Cold Night … Dark Beer
Cats: homebrewing| 3 Comments »(To be read as a pirate story)
It was a dark, dark night… not a star in the sky, as black as a roasted porter and as cold as a PBR left in the freezer and forgotten. My crew had abandoned me for this adventure, mostly disbursed to the far corners of the world phone-banking for Obama. I was alone and cold, but the Coffee Stout had to be brewed. The grain had been obtained & ground 2 days prior and lady time was work’n against me.
As the sun sank in the distance I diligently cleaned me brew’n vessels, preparing them for the brew ahead. My mashing water set up to 165 degrees quickly in the face of dropping temperatures in the backyard. Worried at first, with the mash initially reading a low 145 degrees, she steadily rose to a fine mashing level of 152 within the bowels of my finest lauter tun.
The mashing went on for another hour. I convinced myself that the time spent in the later 140s would help give the stout a strong head come drink’n time. Knees nearly locked from standing watch over the mash I broke loose and began releasing the mashed water from the bottom of the tun and replacing on the top in order to settle the grain bed and build a natural filter out of the grain hulls. Then I sparged. The sparging seamed to take forever, slowly transferring 180 degree water from kettle o’re the grain and filling the brewing vessel.
Exhausted from sparging, I muscled the newly filled brew pot over to the burner and sparked a blue flame. The hard part was over now, nothing but sitting, drink’n, and stir’n for a while… or so i thought…
The black gold, she needed to bubble, she needed to boil and quickly. It shot up to 200 degrees, then something went horribly wrong. The blue flame which had howled and hissed as it torched the unders of the brew vessel suddenly fell silent. I hadn’t had the tank long enough to be out of fuel, but I knew almost immediately what had happened, some lilly-livered propane tech had sold me a short can, but swift revenge would have been ill-advised at this juncture of crisis. I needed propane and fast. Without a 4-wheeled vehicle at my diposal I momentarily considered strapping the tank to my back and taking the Vespa to the store for a new tank, but with a phone call a true friend talked me down from that suicidal plan. As it turned out Mrs. luv party arrived with an old five speed just in time and I retrieved a new tank and returned to the task at hand. With a roar the blue flame returned to previous grandeur and the hour long boil was underway.
In the final stages now, the hop schedule was simple; 2 ounces of bittering hops and an additional ounce with a quarter hour remaining. I took a gravity reading at the middle off the boil, discounted the gravity based on temperature using a chart. Alas my gravity was off, to make up for the difference I added a bit of natural cane sugar with half the boil complete. At last the end of the endeavor was within my reach. I needed to cool the wort quickly, for that I snagged my immersion chiller and drowned it in the black brew.
Cold hose water ran through the chiller stealing the heat from the dark ale and assisting the night air in helping it reach a pitchable temperature for the yeast of 75 degrees. Hose and racking-cane in hand I jumped a the chance to siphon the brew into the carboy as soon as it struck a reasonable temperature.
The deed was now done and with no witness beyond the spirits of the trees I took the carboy up in both arms and brought her inside to pitch the yeast and ferment, to grow and mature until she’s ready to be presented and enjoyed pint by pint until the tap run dry.








