The Mnemonic Problem: My Humor Gone Awry?

Yesterday, I described how I decided to take a day off from work to brew a second batch of Belgian wit ale this autumn. 

 

As substituting hops may have been part of the problem (the worldwide hops shortage meant a supply store in Berkeley hadn’t had the hops I needed, so I’d used their comparable alternatives),  I checked to see what hops were in the garage fridge, and called around to see if I could procure the Perle and Fuggles hops the recipe calls for. The fridge had a little of the Styrian Goldings hops I needed, some Kent Goldings hops, plus the packages of citric acid and corn sugar, so I set them out and began trucking all the equipment out to the backyard concrete brewing pad, getting it ready so I could come home from the store and fire up the brew kettle right away.

 

Excited to hit the road with me, the dogs dashed out the door, and we cruised off to the store. I got the Perle and Fuggles, but they were out of Styrians Goldings. (Eye roll and hands toss.) I spoke to the clerk about it, and decided to supplement the last little Styrians I had at home with the Kent Goldings I already had, drove home (dog noses out the back windows as we cruised by San Leandro Bay), and got the brew kettle fired up. 

 

*   *   *   *   *   *

 

Here is where things began to go awry, and I think it was Dave who distracted me. You see my assistant brewer, Dave, is a freelancer. He enjoys the freelance commute from bedroom to home office. I used to enjoy that commute when I lived in a long narrow flat in San Francisco, from my bedroom in the back to the converted dining room toward the front. Unlike my commute now, the only intersection where I might stop was the kitchen, if I wanted a cup of coffee.

 

It beats the hell out of my commute now, especially as there is no single conveyance that gets me from here to there. All three of my commute options involve some combination of footwork, infernal combustion engine, BART train, diesel bus, or the ferry. I miss the freelance commute.

 

So we have this joke between us about the advantages of an office job or freelance work, and I’m not above calling Dave on my days off and pointing out I’m drawing my salary while enjoying the day at home, too. As I set up to brew, I began planning my leisurely wicked call to him—“aah, a day off at home, the brew kettle going, it’s a sunny day outside, the dogs are out on the back deck, lolling about and panting in the sunshine …”

 

Dave plays his end to the hilt. “You’re home? And getting vacation pay? I can’t believe it!” As if there is no justice left in life.

 

Mindful of prior misadventures, I put the filters in the bottom of the mashtun and filled it with the milled grains, got everything set up outside with the powerful propane burner blasting away like a jet engine, and was all set to call Dave and savor his envy.

 

The only thing I still needed was the Styrian Golding hops, the citric acid, and the corn sugar from the downstairs fridge. Hmm, they weren’t in the garage, where I’d set them aside. Didn’t find them outside with the other supplies. I went upstairs to the kitchen where I’d left some stuff. Not there. Sometimes I set stuff on the dining room table so it’s ready to go out the back door. Not there.

 

Do you ever get caught in a loop? Where you don’t find something in the room where you’re looking, so it seems like it must be in one of the rooms you aren’t in, and you go to that one and don’t find it so you go to the next, and then the next? Around and around?

 

I looked under tables and behind stuff and thought, ‘Well, I have that acid blend stuff I could use instead of the citric acid, and there’s an unopened package of corn sugar in the fridge—but those damn hops, no, I have to have those hops.’

 

I went up the stairs from the garage to the kitchen to check again and through the dining room again and down the back deck steps ruefully thinking, ‘is this what I get for planning to call Dave and kid him? Is this my just deserts?’

 

Meanwhile the brewkettle is heating up to the temperature I need for soaking the grain in the mashtun.

 

Damn! Where are they?? These freaking hops are killing me …

 

I can’t believe it! I am not driving back to the store.

 

I think I made three complete loops, up stairs and down, plus numerous side trips on hunches. Finally, out on the back deck I looked in one of the sacks of equipment, full of bottle brushes, long-handled spoons, and the iodophor bottle, and there was the citric acid packet. I dug deeper and found the corn sugar and hops.

 

While pulling stuff out to heft it out to the back deck, I must have popped them in the bag (consolidating the load) without thinking twice about it. They had slithered down to the bottom; I had to poke around to find them.

 

Now the kettle was up to the 170 degree temperature I needed, ready for the mashtun, and I needed to get going. I no longer had time to call Dave.

 

That’ll teach me, huh?

 

So far, the Belgian wit ale is fermenting just fine. A couple airlocks have gotten clogged, but none have blown off.

 

But I’m not bragging about it, and I’m not gloating. Believe me you, I am not.