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.

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.

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.

El Cervecero

Thought I'd share an image that Susan made for me when we first got here in San Miguel and I started building a brewery. I especially like the dog skeleton lying on the floor.

You can see more images by Susan at www.susandorf.com

A Typical Brew Day

My day begins with the mile or so walk to the brewery. I follow a series of roads that run alongside a shallow river that skirts the center of town. Now, during the rainy season this river is brown and moves quickly towards the reservoir that spreads out past the old train depot. Discarded litter, plastic bags, dirty diapers and rotten vegetable matter all get transported by the rush of the tainted water along with voluminous amounts of dog shit that joins the parade as run-off from the cobbled lanes. But during the dry season it's tepid flow slows and turns to the neon yellow/green color of radiator fluid and emits a smell that can only be described as a combination of swamp gas, raw sewage and burning hair all of which it may actually consist of in part.

San miguel is built in a canyon and I navigate to avoid the steeper hills but the last few hundred yards to the brewery can't be avoided and I labor to finish my walk. Once I arrive (if it's a brew day) I immediately start heating the mash water. I want to start quickly because this is going to be a a long day. My personal best? Ten hours. The day before, I weight out and milled all the grain, prepared the water chemistry and weight out the hops needed to brew four batches of beer back-to-back.

Within moments of prying open the squeaky door to the brewery the next door neighbor boy "el nino", I don't know his real name, shows up looking for work. His hair is mussed and eyes look sleepy, evidently just having sprung from his bed. He has started wearing black rubber boots like mine and he has an expected look in his eyes of pesos and root beer. Usually I send him away with "no trabajo hoy". but when he arrives in the afternoon there's usually something I can task him with if nothing more than having him squeegee the brewing water off the tiled floor into the street. I pay him about ten pesos an hour which judging by his excitement is good money for a 9 year old Mexican boy. He knows which tap on the refrigerator is root beer and asks if he can fill himself a plastic cup worth and then says in English "thank you" after I say it's o.k.

On this day I'm about halfway through my work and I've got twenty gallons of wort in the plastic fermentor when I hear a commotion outside. I look to see yet again, a dead man laying on the sidewalk. A small group of people are gathered around, one person is fanning his face while another cradles his head in her lap. It appears the general belief is that he can be revived but I've seen this mans expression before. His languid, slack jawed resignation and slightly grey appearance tells me he's not here anymore. Soon, someone who seems to be a doctor shows up and has the assembled shuttle the heavy body into the shade on the other side of the street as if that may be the remedy. Finally an ambulance arrives to take him away and it's all over. I go back to my task of brewing, I look up at the thermometer reading on the wall clock, 98f. Two more batches to brew today.

Finally, it gets to be that time during the brew day when I can crack open a 'short fill' and spend a moment appreciating the fruits of my labor. Today it's an Imperial IPA. The clarity and straw colored effervescence draws me into my first bitter/sweet taste and I immediately recognize why the customers demand this beer. One even went so far as to compare it to Ballast Point's Sculpin IPA. Am I flattered? Yes, I admit it. I look out the front of the brewery onto the street, the Mexicans walk up and down the stone pavers peering in as they pass with surprise and wonder at the gringo with his kettles and burners, emitting steam, heat and aromatics that come when brewing beer. What are they thinking? I don't know but I speculate that they're saying to themselves "I could do that. I could make money doing that." They have no idea of the price you pay for really only what amounts to the reward of great beer. It's not about the money (or lack of money) at this level, it's about making ends meet to brew more of the same.

In the end, the fermentor is full and rolled back into the cold room, the cleaning done and the chiller is soaking in caustics. I gather myself up for the walk back home. I'm exhausted and mildly drunk from an accumulation of beer samples but feel satisfied with the efforts I put in.  A good days work.

Leaving The Land Of Great Beer

After two fantastic beer filled months in Santa Cruz I'm back in Mexico carrying on where I left off with the Cerveceria Dos Aves project. I hated to leave Santa Cruz, my good friends and homebrewing compadres, the beautiful weather and beach scene, the vibe and of course the awesome craft beers that make the Mexican craft beer scene pale in comparison. I spent more than I should have of my personal budget on beer but I was so starved for the quality craft beer that the States has to offer that I couldn't help myself. From the hoppy malty deliciousness of Drakes Denogginizer and Knee Deep's Hoptologist to the local sour scene at Sante Adairius Rustic Ales I immersed myself deeply knowing that soon I would return to a country that has a lot of ground to cover to reach the level of quality and creativity that seems to be a standard in the brewing industry in California. Of course my mission here in San Miguel is to do my part to help propel the craft beer movement in Mexico in the right direction.

Sante Adairius Rustic Ales

The morning I flew into Leon and shuttled to my new apartment I slept for a few hours before anxiously running down to the brewery to confirm that it was still intact, there weren't any floods and that it still had power. I felt good as I lifted the lid to my kegerator to see full kegs chilled and ready to be bottled or put on tap at The Beer Company. I looked inside my refers checking on more kegs, frozen pounds of hops and chilled mason jars of salvaged yeast that seemed to call out to be released into a fresh batch or receptive wort. I looked over the stacked cases of bottled beer in inventory and pulled a bottled from each batch to refrigerate for sampling later in order to see how they held up over the last two months of warm storage.
The space was a in a little bit of disarray and I could see my first task was to clean and organize including running some hot caustic cleaner through the brewing system. This I planned to follow with a soaking of acid sanitizer making sure my next batch of beer would be free of any spoiling contaminates that may have grown in the murky depths of my plate chiller while I was gone. My second task was to re-establish my contacts with the restaurants and bars that purchased Dos Aves for resale. These business owners are key to moving our product and exposing our brand to the locals and having a good relationship with them is a priority for me. I want to make sure they know that Dos Aves is not a flash in the pan like so many start-up businesses in San Miguel end up being. They need to be re-assured that they will continue to get a well made and fresh product that they will be proud to serve to their loyal customers. My strategy here is to visit each one of them taking a sample of what is currently available and hopefully solicit some sales in the near future.

