The Brewer's Bock

Around midnight last night, after manning the most central post at the registration desk at my organization's annual fundraising gala; judging each and every dress that walked by me; winning the self-designed registration throughput competition; handing out awards on stage; and finally, snickering with my co-workers about the creepy guy stroking his wife's back as Richard Marx sang "Right Here Waiting for You," I arrived home. But ... not to our atomic ranch. To our brewery. And not to Peter, the banker. To Peter, the brewer. The garage smelled like the deep fryer, the kitchen like hot sauce. (hmm ... chicken wings). The Boss Cruiser was in the middle of the garage waiting to tell me about all the adventures it had been on today with Peter. The Brew like a Monk, Clone Brews, and Brewer's Bible books were off the shelf and ear marked for tomorrow's chemistry. The yeast was rising. And my little brewer was asleep on the couch, hoppily dreaming.

The opening of the cookie jar, the unavoidable noise of biscotti eating, and the laborious face washing needed to remove the stage make-up shellacked to my face woke him up. Groggily, he told me about his big doppelbock plans tomorrow, and I agreed once again to be his brewnette. 

To marry Peter, was to marry a brew master - to inherit a garden lined with hops and a basement full of specialized brewing equipment. It meant that I only had room to shelve two collections of varietal specific wine glasses, because he needed the rest of the shelving for his collections of stout, porter, ale, pilsner, and Belgian glasses. It meant that I needed to include every issue of Zymurgy that ever was in my attempt to categorize and organize the mountainous library of books and periodicals that we have accumulated. It meant that I had to accept shopping dates to the Brewing part of Brew and Grow. It meant that we would always have a home brew or two on tap, and that every other month, we would dedicate a Saturday or Sunday to brewing.

So today. We brewed.

Well, Peter did most of the brewing, while I observed, learned a little more, guessed how many degrees the concoction was at various temperature reading parts of the process, and documented the different steps.

After five hours of brewing, we (he) created the first phase of a doppelbock - a malty, hearty, dark beer that monks used to drink during their Lenten fast as a meal replacement of sorts.

And while he created, I embraced what a brewing day meant for me. Time to hang out with the brewer - to talk and laugh with him. Time to read - and how fitting, I'm reading the Brussels Chapter of Neither Here Nor There by Bill Bryson. Time to go for a run. (Or two.) Time to update the scrap book. And time to plan the warming menus that will accompany the Bock this winter after its finished its fermentation.

The bock is resting now. And so is its brewer. And while I figure out dinner tonight, something that will go with the Belgian Wit that was tapped as I typed, I can confirm once again, that this is the place, both physically and mentally, that makes me happiest.

Lo.