As many of you know, before we left for winter break, I started making my first batch of homemade brown ale. After many trials, tribulations, and questionings of faith, I am proud to announce that Amni Brew is drinkable and – barring any long-term carcinogenic properties yet undiscovered – safe. The last I wrote about it, my beer was sitting, quietly fermenting in a plastic bucket.
After a week in that bucket, the liquid was transferred to a glass carboy (“kahr-boi, noun. –a large glass bottle protected by basketwork or a wooden box, used esp. for holding corrosive liquids”), where it sat for another week. The purpose of this transfer, I learned, was to have the brew undergo a second fermentation and to clear it of dirty, sludge-like residue (what was left in the plastic bucket looked like watery, bubbling cement mix).
On bottling day, the beer was moved back into the plastic bucket. And just to put a picture in your mind, each time the liquid is moved from one container to another, you can’t just pour. You have to set up a siphoning system, utilizing some plastic tubes and our good friend Gravity to get the beer flowing from the container on top of the counter to the empty one on the ground. What a pain.
From the plastic bucket, more siphoning was established and each bottle was filled. I had my husband help me as the official capper.
And then we waited. Again. For a week.
I talked about it constantly with my friends. I was a nervous, type-A Wharton student afraid of failing. I was an expectant mother, waiting anxiously to look into her baby’s eyes for the first time to try and find signs of who the father is.
Finally, it was time to drink. I carefully took a bottle and placed it in an ice bath. I dusted off the never-been-used engraved beer mugs I received as a wedding gift and placed it in the freezer to frost over. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Then, I took the mug out, uncapped the bottle and slowly poured the dark brown liquid into the tilted mug.
The first sign of a good beer appeared before me: I had head. Meaning, I had achieved an appropriate level of carbonation, leaving a nice layer of foam at the top.
At this point, I brought the mug out to my husband and yelled, “Look at the head!” He lifted his head from both ESPN Sports Center on the television and ESPN on his laptop (the only time he can multi-task) and uttered some supportive words.
I sniffed first. It smelled a bit like caramel—another good sign. I brought the mug to my lips, and drew in a slow, small sip. As the liquid swirled around my mouth, I tasted the familiar, bitter ambrosia I know so well. It was only when I swallowed and was left with the flavors on the back of my palate (i.e. the after-taste), that I realized my baby was a bit deformed. What was that stank? I passed the mug to my husband, who took his first and last sip. It wasn’t hops. Was it too much malt? Our untrained tongues were so confused.
We were hopeful, though. We had heard through the underground homebrew society that a beer’s peak ripeness varies—sometimes its best fresh, sometimes its best with additional weeks of aging. So, we waited another week. Amni Brew definitely got better, but the stank was still there.
Since then, we’ve offered the beer to friends as a form of entertainment, with lots of warnings and cautions prior to first sip. Most have been very polite, struggling over hours to finish, refusing to let go of their glass when I tell them they don’t have to finish. Friends—what would I do without them?
But, Amni Brew is really a beer only a mother could love. When my husband is at Huntsman until later than me, I come home, open a brew and take the quiet, solemn, introspective moment to taste, make mental notes on any changes from the last one, and savor. I’ve slowly worked through the batch, and only have a dozen left. I know already that I’ll feel empty, alone without Amni Brew. I don’t offer tastes to guests anymore. It’s just me and the brew now.
I learned a lot through the beer-making process and feel that I have become a better leader because of it. I’ve honed my OPIM skills by figuring out how to make beer with literal and figurative bottle necks that arise from the limited capacity of an apartment kitchen. I’ve worked on Wharton Leadership Program points of patience and decision-making during times of great uncertainty. And as I steadily work through two cases of beer, I have truly understood the meaning of perseverance.
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