Cerveceria Dos Aves

Finally, I want to brew! I badly need to satisfy my brewing fix and get my creative juices flowing. Right now the town of San Miguel is slow but in another month things will be picking up and I want to be ahead of the curve this year. Last year I found myself playing catch-up as the demand for my pale ale and Belgian tripel was unexpectedly huge. I reluctantly had to provide beers that could have benefited from another week of cold storage. I don't want to replay that regret and so getting some inventory in stock, especially the tripel would take some of the pressure off of me and the brewery capacity as the season picks up in September/October. I also want to have some specialty beers on hand as a way of getting people excited about what's new coming out of the brewery and also have on hand unique beers that could be used in beer/food pairings which are becoming very popular here.
These beer/food pairings and other events are great for exposing Dos Aves to the town of San Miguel.

So, I'm off and running and the future seems bright with possibilities for great beer and brewing experiences in Mexico.

P.S. Remember to help with my Indiogogo campaign to raise money for the brewery. Go here to see how you can support and possibly get free beer!

California Beer Fest 2012

Have I suddenly become old? Hardened by years of beer related activities? Am I now a jaded homebrew geek too caught up in his own pretension to have fun anymore? These are the questions that flooded my mind as I attended a recent beer festival.

This year I again played a minor role in supporting the California Beer Festival held at Aptos park on Saturday. In the midst of the spectacle (height of pandemonium?) I had a life altering revelation. Out of the blue it became crystal clear to me that I don't care too much for beer festivals anymore. God help me, I think I may have outgrown them.

When I first fell in love with beer festivals I was just beginning my homebrewing journey and like a heat seeking missile, I sought out anything beer. I remember fondly my first festival. It was at Booneville and as I think back about my experience, I recall that the beers were all exceptional, the crowds were small, enthusiastic and excited to try the new beers available for tasting. Occasionally, a groundswell of a cheers would rise up each time someone accidentally dropped and shattered their tasting glass. The contagious waves of shouts and groans quickly spread from the epicenter before reaching a crescendo and then just as fast die out. Everyone had a smile on their face, the weather was mild and beautiful and the day ended before you could say "a wee deek on boont harpin's" and we headed off to our campsites to continue the drinking, raising a toast with our newly befriended comrades.

That was a lot of festivals and many years ago now and it's sad to say that I've come to a point where I frankly just don't care anymore. Now the crowds seem huge and aggressive pushing forward in unending lines to sample the most generic of beers. My enthusiasm has been drained and it makes me see people as less friendly. Sad reproach passes over my face as I receive my taster glass that's now made of plastic. In the old days, before I lost my enthusiasm, the people that dressed in costumes to celebrate the day, amused and delighted me, now I look at the spectacle through critical eyes and try to staunch the flow of cynicism as I watch grown men dressed as giant hop flowers sweat through green face paint while caricatures of 'Duff' beer cans stagger sideways leering through their beer mug shaped sun glasses.

The festivals haven't changed but I have and as much as I want to believe my loss of interest is due to a sophistication that comes from exposure, the truth is that my tolerance for much of the experience has grown thin. It reminds me of the late 70's when I reveled in the solid walls of sound during the arena rock concerts I attended. Mile High stadium, surrounded by thirty thousand people, clambering toward the front of the stage for a view of Peter Frampton singing "Do you feel like we do?" (chances are I'm one of those screamers in the audience on the 'Comes Alive' album) or Steve Miller or Fleetwood Mac. I lost myself in the glory that was not only musical bliss but a group experience that included mind altering drugs. Then, as time went by and I grew older I found that the crowds became a detractor and that I could enjoy the music more through a good home music system. It wasn't about the group experience anymore but about the quality of the product. Does this make me old? Simply put, yes.

My discovery, my revelation was that now at this point in my life and with the experiences that I've had I prefer focusing on the end product, the beer. I'm discovering that a smaller venue where I can experience rare or unusual and unique or just plain well crafted beers shared with close personal friends is my preference.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not here to disrespect. Naturally, the beer festival still serves it's purpose and I'm all for continuing the practice.  It's a great place to gather as a community and be exposed to a wide variety of beers and enjoy some that may not be available locally. If it wasn't for the many festivals that I've attended in the past I would not have had the opportunity to meet some great people and to have access to dozens of beers in one convenient location. Another inherent value that kept me returning year after year is the chance to discover new breweries. During this last festival I came across a small start-up called Riley's Brewing located in Madera, California. The owner Dan Riley was on hand to talk about his line up of beers and it was great to be able to talk one on one with a brewery owner. Another benefit to attending beer festivals is the occasional special beer that shows up. Karl Strauss Brewing Company had some bottles of their Russian Imperial Stout that I've never seen in the stores here and it is an excellent beer. Finally, another rare opportunity was Lagunitas's 'Little Sumpin Wild' that was being served by Santa Cruz's own Red Restaurant and Bar. Very good beer. At the end of the day, these are excellent benefits for beer enthusiast like myself and they often only happen at beer festivals.

But for me, I'm moving on to the next venue. I'm not sure what that will look like but it probably has a pretty short line to the taps.

Homebrewing As Religion

Homebrewing can be like an ancient religion, a cauldron full of dogmatic traditions and rituals. There are a lot of practices going on that are based on general assumptions that continue to be passed on year after year from brewer to brewer.

One case in point - a mash tun insulation jacket. It looks technical, fits in with the consensus that it's stabilizing and prolongs mash temperatures (a good thing for sure) and creates the warm fuzzy sensation that all is right in the world while you're brewing your best bitter. But do you really need it?

I'm not going to launch into my history of the "don't ask just do it, mind set". I've covered that sad tale Here. I just want to get to the bones about being able to brew a decent batch of beer. That skill doesn't necessarily require some of the practices that we use as homebrewers today. There are a few things I know from personal experience that have convince me that many things we do as homebrewers is purely based on accepted practices that warrant a little investigation.

