The Beer Borg

I’ve just come to realize what I love about brewing. Well, actually, this realization is the culmination of some stuff I’ve known for a while, but it didn’t all come together for me in a personal way until just recently.

The first thing I’ve known for a while is that beer is natural. It’s natural in the sense that it can just happen. That’s how it came about originally, isn’t it? Beer wasn’t invented; it was discovered. Someone left their porridge out a little too long, and when they came back, some wild yeast had fallen into it, and rather than throw that stuff out, they tasted it, and liked what they tasted. Or something like that, I’m not a historian. The point is, Beer Happens. It’s been happening for centuries, even though we’re still learning about how it happens and why. I mean, there’s microbiology going on in there, and that wasn’t discovered until Louis Pasteur got some crazy ideas about pasteurization. I guess he felt obligated, since it was already named for him….

So Beer Happens, the same way a beautiful sunrise or a flock of geese flying overhead happen.  It’s part of the wonder and mystery of nature.  No wonder the ancients assigned a deity to it.

And then we have all the different regions that developed unique styles simply because their water had a certain mineral profile, or their region had certain grains. The soft water of Plzn, in Bohemia, which gave birth to Pilsners; the unique limestone surrounding Burton-on-Trent, from whence we get Burtonized water, which begets English Bitters;  the oats so beloved in Scotland and Ireland that give us those hearty stouts; the water profile from our own Rocky Mountains, which makes Colorado a mecca for craft breweries. It’s all different water and the grains vary, but it all makes beer. Good beer. And we can engineer our own water to approximate those styles, if we wish, but even if we use tap water, we’ll be making beer.

Because Beer Happens.

So why am I so enamored with something that’s perfectly natural and so adaptable? Okay, it’s nice to have a hand in something natural, I guess. I suppose it’s the same thing for someone who’s a boating enthusiast. You’re out on the waves, harnessing the wind, making nature do your bidding, in a way. And that’s pretty neat. It sort of connects us to Ma Nature, rather than just letting her rain on us, or cover us with snow, or have wasps decide our attic is a good place to raise a family. So that’s pretty neat.  And as for versatility, we’re fortunate to be able to get specific grains, hops, and yeast strains just by ordering online, or taking a trip to our LHBS.  Do I want hops from New Zealand?  Barley from Canada?  I don’t have to go to them; they can come to me.

But still, if I’ve got my process down in terms of water/grain ratio, and mash/sparge temperatures, and boil times, and pitching temperature, and fermenting environment, what’s the big deal? Why am I still so jacked when I crack open that first bottle in a batch and admire the head, the aroma, the hop/malt balance, the lacing, the lingering tastes after swallowing?

I’ve come to realize that it’s the fact that I put it together. I chose the grains, the hops, and the yeast. I used nature’s process to give me the taste I was imagining.

That’s the thrill of brewing, for me. It’s certainly not all the washing up before and after. It’s not being careful to sanitize everything that comes within three feet of my wort. It’s not standing like a statue, staring at my pot, waiting for hot break, or counting down the minutes until my next hop addition. It’s certainly not carrying a 40-pound pot of just-boiled liquid down my basement stairs so I can chill it.

When I find myself thinking of brewing, I’m thinking about what I’m going to brew next, and what grains I need. How many of each. A quarter-pound of Biscuit? Why not a half? Would that be too much? Should I use 40L or 60L? What about chocolate, for a little more color? What will give me that roasty flavor I really like in other beers? Hey, maybe I could make this a lager! That’s where my mind goes, and that’s what excites me.  It’s new every time, even for recipes I’ve made before.

The creative process has always been this way, I guess. Da Vinci used the same rainbow of colors that Picasso used. Shakespeare and Steinbeck used the same alphabet. Mozart and Scott Joplin both had the same 12 notes at their disposal. How they used them is what made their work immortal.

Malted grain. Hops. Water. Yeast.

So simple. So basic. And yet a nearly infinite number of variations, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. So, Beer Happens. What I love about it is, I can Make It Happen.