Home Brewed Trouble

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Home Brewed Trouble

Copyright 2001 W. Bruce Cameron

http://www.wbrucecameron.com/

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Believing that maybe it would help my relationship with my 12 year old son if we had a common hobby, I bought him a beer-making kit. My wife seemed to think that the situation called for female incredulity.

" You got your son a BEER-making kit? " she demands. " Are you out of your mind? "

" Hey, you were the one who said we needed to do more things together, " I point out.

" So you picked drinking beer, " she scoffs.

" Of course not. He'll only make it. I'LL be the one drinking it, " I respond. I hold my hands up in a representation of harmonious balance in the universe.

She fixes me with a scorching look that I recognize from early in our marriage, when I tried to train her to bring me snacks during football games, but I will not be deterred. " It's very scientific, " I declare. " Fermentation. Carbonation. "

" Intoxication? "

My son is even less enthusiastic. " It smells bad; you DRINK this stuff? " he sniffs, stirring the batch of malt and hops.

" Yes, but not until there is alcohol in it, " I explain with fatherly wisdom.

" Alcohol is a by-product of fermentation, " he quotes, looking through the little handbook. He squints at me. " You'll be drinking yeast pee. "

" Real men don't read directions, " I advise.

When we're finished, my home brew sits tightly sealed in a plastic keg. " This is the pressure valve, " I lecture my son. " The yeast builds up carbon dioxide, which escapes out the valve; otherwise there would be an explosion that would level houses in a four-block area. "

I'm hoping this will excite him, but he's been reading the manual again. " Carbon dioxide is another waste by-product, " he intones.

" Yes. "

" In other words, yeast farts. "

For three days, the mixture sits implacably inside the plastic vessel, as exciting as a bucket of paint. Concerned, I sneak in a little more sugar to get the yeast motivated. " You're not supposed to do that, Dad, " my son warns.

The next day, the yeast have suddenly sprung to life, bubbling and hissing as they busily produce waste products. Impatient, I pull on the little tap, pouring an ounce of muddy liquid into a glass and taking a sip.

" Does it taste like beer? " my son asks anxiously.

" Maybe beer that's already been through somebody, " I respond ruefully.

That night my son prods me awake. " Dad, the beer is calling you. "

My wife gives me a frown, as this is exactly the excuse I give her whenever I meet my buddies at the sports bar. " What do you mean? " I ask him.

He shrugs. " You sort of need to come hear it. It's making noises. "

My wife puts her hand on my arm. " Could it be dangerous? " she inquires anxiously.

I laugh. " Of course not. How could beer be dangerous? Beer Is Our Friend. " I follow my son out into the kitchen and, at his urging, put my ear to the plastic keg. He's right: There is some sort of creaking noise emitting from the seams around the edge of the thing. Through the thick, dark plastic, I can see that the yeast has rioted, filling the vessel with foam.

" Maybe you put in too much sugar, " he worries. " Should I start calling people in a four-block area? "

" Nonsense. More sugar just means a higher alcohol content. How could that be bad? " But his question has drawn my attention to the filter, which should be allowing yeast farts to escape. Instead, it looks locked in place, a little button that should be bobbing up and down. I reach out a finger.

" Dad... " my son starts to say.

The moment I pry at the valve it fires straight up like a bullet, the little button gone in an instant. The entire contents of the keg follow half a second later, a thick spray of foam coating everything in the kitchen. I don't even have time to blink and it is over, except that a steady rain of gooey sludge comes down on my head from the ceiling.

Tilting my jaw, I'm able to catch a few drops in my mouth. My wife bursts into the kitchen and stares at me, shocked.

" Not bad, " I tell her, licking my lips.