Put on a jacket - it's cold out there!

For instance, I don't care much for carboys. At this point in my homebrewing career I don't see the value of their popularity.  Consequently, I've spent some entertaining time questioning my fellow homebrewers regarding the idea of using them. The fact is, in my past, I've done my fair share of genuflections and prayer in front of them asking a higher power for a successful ferment but for the most part, the best I can get back from the loyalists I talk to is that they like to watch them and they're necessary for hygienic qualities. But is it true? Does using a carboy with an airlock really benefit the beer or the brewer? Is the beer safer and more protected in a carboy, allowing it to mature into a healthy beer. Or is it just what we do because that's what we've been taught over the years and that's what Charlie said to do in his book?

There's plenty of history, ancient and current that points to the contrary. Look no further than Anchor Brewing with their open fermentors. My experience with open fermentation tells me that the carboy is highly over rated and unnecessary,  passe' at best, a pain to clean and a health hazard at worst. Can I defend the carboy? Sure, aging beer in a carboy for long periods may be of value but still even that defense deserves some investigation. Maybe a secondary fermentation in a carboy with additional sugars deserves some thought. Still, using carboys instead of easier and qualitatively equal methods (open) leaves me thinking that ritual, paranoia and superstition may be behind the resistance to let go of an idea.
 
This brings me back to the mash jacket insulation technique that I witness at this years Big Brew event at Seabright Brewery in Santa Cruz, California. Friends and fellow Zymurgeek brewers Winslow and Dave were using their three tiered, gravity fed brew sculpture to brew a batch that day. Their mash tun was decorated with what appeared to be Liberache's sequined vest,  a metallic bubble wrap jacket held securely in place with tape at the seam. I asked about the value of this insulation wrap and suggested that it may not be warranted. They naturally defended it's proper place in their arsenal of equipment and so I challenged them to an experiment. We would brew two identical batches of beer. One to be mashed with said Liberache's mash tun jacket and the other without, and so I soon found myself in their yard a couple weeks later brewing up a pair of blond style ales and the experiment was on. The following are the results from samples that Winslow took during the course of the mashes.

Treatment 1: Mash Tun with reflex insulation (sample taken by recirculating 30 oz of wort and then sampling 10 oz in a mug, Ambient temperature ~63f. degrees, overcast)

Time Temp

10:20(Mash In)= 152.7

10:35= 148.0
11:00= 145.9

11:15= 144.0

11:25= 146.6 (this sample was taken by placing the thermometer in the stream from Mash Tun to Boil Kettle)

OG: 1.048
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Treatment 2: Mash Tun w/o reflex ( sample taken by recirculating 2 gallons of wort and then sampling 10 oz in a mug, Ambient temperature ~75, direct sun)

12:50(Mash In)= 152.5

13:05= 148.6

13:20= 146.0

13:35= 144.6

13:50= 146.0 (this sample was taken by placing the thermometer in the stream from Mash Tun to Boil Kettle)

As you can see from the test results, the mash without the insulation was at the end of the mash schedule only 4/10th of one degree Fahrenheit lower than the mash that was sporting the insulation jacket. Conclusive proof in an off handed way that the jacket was not needed. Let's also not forget that most of the enzymatic action is taking place within the first 20 minutes of the mash time and that the thermal mass is the main source of maintaining the temperature during this time period. There is some data to show this truth.

But in the end, my opinion, like so much silly science is no good. Like so many brewers caught in the idea, the actual results made no difference as I found out later that Winslow and Dave still use the bubble wrap insulated jacket with complete abandon, despite the results of our trials. The idea behind the insulation may be more valuable then the reality. Thus my contention that homebrewing could be very much like the beliefs of those that brewed before the invention of the thermometer or the discovery of micro-biology. Let the dogma bark my friends, or as Dr. House would say "...with the absence of rational comes ritual."

My insulated mash tun just had a baby! It's a blond.

Hair Of The Dog Brewery

Attention homebrewers: one of the most important elements for a successful relationship between you and your significant other is the ability to communicate that they come first over your brewing hobby.

This seems at first glance a simple and obvious statement,  (or maybe just crazy talk) but how often do we ignore what is seemingly common sense? As passionate homebrewers we often move through the world with a maniacal focus on all things beer related, occasionally coming up for air now and again to see what the rest of the world is doing. Only then do we realize how we've completely ignored those that are important in our lives.

 This is the moment when the questions arise 'what can I do to make this right?'
Initially you might make the authoritative declaration, 'I'm not going to talk exclusively about brewing tools, techniques, equipment, the latest hop, the next beer festival, why my beer didn't attenuate, and on and on and on' Naturally, you both know this is a non-starter. When was the last time you went a whole day without some kind of beer talk? Setting goals that are too impossibly high to achieve is setting yourself up for failure. Better to aim for something reasonable.

 Well, I personally have not come up with the answer to this dilemma with the exception of one possible solution. How about putting a beer on tap with her name on it? A real private reserve so to speak, that she can call her own and claim you brewed it specifically for her because you love her! Maybe give it a cute label like, My Honey's Honey Ale, or I Only Have Ales For You. Now, I'm not suggesting that you deceive her or that this is in any way manipulative but that this gesture is done with the utmost sincerity and loving intention.

For this very reason, I found myself sitting down with fellow Zymurgeek homebrewer Mark C. to taste and evaluate Hair of the Dog's 'Ruth' pale ale. Mark is interested in brewing this beer at his wife's request. She took to liking this beer enough to make a request of ten gallons to be available on tap exclusively for her enjoyment.
Having a beer on tap that is specifically brewed for your partner, provides you with not only the opportunity to express appreciation and gratitude towards her, (proving that you do think of her and see her as more important than brewing), but also has the added benefit of paving the way towards opportunities (that is, agreements and cooperation) to expand on your brewing operations. Of course this would be a secondary consideration.

In any case we opened a bottle to enjoy and to see if we could recreate this great pale ale on a homebrewer scale.

