting it to be warm.

I understand that taste is regional. People in the Midwest, bless their hearts, think a dollop of cottage cheese on a ring of lime Jell-O counts as salad. But this? This was less an IPA and more a cry for help from someone who’s only read about hops in books. Damp books.

Now, to be fair—and I do believe in fairness—it does contain alcohol. And if that’s your metric, then Boatswain IPA is technically a success. You will get buzzed, eventually. But so will sipping antifreeze, and I’d argue the flavor profile’s not terribly different.

I visited Untappd, the beer-rating app where strangers tell lies to each other. “Hoppy!” several reviewers crowed. I considered writing back, but decided that politely disagreeing with strangers online is only slightly more pointless than drinking the beer itself.

That said, I haven’t fully written off Rhinelander. Their lighter offerings might hold more promise. The American light lager, after all, is their region’s legacy—right up there with cheese curds and passive-aggressive small talk. And at this price point, disappointment is practically built into the business model.

In summary: too sweet, too malty, too flat, too Midwestern. But hey—it was cheap.

Glycol Chiller Part II

open fermenter also know as a garbage can

In Part 1, we took a dive into how I engineered a DIY glycol chiller—a way to keep my fermenters cool without emptying my wallet. From repurposing an air conditioner to using a temperature controller and a humble light bulb to trick the system, the build is all about thinking outside the box and making sure my beer stays in that perfect fermentation temperature zone. But keeping the glycol chilled is only half the battle. Here in Part 2, let me show you how I circulate that cold glycol to maintain the ideal fermentation temperatures and make sure everything stays on track during the hot months. Let's get that cold fluid where it really counts.

Now that we’ve got a reliable reservoir of sub-zero glycol humming along in our Igloo cooler, it’s time to move that cold power where it counts: the fermenters. At the center of this operation is what I like to call the Command Module

—a black utility box fitted with three ST-1000 temperature controllers and corresponding electrical outlets. Each controller is assigned to a fermenter, with its own dedicated temperature probe immersed in the beer. Actually, the probe is not immersed, it's duct taped to the inside of the garbage can and then a food grade liner (bag) is placed into the garbage can so that the fermenting beer doesn't touch the plastic. But the sensor is in indirect contact with the beer through the plastic liner. Power flows in from a 110v line at the base, while the three sensor cables feed in from the fermenters, giving the controllers real-time temperature data.

Each outlet is split into two zones: the top socket handles cooling, and the bottom socket handles heating. When a controller senses the beer creeping above the set temp, it energizes the top outlet—simultaneously activating a pump and opening a solenoid valve. That’s the magic moment: glycol is unleashed, rushing through a garden hose coiled around a garbage can fermenter, drawing out the excess heat and returning to the glycol reservoir. If the beer drops below target? The bottom socket kicks on a heating pad tucked beneath the can, gently nudging the temperature back up.

It’s a tightly orchestrated dance of sensors, solenoids, and controlled chaos—all in the name of perfect fermentation.

Fermenter with water heater insulation

So yes—at first glance, and second for that matter, the whole setup might look like something cobbled together in a backwoods lawmower shed. It’s not shiny, it’s not stainless, and it sure won’t be winning any design awards. But what it is—is effective. This system controls fermentation temperatures with surprising precision, all at a fraction of the cost of the sleek, space-age hardware you’ll currently find in your online homebrew outlet. Case in point? I was able to crash cool my last India Pale Lager down to 40°F overnight—no sweat, no drama. Just clever engineering on a budget.

Cheers!

DIY Glycol Chiller: Because it's fun

When it comes to homebrewing on a budget, the name of the game is resourcefulness. We’re talking Goodwill ingenuity, garage-engineered brilliance, and yes—even cardboard boxes and plumbing scraps if the job calls for it. Because at the end of the day, if it works, it works. And if it works well? Even better.

Take, for instance, my homemade glycol chiller—a critical piece of equipment for keeping fermentations cool during the toasty months here in Michoacán. You could drop some serious cash on a commercial unit from a reputable supplier like MoreBeer! or Northern Brewer, and you’d be perfectly justified in doing so. But if you're like me—stretching every dollar like sourdough starter—you start looking at what's lying around and think, there's got to be a better way. Spoiler: there is.

The Concept

The goal is simple: maintain a reservoir of chilled glycol to circulate around fermentation vessels, keeping them at a consistent temperature even when ambient conditions say otherwise.

The method? A little creative subversion of modern appliances, a reliable temperature controller, and some good old-fashioned DIY elbow grease. 

The Build

Let’s start with the core of the system: a 5,000 BTU Mirage window air conditioner. I carefully disassembled it (read: didn’t just rip it open with a crowbar), isolating the cooling coil assembly, which was then submerged in a 60-quart Igloo cooler filled with a glycol-water mixture. This transforms your everyday beverage cooler into a cold bath powerhouse. To be clear, after removing the unit housing I needed to slowly and carefully bend the copper tubing.

Now, here’s where the clever bit happens. A standard Inkbird temperature controller monitors the glycol temperature via a submerged probe. When that glycol creeps above 32°F, the Inkbird sends power to—wait for it—a low-wattage light bulb. That bulb is positioned directly against the air conditioner's internal temperature sensor.

