AndyBWood
Regular.
âHow much malt do I add?â; I ask naively. A simple question deserving a simple answer. âAbout 5oz will do the trickâ; came the quick response. âJust open the tap after a couple of days to make sure itâs holding pressure.â Wise words indeedâ¦.
All goes well with transferring my first brew, St Peter, into his new home. An extra 5oz of goodness nourishing him on his way to maturity. Must heed that advice though, must make sure the sacred gas isnât escapingâ¦
The 3rd day comes and I can wait no longer. âJust open the tapâ; he said. I approach my keg with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Have courage young brewer I say to myself as I take a firm grasp on the squat barrel shaped grip of milky white plastic. Seems quite stiffâ¦..
A strategically placed pint pot sits expectantly beneath the virgin opening; beer has never passed this way before. A memorable day. Maybe itâs jammedâ¦..
A loud click reverberates around my kitchen; a scant ¼ turn at most, no more, nothing outrageousâ¦â¦
The exploding shaft of liquid hits the bottom of the pint glass with a force similar to several Apollo space craft focused at a point in time. Nuclear fission takes place in my kitchenâ¦.. For one instant I am blessed with slow motion vision and watch the volatile product climb the sides of the glass and climb, climb ever further. I close the tap with the speed of a shaolin monk but⦠I am too late, far too late.
The briefest pregnant silence follows only broken by the unmistakable sound of liquid challenged by gravity. Having taken the brunt of the deluge the lampshade above me drips with a rhythm akin to Chinese water torture. All around me familiar kitchen objects take on new shapes and lustre basking in their baptism of beer.
But waitâ¦. I summon every ounce of retinal strength trying to focus upon the amber globule forming at the tip of my nose. This insignificant drop grows larger feeding from streams and tributaries which now gather force as they make there way through my furrowed brow.
I extend a tongue but the distance is too great to cover; a deft tilt of the head is needed to dislodge the prize which makes itâs way along the philtrum and finally curls around my upper lip.
mmmmmmmmmâ¦â¦. thatâs goodâ¦â¦â¦..
An hour or so later my world is returned to normal, utensils have been cleaned and walls wiped down. Like overcooked pasta, however, the limp and lifeless paper lampshade lies helpless and cannot be saved.
Turning my mind back several days I recall the conversation once more; âabout 5oz will do the trickâ¦â A trick indeedâ¦â¦â¦
So, the question remains; to prime a five gallon batch, how much malt extract would you be brave enough to use ?
Andy
All goes well with transferring my first brew, St Peter, into his new home. An extra 5oz of goodness nourishing him on his way to maturity. Must heed that advice though, must make sure the sacred gas isnât escapingâ¦
The 3rd day comes and I can wait no longer. âJust open the tapâ; he said. I approach my keg with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Have courage young brewer I say to myself as I take a firm grasp on the squat barrel shaped grip of milky white plastic. Seems quite stiffâ¦..
A strategically placed pint pot sits expectantly beneath the virgin opening; beer has never passed this way before. A memorable day. Maybe itâs jammedâ¦..
A loud click reverberates around my kitchen; a scant ¼ turn at most, no more, nothing outrageousâ¦â¦
The exploding shaft of liquid hits the bottom of the pint glass with a force similar to several Apollo space craft focused at a point in time. Nuclear fission takes place in my kitchenâ¦.. For one instant I am blessed with slow motion vision and watch the volatile product climb the sides of the glass and climb, climb ever further. I close the tap with the speed of a shaolin monk but⦠I am too late, far too late.
The briefest pregnant silence follows only broken by the unmistakable sound of liquid challenged by gravity. Having taken the brunt of the deluge the lampshade above me drips with a rhythm akin to Chinese water torture. All around me familiar kitchen objects take on new shapes and lustre basking in their baptism of beer.
But waitâ¦. I summon every ounce of retinal strength trying to focus upon the amber globule forming at the tip of my nose. This insignificant drop grows larger feeding from streams and tributaries which now gather force as they make there way through my furrowed brow.
I extend a tongue but the distance is too great to cover; a deft tilt of the head is needed to dislodge the prize which makes itâs way along the philtrum and finally curls around my upper lip.
mmmmmmmmmâ¦â¦. thatâs goodâ¦â¦â¦..
An hour or so later my world is returned to normal, utensils have been cleaned and walls wiped down. Like overcooked pasta, however, the limp and lifeless paper lampshade lies helpless and cannot be saved.
Turning my mind back several days I recall the conversation once more; âabout 5oz will do the trickâ¦â A trick indeedâ¦â¦â¦
So, the question remains; to prime a five gallon batch, how much malt extract would you be brave enough to use ?
Andy