This beer is golden copper in color and had very low carbonation and so was poured from about a foot above the glass to get a head on it. It is malt forward with some subtle fruitiness and little hop flavor. The bitterness is low but lingers long after the swallow. This is an easy drinking beer with low alcohol (4.5%), low carbonation and low bitterness, although the bitterness does well to balance the malt.

I sent off an email to the brewer asking for the recipe but haven't heard back yet and I'm not holding my breath. From what Mark and I could find on the label and through our observation and taste analysis of this beer, we're guessing it is mostly Pilsner malt with a small percentage of crystal #20 and or crystal #40. There may very well be a small amount of Victory malt too. The original gravity is approximately 1.042 with a final gravity of 1.010 and a bittering hop on the harsher end of the scale like Chinook at about 25 ibu's.

I'm sure there are many other ways of telling the ones you love that they are more important than your obsession with beer but during the writing of this post I couldn't come up with more. Please leave your suggestions in the comment section below so that all of us can benefit from the ideas.

Beer Reverie

Sometimes, while in the middle of doing something mundane like driving out of Santa Cruz on highway 1 at stop and go speeds, my mind wanders and takes me on an equally mundane journey through random memories and I lose my sense of reality. I drift aimlessly between thoughts of my most recent behavior of the previous night at the brewpub, including all the sordid details that led me to believe I lack any redeemable qualities. I don't think I was being inconsiderate, just misunderstood but it left me feeling alien.
This prompted a flash back to an earlier time in my life, I think I was eight. My father yanked on the newly mended broken arm that I'd been nursing for weeks after the cast was removed, trying to force it back to bending naturally. Later, I clutched it bent to my chest and supported it at the wrist in the exact position it was in while bandaged. It ached and I was certain that even the slightest bending motion would snap the freshly knitted bones again and the memory of that original pain lived on in my arm with vengeful persistence. Did I misunderstand my father? Was he concerned with helping strengthen my newly healed limb with some sort of forced rehabilitation or was he simply inconsiderate? Is this the original cause for the inconsideration that now shows up in my behavior? I'm sure there's more to it than that.

I snapped back from my reverie and for a moment, focused on my driving. It was late afternoon and the heat of the day was in full progress. The sound of the passing traffic made me turn to see the tired faces of people around me going to who knows where, and for some reason this brought me to the recent memory of the carton of soy milk I left out on the kitchen counter. I knew that Susan would put it back in the fridge after she fixed her morning tea. This led to the concern that it would be hard for her to find a place on the shelf for it because I had crammed every available space that morning with cases of bottled beer for an upcoming beer tasting I was to conduct. I pushed dairy products, bread bags and other miscellaneous food stuff to the sides with aggressive force. Now, large bottles of Belgian ales and six packs of homebrew crowded the chilled real estate. The recognition of this one selfish act struck me as a single example representing a catalog of numerous lines I've crossed over in our domestic agreements, infringements that brought me to ask myself where my values lie.

At the time, I justified to myself that it wouldn't be long before I relinquished the unfair portion of space I claimed, but I didn't think it through further than the end of that silent statement. A day, a week, it didn't matter to me, because this was highly valuable beer for God's sake, and stood on it's own merit as deserving of priority over the blocks of cheese and plastic tubs of leftovers. Who could question its importance, giving it the authority to occupy with impunity. I tried to disregard the shadow of concern that lingered, a concern that insisted that I'd pushed the boundaries of consideration. That common if unspoken agreement between couples that the refrigerator is a shared place and shouldn't be taken for granted much less taken over. This all occurred to me between thoughts as I idled in my car, too late now that the deed was done of course. In fact, much too late, relative to the relationship 'time/space' continuum.

In my defense, I realized how it's an unnatural state for me to behave with thoughtful and compromising behavior in regards to others or with selfless generosity. Regrettably, preemptive consideration is a foreign land, inhabited by other people. I live just outside there in a place I like to call, Me.  Most of the time, thinking of others occurs to me as an afterthought, slow, deliberate and under pressure, like gas bubbles rising from a pr-historic tar pit. Still, I console myself, it's something isn't it? To have regret, even as an afterthought. It's often the case that I spend a lot of time later trying to correct the damages caused by my disregard. Better than nothing, I tell myself. Better than being inconsiderate and not caring at all.

Well, as late and slow as I am, I do care about how I effect others, which led me to believe that my internal concern was enough to correct the wrong action. Isn't that enough?
I thought, wouldn't she recognize that I have feelings of remorse and regret and she'd say to herself, in the voice of someone trying to prevent their new puppy from peeing on the rug:
'Look at him having those concerned thoughts, what a good boy. He's experiencing such discomfort over taking up all that room in the refrigerator. He must feel really bad about that and you know what, I forgive him, don't I. Yes I do.'
Is that such a weird fantasy? Maybe it happens like that for some, I don't know.
The unfortunate part of this line of thinking is that it led me to some serious self reflection and to wonder where my priorities lie. Does my passion for all things beer related over shadow the importance of a relationship that I highly value? I have to be honest, this is a tough question and deserves to be looked at carefully and with deep intent.

On the one hand, I've got a relationship that is loving and satisfying on all kinds of levels, too numerous to elaborate here, (even though I'm sure Susan would like me to). On the other hand, the passion I have for beer and all things that define what beer is to me can and often does take precedence over some important domestic responsibilities. Fortunately,  I don't have to chose between my relationship with beer and my wife, I can have both. But if someone held a gun to my head and made me choose between the two, I'd probably think long and hard. In fact, chances are that I'd think too long and have to take a bullet for my effort.

Am I alone here? Leave a comment.

Brewing During The Economic Collapse

Having a homebrew usually takes the edge off of most of my worries and I've got a lot of worries. But there is one concern I have that is so large that it can't be reduced with a delicious home made malt beverage. I'm talking about the current financial crisis that looms menacingly just beyond the horizon making advancing strides to crush what's left of the American dream.

