Named because it almost hits, but there are a few errors here.
First, I mixed up the malt extract I meant to purchase, getting Light Malt instead of Extra Light. As a result, the beer has come out darker and a bit sweeter than I meant it to. Another reminder to pay attention to what I’m doing.
When I first opened bottles from this batch, there was a hint of citrus in the nose and the malt kept the finish from being too bitter. That was a good thing.
As time when on though, bottles have been coming up semi-infected, overly foamy and a bit sour on the end. Sometimes I got a proper ale but.. a few more misses than hits. What this experience is reminding me is that once a year, I try to just clean everything with bleach: carboys, racking canes, buckets: everything and I haven’t done that yet. It’s quite likely that some of my beers are suffering because of this.
So it’s time to run bottles through the dishwasher & bleach my carboys. Time to clean everything up so I can get better beers in the future. Maybe even take another crack at this and see what happens when I either mean to make a redder ale or get the correct malt extract.
Brew date: 7.10.16
1 lb carapils
1 lb C 30
1 lb Special roast
Fermentables: 7 lb LME
1 oz Mosaic 1 oz Galaxy @60
1 oz Mosaic 1 oz Galaxy @10
1/4 tsp Gypsum
Yeast: Wyeast 1084 Irish Ale (2nd use)
Secondary 7/29-added 1oz Galena hops
This is how we know beer is serious business in this country: when Popular Mechanics has an article outlining the genetic history of brewing yeast. Specifically, ale yeast.
I’m not complaining; the article is pretty cool and the science of brewing holds an interest for me. I just find it interesting to note how deeply beer runs in this culture.
Only Portland would go out celebrate the first real day of autumn like the first real day of summer.
Bailey’s was overcrowded so instead of trying to fight for a place to sit down and write or choosing to stand, I shook the rain off my hat and went to Angelo’s, where I could enjoy the chilling night like a proper gentleman: seated.
They don’t serve beers correctly here- you can see the wave of frost on my glass of Double Mountain Killer Red ale- but I’m hard pressed to complain. This place is riding the last stand of dive bars in the Hawthorne area and there’s a history to continue: we don’t give a shit about what you’re here for, just pay up and drink. And pay cash while you’re at it, we don’t deal in magnetic stripes.
It won’t last much longer. Even the Space Room has cleaned up and I thought that place would be the home of grumpy old ladies making Long Island Ice Teas forever.
There’s a banana flavor on the end of this beer, too; something went wrong somewhere and there’s no coming back. It’s not undrinkable but I have made better beers.
Yet, it all makes sense, somehow. I’m not here to appreciate the finer points of ales, I’m here to hide out in a way that I can’t under the bright lights of a crowded place. Something about the rain and the wind is peeling my summer self away and it’s time to turtle up and get the winter callus on.
And winter is always a good time for me, since dark nights are made for writing and drinking. Glowering at the world though my eyes with a smile on my teeth, I can wrap myself up in weatherproof coats and leave behind the summer of grapefruit IPAs.
I can’t wait.