Bella Wheat, a.k.a. The Leap Year Beer

Today I'm writing about my first homebrewing experience: Bella Wheat - a Bavarian wheat beer I brewed on February 29, 2008.

When he sold me my brew kit, Paul Zocco, owner of Zok's, encouraged me to first brew a few batches of beer straight from a pre-hopped kit in order to get used to the process. I purchased two kits that day, one of which was the Edme Microbrewery Series Wheat Beer that became my first batch; the other was a Northern Brown Ale kit from Ironmaster (more on that later).

I wanted to start with a wheat beer because Elena is a big fan of hefeweizens, and this was the closest I could get (from Zok's) in a kit. A true hefeweizen (hefe means "with yeast" and weizen, "wheat") is unfiltered, i.e. the little yeasties are permitted to reside in the finished product, making it rich in both character and vitamin B12!

I must have studied the four sets of instructions I ended up with (a cheat sheet from Zok, the instructions on the side of the malt extract, and the Beginners Steps in my newly purchased homebrew books - How to Brew by John Palmer and The Complete Joy of Homebrewing: Third Edition by Charlie Papazian) for a week or so before feeling fully prepared to begin. Thankfully, and not surprisingly, all four sets of instructions gave similar guidance: some recommended a longer or shorter boiling of the wort; one said it was imperative, another optional, to start the yeast in water before pitching into the lukewarm wort.

Facing four sets of slightly differing instructions caused me to experience feelings of intimidation followed closely by liberation. Truth is, there isn't much to brewing beer (from a kit, anyway). And, even if you screw up (a little bit), the final product is usually more interesting than most of the six-packs you find in stores. Charlie Papazian, the Godfather of American Homebrewing, offers the following advice to homebrewers young or old, novice or experienced: Relax. Don't worry. Have a homebrew.

Brew Day

On this day, as I didn't have any homebrew yet, I probably reached for an offering from Otter Creek, whose mixed-twelves were frequent visitors to the beer shelf that winter. But I did relax, and not worry...too much.

After sanitizing all of the equipment I would be using that day, I began by combining the two cans of hopped malt-extract (12 1/2 c.) with water (11 1/2 c.) and brought the mixture to a boil, stirring vigorously to prevent the molasses-like extract from scorching on the bottom of my aluminum brew pot. After maintaining the boil for 30 minutes, I poured the near-boiling mixture into my fermenting bucket, which contained enough chilled (not quite frozen but plenty cold) water to give me a total liquid volume of pretty close to 5 gallons.

The initial temperature of the fermenting bucket, after I added the hot wort to the cold water, was 90-degrees F, and my task now was to reduce the temperature as fast as possible to room temperature so as not to kill off the yeast I was about to add.

I hoisted the bucket to our kitchen sink, packed ice around it and stirred as fast as I could to bring the temperature down as quickly as possible - speed is of the essence. After 15 minutes, I pitched (added) the yeast, aerated (introduced oxygen, which yeasties like, to the wort by stirring vigorously (again)) the green beer for 10 minutes, put the lid on, and inserted the airlock. And that was basically it. In a lot of ways, brewing from a kit is a lot like preparing canned soup for fifty.

Fermentation Cha-cha-cha

At the time, we were living in a charming but drafty old house in Collinsville, Connecticut, and the only place in our apartment warm enough for the beer to be happy was next to the radiator. I was elated, 18 hours after sealing the bucket, to notice the first few bubbles of CO2 escaping through the airlock. Every time I passed through the living room, I would crouch down, wait for a bubble to pop, and sniff the escaping air for some clue as to what the final product would be like. Signs of fermentation ceased after about four or five days; and, after eight days, I trasferred the beer to a secondary fermenter.

Bottling Day

On March 20, after watching Michigan State (my alma mater) knock Temple out of the NCAA Tourney, I bottled and capped with no surprises. My notes from bottling day say it tasted of alcohol, but not much else. That was good enough for me at this point - evidence of, at least partial, success.

Consumption!!!

Here's what I wrote in my beer journal on March 27: Final product was darker and more flavorful than I expected. I like the flavor despite the intensity, but will try one can of extract plus the comparable amount of dried malt next time. Bella Wheat tastes very similar to a beer Carlo (my father-in-law) gave me for my birthday - Lumpy Gravy a 2007 brown ale from Lagunita's Brewing Company.