Now, I don't harbor a lot of American dreams, just the right to brew my own beer and I'm getting this horrific feeling that the economy may impede my efforts to have my dream and drink it too. Every day I listen to the news of the economy and my mind jumps from the current fiscal meltdown to the inevitable related consequences which then leads me to fear this will end up limiting my access to homebrewing. For instance, the revolt in Libya leads to oil shortages which leads to increased costs of gas which means higher grain prices because of higher production and transportation cost which then trickles down to grain shortages and the retail price of malted barley being prohibitively expensive. Or, the U.S. dollar loses it's promonence as the high standard of currency in the world and soon becomes worthless, requiring wheelbarow loads of it to buy a loaf of bread which leads to local families shuffling jobless through the dusty potholed streets of Santa Cruz like those skinny 1930's depression era Okee's in Life magazine. Bleek.

My mind runs these same kind of scenarios regarding hops, yeast and even heat sources. I consider the cost of propane doubling or tripling and even the rent on my apartment could become so high that I end up living in my van. A van with an empty gas tank I might add. How do I brew my beer then? The point is, it could be a pretty grim and difficult future very soon and so I spend untold amounts of time in my head devising strategies and plans for brewing after the introduction of American austerity measures take place. Paranoid? Maybe, but it makes me feel better playing out the mental preperations so that if it came down to it, I could brew a batch of something with little to nothing and still call it beer.

Hops.

As an apartment dweller, is growing my own even an option? I have a large tub on the patio with a rhizome in it as I write this. It looks weak and meager with little sign of growth. This is the first time I've tried growing hops. They've been so inexpensive recently, why grow my own? But now may be the time, if for nothing other than to ease my mind.  I understand it takes a couple of years of continuous growing and dying off before it produces flowers, and I worry that this depression may expand too quickly for my hops to take hold in time. I might become homeless just as my plant comes to fruition. Through my van winshield I squint through my tears to see the new tenant that just moved into my appartment ignorantly hacking back the vine I'd placed such hope in. I could increase my odds of success by not keeping my rhizome in one basket so to speak. Recently, fellow homebrewer Shane mentioned guerrilla hop planting which I thought was a very good idea. Sneaking about in the middle of the night discretely planting rhizomes in not so obvious places in peoples yards or on the freeway meridians or public parks. Dangerous yes, although the real risky business would be later during guerrilla hop harvesting.

Yeast.

Because I'm cheap, I already salvage and reuse my yeast and am pretty familiar with washing yeast but I'm beginning to believe that a full-on lab is in order. The cost associated with purchasing yeast may be minimally effected by the economy but not having access would obviously stop the brewing all together. It's best to act with prudent caution. I think creating a small lab equiped with a few critical tools used in isolating specific wild yeast strains that fall from the sky would be wise. Perfect for small batch testing of new wild yeast strains and if proven tasty, for propagating into pitchable quantities. Being able to produce a yeast colony from nothing is important. At the same time, it wouldn't hurt to stockpile a large quantity of US05 dry yeast packets, say, two hundred or so.

Fuel.

The next challenge is actually brewing the beer. Let's say propane and natural gas are too expensive or supplies are rationed? How about wood fire as a heat source. It has been employed for thousands of years maybe it's time to revisit the days or yore. There are techniques for boiling wort with heated stones too.

It may be time to learn from history and rediscover how beer was brewed before the advent of propane and electricity and refrigeration.

Without propane or natural gas and maybe electricty blackouts, it could be that an old fasioned wood fired kiln is in order. Collecting firewood would be a pain for someone with my bad back but the fence around my patio looks inviting. Seriously though, a brick enclosure that could contain a burning fire below and support a keggle on top would work pretty well. The other option is preheating stones in a fire and periodically adding those to the wort has been shown to bring it to a boil and proven to produce some quality beers in the past. Right now, propane is a lot more expensive then natural gas. Unfortunately, my apartment doesn't have any outside propane. Although, this brilliant idea just occured to me; adapt the gas log lighter in my fireplace to accept a fitting that could be attached to a very long hose, one long enough to snake out through the back patio door to reach my brew rig. I'll have to give this some more thought.

Malted Grain.

This is the tough one. The hops and yeast part of the equation are solved in my mind but again it comes back to malted barley. I haven't been able to come up with a creative solution for a shortage of malt. My best bet is to find a farmer that grows barley that would be willing to trade or sell it cheap. Raw barley is pretty cheap to begin with but malting (and I have some experience here) is a labor intensive and a high energy enterprise to say the least. If push came to shove I'd do it but I wouldn't like it. In the mean time, I've started making connections with some of the vendors at the local farmers market in order to trade homebrew for fish, meat, and eggs. Honey and fruit are possibilities to augment a short supply of barley and these are also at the market that can be bartered for, but I haven't come across anyone selling grain. When the dollar is weak, bartering one real thing for another makes good sense, and beer is of serious value.

There are a lot of people at this very moment stock piling food and water in their basements or wherever to last a couple of years. Taking a point from them, creating a survival stash of beer may be in order. Based on my current consumption of homebrew I would need... oh let's say, four hundred gallons to get me through a couple of survival years. Possibly three hundred gallons if I ration or then again five hundred may be needed if the future environment is particularly bleak.

I don't think I'm alone here. If you have survival brewing ideas to share with the Beer Diary.... readers, please leave them in the comment section. Thanks and good luck.

Brewing in Santa Cruz This Winter

The pull to return to San Miguel De Allende is strong but this year the plan is to stay in California. One of the reasons is to avoid the hardship of giving up a great rental in one of the most difficult places in the world to find affordable decent living space. It is very distressing to come back to Santa Cruz and find a nice place to live that is affordable because of the shortage of housing and the high demand put on the market by all of the University students. In addition to this stress, the effort of packing all of our belongings into storage takes its toll. So, this year I'll stay and work to save for next year.

