![]() This is one of the reasons that winemakers do not need to sanitize their equipment nearly as intensely as beermakers do. Low pH can help to keep bacterial growth suppressed. The pH of wine tends to fall in the 2.9 to 4.2 range (7 is neutral) and this intense acidity has several effect in the wine. I touched it with my finger and then, staring into his eyes, brought it slowly to my tongue. Something wet and sticky oozed down my temple and onto my cheek. I leapt across the room, grabbing his wrist as he struggled for the Irish Moss. He fumbled for his gypsum, but we both knew it was too late. In desperation he flipped the table on its side, spraying crystal malt and roasted barley across the room. “I thought you might come tonight,” I told him. We faced each other in silence, the only sound were the drops of sweat dripping from our brows onto the cracked floor.įrom inside my robe I slowly pulled out my yeast: London Ale. He smiled, thinking it was over, that he was victorious. His hop additions were furious, and for thirty minutes I countered each one with more malt and darker crystal. “Perhaps you should study your styles more closely.” His hands flew up over his head and froze. “You have chosen Chinook, Brewer-san.” His eyes narrowed. Between thumb and forefinger he held a single green cone. When it was over, he stood and turned to face me. Like a phantom - in slow motion - he sidestepped and back-bent, dodging and spinning, evading each piece of my attack until my bags were empty. The room was instantly filled with green debris as I flung ounce after ounce of hop cones at the boil pot. “Your Master has taught you well.” I ripped off my beer apron. I bowed to the stranger, knowing what must happen next. He knew how to brew, perhaps more than I did. I didnʼt know who he was, but his training was evident. Our eyes locked, and he nodded in respect. My spoon fluttered over the tips of my fingers and clicked on the edge of the brew pot, barely catching a small piece of Belgian candy sugar that he had tried to add. He stepped into the flickering glow of my fire.īefore either of us could blink, we both leapt. Like a shadow, he slipped across the pine boards of my shack until, by good fortune or bad, the steam from my boil pot wrapped around him, revealing his dark outline. It was in the middle of a boil that my peace was disturbed, and my life was forever altered. I was living in isolation, alone, in an inaccessible valley, in a snowy mountain cabin, contemplating the Inner Mysteries of the Malt. It was many years ago, not long after my training in the Brewing Arts had been completed. ![]()
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