And on November 14: ...Elena and I chilled and drank the last bottle of Bella Wheat. The beer matured into what Elena describes as "thick and caramely." I was impressed by the head that developed, and the rich, sweet aroma. The sweetness approaches unpleasant, with subtle cidery hints. The effects of priming sugar over time? In any case, the character of the beer is much changed from the beer I brewed and drank this spring. This is an argument in favor of setting aside a few beers from each batch to sample over time. In this case, 9 months later.

Conclusion
Bell Wheat was my first born, and consequently holds a special place in my heart. I was very proud to share that beer with friends, family, and coworkers, even though the process was simple enough for a toddler to pull off and the final product reminded people of anything but wheat...

I'm think about brewing another Wheat, or maybe a Saison, this summer, once Elena and I move back to Connecticut in July. One tempting recipe I found recently was for an Apricot Wheat, which called for pureed apricots and sounded like a real summer hit. I found the recipe while surfing Bryon's blog. The recipe was offered by Hunington in response to the all important question, What should I brew for a summer family get together? Good question Bryon. And great answer Hunington. Stay tuned...

--Brewfus

Bangers and Mash: My Beer Roots

Like many young men of my generation, my relationship with beer began at a tender age. During high school (and most of college), beer drinking was all about economy. A thirty pack of Strohs for $15.00? Perfect. A keg of The Beast for Friday in Cedar Village? Sounds good. Bud Lite, MGD, Rolling Rock (if I was feeling fancy). But those notions changed during my fourth (out of five) year at Michigan State, when I landed a spring semester internship in London, England. It was there, in village pubs older by centuries than the U.S., that I discovered there was more to beer than foam and hangovers.

David, the patriarch of the family I was living with (and a friend of a family friend), was old school. A plainclothes policeman with the London Underground who palpably disliked the French for their poor showing in WWII (and who inexplicably was a huge ABBA fan), David wanted me to leave England with an appreciation of the rich history of local English pubs.

We would wash down bangers and mash (that is Queen's English for sausage and potatoes) with a pint of cool (not cold) English bitter, and he would tell me how, traditionally, each village brewed ale that was unique to the contours of its geography, using local grains fermented by wild yeast, and consumed within walking distance of the source; a difficult concept to wrap your head around when you are used to roaming grocery store shelves lined with the same beer in store after store. He explained that hardworking Britons drank ales specific to a season - heavier, darker ales, like Porter, during colder months, and lighter ales, like Pale Ale, during warmer months. He explained that the silly looking cone shaped structures, visible all throughout the English countryside, were called oast houses.

I also had the opportunity to sneak off to Dublin and Amsterdam during my semester abroad and visit the Guinness an Heineken breweries. In the years since, I have toured a number of craft breweries (which are admittedly far less industrial and far more interesting), but seeing the process of beermaking in those beer "factories," from raw grain to the bottling line, was informative.

David was by no stretch an expert, but he helped me to see beer
in a different light. I began to think about the connection between the slender stalk of barley and the farmer who cultivated it from the land, the brewer who converted it into malt, and the denizen who quaffed it from his glass.

Since that trip, my relationship with beer has been transformed from one of convenience to one of respect. A grad school pal (thanks Eric) inspired me to begin homebrewing, and my wife, Elena, bought me a brew kit a from a great little shop in Willimantic, Connecticut called Zok's. Whenever I travel, I check to see if there are microbreweries en route, or brewpubs at my destination. I read brewing magazines (Zymurgy), brewing books (Papazian and Palmer), and brewing news (GLBC).

My goal is to use this space to detail my successes and failures in brewing, to share my random thoughts on things beer, and to connect with other like minded (or un-like minded) folks who are passionate about their brew.

NOTE: A foamy thanks to Señor Brew™, whose excellent blog, Noble Square Brewing, was the first brewing blog I followed, and who graciously pointed out my error (the first of many, I'm sure) in misremembering the actual use of oast houses. Does that make British David my Brian McNamee? As Señor points out in his comment below, oast houses are used to dry hops, not grain; and, sparging is a part of the brewing (not drying/kilning) process. Gracias Señor!

--Brewfus