In the mean time, I'm taking advantage of the cool Winter season to get some lagers brewed and in storage for a couple months of lagering. The overnight temperatures are now in the 40'sF. and with the fermentation chamber I've built in my storage unit (equipped with a thermostat and heat source) I can keep the fermentor at 50f., perfect for the beers I'm brewing. I wanted to save on the cost of yeast, so I'm re-using the wlp840 yeast cake to ferment three beers, a standard American lager, a Munich dunkel and this weekend a doppel bock. The wlp840 is specifically meant for light American lagers but I'll be using it for the German lagers and hope for the best. Can't hurt. I may brew more with another yeast later. At the same time I've got to get some ales brewed quickly as my provisions are running low. Currently I've got a strange pale ale and a amber ale in the kegerator, but that's it. It worries me when I've only got a couple of kegs of ale left.



Kegs at the ready



In addition to making some money and getting some beer brewed I'll be teaching a five week homebrewing course at Cabrillo College beginning in March. I usually don't teach the spring class because of my schedule in Mexico. If you're local and want to attend the classes, click on the link on the side bar and register on-line at the Cabrillo site or go here for a little info on the class and another link to the school site.

 Now that I'm in the midst of the season of long nights I'm contemplating my future and thinking ahead to next fall. Will I return to Mexico? It may have to be a shorter stint, maybe a month so that we don't have to move out of our current place, just keep the place rented allowing an easy return to the states. If I do, where will we go? As much as I enjoy San Miguel, maybe it's time to spend the winter in another part of the country. I think the coast would make a nice change, we'll see.

How To Drink Beer And Not Influence People

I'm sitting at the bar of a crowded brewpub facing off a spread of samplers of beer with an attitude of open mindedness. Halfway through the four ounce tasters laid out before me from light to dark with the specialties set aside, I'm taking in the environment and checking out the brewing equipment behind plate glass windows beside me, trying to see if any brewing action is taking place. It's at this moment that I notice in the reflection of that same plate glass the image of a full table of patrons seated over my right shoulder, one pointing in my direction. One has her hand over her mouth stifling a horsey laugh while another holds his pint glass up to the light in mock admiration. All were unaware that they were being observed and the mocking only lasted a few seconds but it lasted long enough to deflect my attention.



The Pinky Extend



It came as a snapshot of embarrassment for me, and a moment of recognition. Like a postcard held at arms length, it revealed to me what must have appeared an aberrant specter in an otherwise normal setting. Here I am sitting alone with my line up of beers paying tribute to an absent brewer and pretending I'm doing something important when in fact I'm simply squinting through the side of a glass. Those around me don't know what I'm staring at, they may suspect I've discovered the image of the virgin of Guadalupe looking back at me from the depths of the amber liquid.  I'm filled with a momentary flash of shame that feels like I just got caught in a lie. But if this shame is false, I reason, then I can push it away and finish what I started here, put it out of my mind and go back to evaluating beer. Still, it makes me want to think of solutions, which is where my mind goes when I'm not sure of the truth.

As my desire to experience commercial beer grows with my passion for homebrewing, so grows my aberrant behavior. I don't want to come off as a pretentious beer snob, but I do want to fully appreciate the beer I'm drinking, and in order to do that I need to pay attention and use techniques that fully utilize my senses. Sometimes this behavior can appear to be suspect and so a bit of discretion needs to be applied. Below, I have identified the type of  negative tendencies which I do that can cause ordinary patrons to point and laugh. These tendencies can be eliminated or modified to reduce the amount of shameful beer based feelings in the future.

Things I will and won't do at the bar anymore while tasting beer.

• Don't fill out a paper score sheet ranking the beers on a scale for aroma, appearance, flavor
• Do quietly speak into a small hidden microphone clipped to the shirt collar and connected through a thin wire to a digital recorder concealed in a pocket
• Don't raise the glass towards the window to use the sun for checking the color and clarity
• Do bring a mini-mag flashlight to shine through the glass to capture the ruby highlights, additionally this can be hidden from the public in a cloak of darkness by pulling a jacket up over my head
• Don't smell too long, cupping hands over the glass while swirling the beer vigorously to create foam
• Don't breath in deeply with flair nostrils causing whistling sounds
• Don't exclaim righteous approval with exaggerated bodily gestures like high fives to the air
• Do express approval with subtle quivers, stifled belch, slow motion head nod, raised eyebrow (left or right but never both at the same time), smile on the inside, etc.
• Do feel free to take another taste to confirm the initial thought and then repeat
• Don't describe the subtleties that go unnoticed out loud to no one in particular
• Do use the previously mentioned hidden recorder to quietly describe subtleties, or just use the voice in your head, the one that has conversations with itself 
• Don't put an arm around the nearest person and confide "You know what I mean don't you?"
• Do consider putting your arm around the nearest person, then don't
• Don't cross arms in adamant confidence and make proclamations to the wait staff, subtle and quiet at first then gaining volume with each insistent declaration
• Do express appreciation to bartender or wait staff, in the form of a tip 

I've found that enjoying a beer to it's fullest is possible while immersed in the general population but discretion is key to being accepted as normal. I shall continue to expand on the list but with what I have so far, I believe the next time I'm sampling beers, with this list in hand I can refer to it and be confident that I'll exhibit prudent action.

Is that what I really want?

Serve The Good Stuff

I've got a small homebrewing problem which ultimately leads to a moral question of sorts. Here's the problem part. I have two five gallon kegs of beer that I don't care for that much. One I care for much less than the other. The first beer is slightly under attenuated because the yeast went dormant when I let the fermentation room get too cold one night and I was never able to get it up and going again which resulted in it being somewhat sweet even though it's suppose to be an IPA. In addition to that, it has a strange hop character to it that is the results of a strange, albeit creative, hop schedule which although imbued with good intentions, failed to deliver on the idea. Now, I wish that I'd thought twice before using that particular hop schedule. Fortunately I take good notes when I brew so I won't repeat this calamity. The second keg of beer is a pale ale which is extremely dry and consequently on the bitter side for the style. This beer I consider marginally better than the first but not up to my standards.