Wait… a light bulb?

Yes, because here's the trick: the air conditioner only turns on if it thinks the room is hot enough. The front panel is set to 80°F, a temperature the room never actually reaches. But when the light bulb warms the sensor, the air conditioner believes it’s sweltering, kicks on the compressor, and starts chilling.

When the glycol drops to the target 28°F (with a 4°F differential), the Inkbird shuts off the light bulb. The sensor cools, the A/C thinks the room has returned to its happy place, and the compressor shuts off. Elegant? Maybe not. Effective? Absolutely.

The Cycle

To recap:

• Glycol > 32°F? → Inkbird powers light bulb → Sensor heats → A/C compressor turns on

• Glycol ≤ 28°F? → Inkbird shuts bulb off → Sensor cools → A/C shuts down

Depending on ambient temperature, the system cycles every 4–6 hours—keeping the glycol right in that chilly sweet spot.

Why It Works

This build is a great reminder that temperature regulation isn’t just about cold air—it’s about control. You’re not freezing beer here; you’re managing a tight fermentation window, where degrees matter. And building your own glycol chiller isn’t just a workaround. It’s a better understanding of how cooling systems work, and how you can manipulate them with a few smart tricks.

In Part 2, I’ll walk you through how I circulate the glycol through my fermentation system—because cold fluid in a cooler isn’t doing much unless you can deliver it where it counts.

Until then: stay cool, brew smart, and remember—hardware stores are the toy stores of adulthood.

 

Homebrew In Decline

 

When I started homebrewing in the late ’90s, it wasn’t because I wanted to ride some trendy wave—it was because I was broke and thirsty. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale was my holy grail, but back then, buying a six-pack felt like choosing between good beer and groceries. So I figured, hell, I’ll just make it myself. How hard could it be?

Pretty damn hard, it turns out.

I dove in headfirst, drunk on the belief that I could crack their code on my first or second try. Spoiler alert: I couldn’t. Batch after batch of well-intentioned swill taught me a humbling truth—good beer isn't easy. It takes patience. Precision. Pain. But through all the misfires and off flavors, I kept going. Somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing Sierra Nevada and started making something that was mine. It wasn’t their beer anymore. It was my beer. And it was good.

Back then, homebrewing felt like a secret society—a ragtag crew of misfits and dreamers stirring kettles in garages, swapping yeast strains like old vinyl. It was small, scrappy, and electric.

By 2013, the American Homebrewers Association claimed 1.2 million of us were out there, bubbling away in basements and backyards. But a few years later, those numbers slipped. Today? I don’t need data to tell me it’s fading. I can feel it. The forums are quieter. The homebrew shops thinner. The energy’s changed.

Some say the rise of craft beer killed the hobby—why brew when you can just buy something amazing off the shelf? Maybe they’re right. But that was never why I did it. It wasn’t just about the beer. It was the process. The alchemy. The long boil on a cold day, the hiss of fermentation, the camaraderie of the club. We weren’t just brewing—we were building something. A ritual. A rebellion. A way to say, "This one’s mine."

And yeah, I was cheap too. Ten gallons of my house pale ale cost me about twenty-five cents a pint—ingredients, gas, CO2, the works. But that wasn’t the point. Not really.

Now? It feels like something’s gone missing. Like the soul of homebrewing has slipped out the back door without saying goodbye. And just to rub salt in the wound, the craft beer industry—the one we helped ignite—is shrinking, too. Taprooms closing. Tanks drying. The revolution’s slowing down.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m getting old, stuck in some sudsy nostalgia loop. But I miss it. I miss what it meant. What it gave us. That fire. That freedom.

Sorry. Give me a moment.

Time to brew some lagers

With my homebrew glycol system now up and running (more on that soon), it felt like the perfect time to dive into the world of lagers. I tend to gravitate toward classic styles, so my latest brew is a nod to the standard American lager—clean, crisp, and easy-drinking. Below you'll find the recipe for what I'm calling Markweiser, a rice lager featuring 22% pre-cooked white rice in the grain bill. It’s light, refreshing, and made to be shared.

Markweiser

I brewed an 11 gal. post boil batch anticipating 2 full 5 gallon kegs after fermentation. I referenced Bru'n water yellow balanced profile and used 75% reverse osmosis water.

Effeciency 92%, Attenuation 87%, ABV 5.5% (on the high side for style), SRM 3, IBU 17, O.G. 1.048, F.G. 1.006

14 lbs. Pilsner malt

8 ounces of dextrin malt

4 lbs. cooked rice

Mashed in at 150f. for 90 minutes to fully convert the rice starch and boiled 90 minutes with 30 gram warrior hops for bitterness and a coolpool addition at 170f. for 20 minutes with 30 grams Hallertau for aroma. Then into the fermenter with salvaged 34/70 yeast from a previous batch of Munich helles.

The beer turned out pretty good. Could it be better? Of course. One change I would make would be to get my mash ph down from 5.5 to 5.2 as the higher mash ph may have contributed to a very subtle astringency. If you have any questions about this recipe or of my processes, leave them in the comment section below.

Cheers!