O.K. so this is not really a big problem but it's annoying in any case. For awhile now I've been blending the first beer with the other inferior beer to get me through the kegs. What has helped is that because the second beer is especially dry it lends a balance to the two. After some sampling, and a bit of concentrated effort I figured that if I fill a third of a glass of the first beer followed by two thirds of the second that I get a pint of reasonably drinkable beer. I've been blending these ales like this for awhile but I'm not liking it. Every time I have to pour one, it's a reminder of the compromise needed to make up for my lack of brewing skills or technique. A sad reflection on my abilities. The bad news is that it doesn't end with a test of my confidence and self esteem, it will unfortunately also eventually lead to the first problem keg still being two thirds full when the second keg is empty. What do I do with over three gallons of almost undrinkable beer?

Now for the moral dilemma.
When serving up your homebrew to friends, not close friends, but acquaintances like co-workers, neighbors or fellow homebrew club members, should you give them your good stuff or pass off the swill that you don't care that much about or in fact can't stand? I suspect that some may find my under-attenuated and strangely hopped beer to be within there description of 'reasonable homebrew', at least that's what I tell myself. They may drink it without complaint, even enjoy it. They may have had plenty of really bad homebrew and think this one is good in comparison but is this acceptable to me, a brewer who holds pride in his craft, serving beer that I don't like myself?

Here's a hypothetical situation. You have two types of homebrew in your fridge, one is an almost full keg of a marginal but drinkable beer that you drink regularly but wish was better every time you take a sip. The second is a limited amount of beer your very proud of and consider it one of your best endeavors. Now, it's time to take a generous sample of your brew to share with acquaintances. Which do you choose?

Andy Rooney - These Glasses Are For Beer

Nothing frustrates me more than to see the dirty residue of a fruit smoothie stuck to the inside of one of my favorite beer glasses.

My beer glasses are an integral part of the equation when it comes to enjoying my favorite beverage. The proper presentation in an unspoiled vessel augments the pure joy of the experience of drinking the product of my efforts and nothing detracts from that experience more than knowing that in the recent past the glass was used for something other than it's God given purpose. I don't think I'm alone in my thinking here. God help me if I am.

When I see my favorite mug filled with lumpy chocolate milk, my body seizes up with convulsive muscle spasms, as I stutter, struggling to form some sensible statement about sacralige and proprietary use with quivering lips. O.K. maybe I don't feel quite that bad, but still.

I guess when you're not obsessed with brewing and beer it just doesn't matter but for this fanatical homebrewer there is nothing more insulting than the cavalier disregard for the sacred vessel. Where does this insensitivity come from?

Evidently the pleading for respect continues to fall on deaf ears. Now, I'm not here to name any names (Susan) but I will say that if you're reading this and you're not a beer fanatic listen carefully... the beer glass is like a holy grail or in this case grail(s). They are not to be used willy nilly for any ol' concoction you can pour into them. They are reserved specifically for the many styles of beer, not shrimp cocktails or psyllium imbued juice blends. No milk based product of any sort, no tea, frapaccino, cucumber/lime/chia seed drinks. The next time you reach for a beer glass admiring the beauty and size to hold the perfect amount of orange julius you just whipped up in the Oster blender, don't do it.

On the other hand, and you may call me a hypocrite here, but any kitchen utensil can be used in the beer brewing process including but not limited to: large spoons, thermometers, colanders, measuring cups/spoons and plastic containers of any sort.

Out of a desire for mutual respect, I will refrain from using the kitchen pot holders.

One Day In Mexico

I picked up a six pack of Modelo 'Barrillitos' from the abarrotes as I headed home. Not because it's a great beer but because it's cheap and I can reuse the bottles in the future for my homebrew. I carried my bolsa outside into the bright light and as I turned the corner to start the climb home I saw a dead man on the street.

Laying on his back, his worn clothes matched the color of the dusty cobbled sidewalk. His grey eyes staring blank through half opened lids at nothing just beyond the tree branches. Two plastic bolsas were at his feet, the contents of his morning grocery shopping spilling out. Some bananas, a pepper, tamarindo. A small clutch of pedestrians looked down at him from their improvised ampitheatre, some making the sign of the cross while a short policeman stood by impatient for the ambulance to come fetch the body. I'd crossed the steet to get a better look. I don't often get to see a dead person, in fact I've only seen one other in my life, many years ago.

He was the father of a friend, and was dressed up and put on display at the funeral parlor near his Salinas home. I had no emotional connection to him, only met him once before so approached his prepared body with only curiousity. He was unmistakably lifeless, but that recognition wasn't obvious from the color of the skin, or its texture but from the lack of energy that it normally emits, an energy that you don't pay attention to except in its absense.

The man on the street lacked that same energy and it occured to me that all the connective energy was gone too, like removing the ligiture from muscle. Some invisible energy that could be described as strings or twine that binds the man to his family, friends, the familiar things of his life. The defining history, the events. All that energy evaporates too, leaving a stillness around the body, a magnetic void that is perceptable on a level apart from intellect.

I continued up the street towards home glancing over my shoulder every once in awhile to see if the body was still there. When I turned up Calle Mesones the buildings blocked my view and I quit turning back. On the next block the city buses shouldered up along a stretch of road under construction. Piles of cobbles and sand kept them from getting too close to the sidewalk where the locals lined up to board. They formed a line, leaning against the warm walls of the colorful concrete buildings eyeballing the placards in the bus windows that displayed their destination. Mega, Santa Julia, Soriano, Mexiquito.
As I got closer a newly arrived bus veered in close and shuttered to a stop by a pile of rubble. Passengers climbed down from the rear doors through a heavy cloud of diesel fumes and dust while others entered the front. After a moment it pulled away, cranking sharply into the road to avoid the debris but the rear tire nearest the sidewalk rode up over a cobble pile, compressing the stones with its extreme weight. A split second later several of the potato sized stones shot out from the pressure, a birdshot blast of granite projectiles, they blew into the line of pedestrians before anyone could react. Some ricocheted off the building walls, thudding and cracking with their force. Painted concrete spintered into the dry air. I froze in place, while the crowd, now alert, moved about in jerky motions brushing concrete fragment from their clothes. Then a young boy, maybe ten years old stood from a crouched position by his mother. A quarter sized divet of flesh missing from his forehead exposing the bone. Blood began to form and then drain with intensity from the opening and he stagger stepped toward me. I knelt and held him by his shoulders to prevent him from walking into the street and he looked at me absently from behind his pain and shock, blood running down his face. The bus driver stopped and climbed down from his perch as I and the crowd yelled for help. He approached with cautious alarm and then motioned for the mother to quickly help the boy on board. I stood watching as the bus pull away with the wounded, wondering if his going on the bus was a wise choice, but it's not my place to question the drivers logic, I'm just a witness here.

When I reached home I let out the sadness that I felt, a sadness born of my impotence to help or make a difference in either persons life and the recognition of my own mortality. I let the emotion run out of me feeling sympathy for the boy, the dead man and myself as I considered our innocence in this life and how little protection it gives.

I Feel Violated

Our flight out of San Jose, California went smoothly. My heavy, beer equipment ladened suitcase was checked in without question despite the excessive 35 kilos of dead weight. My small carry-on case had some additional non-metal brewing stuff that wouldn't trigger any x-ray suspicions but was mostly my clothes.

After a few sleepless hours in the air we arrived in Guanajuato and I naturally got the red light at the imigration inspection station and hoisted my suitcase up on the stainless steel table top for closer scrutiny. I threw open the lid to expose an array of vacuum sealed bags of malt extract and specialty grains along with an assortment of brewing equipment.

"This luggage is not normal."
The inspector said in spanish as he turned to signal his supervisor into action. The superior stepped up and pulled out a bindle of milled pilsner malt and held it up to the flourescent light, squinting at its contents.
"Esto es cebada malteado," I said in broken spanish " esta toastado, no es raw."

He looked at me with a puzzled expression, before continuing to rifle through the odd contents. Fortunately, he was the same inspector that looked in my case last year and after my wife Susan (who speaks fluent spanish) reminded him of this fact, he waved us through. At the last moment he noticed that Susan had a banana in her purse and immediately snatched it out and warned her not to try to take fresh fruit into the country. He turned and walked away with the banana prize clutched in his hands while I swept up my suitcase, its contents spilling out the seems, and headed out of the inspection area with relief.

The unfortunate part of this story is the discovery when I got to our hotel. At some point after the suitcase was check in for the flight, probably in San Jose, it was opened and several items were removed. Namely, a CO2 injector and a dozen 12 gram CO2 cartridges. Everything else appeared unmolested. The reason is a mystery to me although I suspect that an imaginative inspecter saw the materials as the makings of a high tech bomb and removed it all, ruining my evil plan and diverting the disaster of a mid-air explosion. In place of these items was a card informing me that the case had been opened for review. Thank you invisible inspector person. Regardless, I view it as a small loss considering all that did get through customs, and a lesson learned for the next time.

Homebrew Emotions

Moving is making me sad. Packing up all my stuff again to put into storage means I have to repeat the experience of nostalgia that always comes as I go through some of my more personal items. We'll be heading off to Mexico again for the winter and I can't shake the regret of leaving behind my lovely things not to mention my precious brewing equipment. It gets packed and stored with everything else into the diminishing care and accumulating dust of the 10x12 storage unit.

As I get ready to put my electric guitar in a box I can't help but sling it over my shoulder and start playing off key lead parts to the Coldplay song that pitches out of my stereo. I only stop when I discover it's out of tune and I'm too depressed to fix it. I place it gently in the box and tape the opening closed, all the while getting that 'Christmas is coming to California' sensation as the warm rain falls gently outside the window. Now Norah Jones is singing 'Come away with me' but I don't want to go, not now. I want my selfish desires to come to me, gift wrapped and without atonement.

But this sense of loss is an acceptable if not disagreeable part of the process for the life I have chosen, because there is not enough Mexico here in this quiet, neatly trimmed and well stocked California suburb. Yes, below the current of my present melancholy is the memory of the dry and noisy air of San Miguel and the prospects for brewing like a renegade again. Creating beer related events based on cerveza made with the local ingredients. And this year I'm encouraged with the benefit of knowing the locations in Mexico that provide the essential ingredient, malt. No need to fill most of my luggage with dry malt extract, I can use that space for other brewing ingredients and equipment.

My personal possessions will be packed relatively quickly because some of it hasn't been unpack after my return trip from Mexico last year. I won't pack up my brewing stuff until just before we leave because I have a class to teach next week for one and also, I want to brew twenty gallons of strong Belgian ales to put in the kegerator to lager while I'm gone. Now, as I consider the task ahead of me and the feelings it invokes, I realize that they will pass as quickly as they came followed by the newness of the freedom and possibility of life in Mexico, two things that challenge my sense of safety and comfort found here in the familiar. I'm beginning to recognize this pattern as I begin my third year of heading south for the winter. But recognition does not displace the emotion as much as reinforce, and I am left to let it run its course through me.

If I recall correctly from the last couple years, this current state of mind is coupled with the dread and fascination that comes with what seems like unlimited possibilities, and exhilaration that can only exist alongside a sense of danger. It reminds me of the time when I was a young boy living in rural California. I was perched on the top strand of a barbed wire fence. One hand grasping a split rail fence post while extending the other out into a thicket of blackberry bushes just beyond my reach, trying to pick the dark full fruit. The wire began to sway under my feet and I tried to save myself from the fall by grabbing the wire and jumping back. My hand snagged on one of the barbs on the way down and ripped the flesh from the joint at my index finger and began to bleed profusely. I looked at the wound confused before panic set in. As I desperately ran home along the path that followed the fence I stopped dead in my tracks when I came across a stripped snake sunning itself on the dirt directly in front of me. I was captivated by the beauty of the creature, its scaled skin gleaming, reflecting the late summer sun and I felt the warm earthy breeze. I immediately forgot about my bloody wound dripping into my shirt.