It was actually my boyfriend Mark who suggested brewing rather than buying a wedding present for my sister Betsy and her German fiancé Robert. We loved sharing beer with them on our trips to Munich and could always count on Robert for a few bottles of Spaten when he and Betsy came stateside. We also dabbled in homebrewing and hadn’t dusted off the carboys in ages.

Scads better than the Cuisinart we’d been considering, we decided to present them with several cases of homebrew to enjoy at their wedding reception on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire.

Köln, Robert’s hometown, gave us the direction we needed to choose our recipe. Kölsch is to Köln as Bordeaux is to, well, Bordeaux. The clear, yellow-hued ale has been brewed there since the 9th century. Served in thin, cylindrical glasses called stange (pole), it is best enjoyed fresh. Though we couldn’t pull off fresh, we were determined to bottle a beer to impress the fifty or so Germans - most from Köln - coming over for the wedding.

A month before the big day, we made an outing to The Modern Brewer in Cambridge, Massachusetts for German Pilsner, wheat malts plus Hallertauer and Saaz hops. At home, Mark prepped the liquid yeast while I dug out our cache of supplies. Then we boiled up the mixture of malt and hops. It filled the house with a potent smell and filled us with a sense of connection and accomplishment. It was within a minute or so, however, that I wished we’d gone for the Cuisinart. Here’s how I remember the conversation.

“So, Honey, next we pitch the yeast?” I asked, standing over two full carboys. “Isn’t that right?”

“Um, right,” Mark answered, his mind lost in a recipe for one of our next homebrewing projects.

I dumped the liquid into the carboys and was watching it blend when Mark glanced up from his reading. “What did you just do?” he asked, with a controlled voice of horror.

“What you said to do next,” I defensively answered. “I pitched the yeast.”

“I said next, not now,” he retorted. “The wort isn’t cool enough. It’s going to kill all the cultures.”

I narrowed my eyes and peered through the glass at our failing project. I felt like I could see the cultures dying off in front of me.

“Oops. Sorry,” I said.

“Oops. Sorry? That’s all you can say? After we spent our whole weekend brewing for nothing?”

“I’m very sorry,” I said. “I made a mistake. We can start again. Or try and fix it. Can’t we?”

He glared at me, nowhere near forgiveness, and as I glared back I thought maybe I’d made two mistakes, the yeast and the relationship. I mean, if a couple can’t brew together, worts and all, how are they going to deal with life’s real issues?

I turned away from the carboys and Mark. I didn’t want him to see my tears. I suddenly had a vision of my sister’s wedding without him; of drinking a Dinkel Acker alone in the corner; of being alone for the rest of my life. Then, after a long self-pitying moment, I felt Mark’s hands on my shoulders.

“Are you crying over pitched yeast?” he asked.

How could I not laugh? I turned around and sank into his chest.

“I really am sorry,” I said. “Should we see if the Cuisinart is taken?”

“No way,” he said. “We’ll just hope enough yeast survive to make this beer happen. It doesn’t take much.”

After work the next day, I dashed into the basement to check on our brew. As soon as I saw it, I shouted for Mark. “I think it’s working! I didn’t kill them all!”

Mark came running and kneeled beside me. Together we waited, breaths held for about thirty seconds as the meniscus in the airlock moved. Finally, as a bubble emerged and burped out the top, we let out huge sighs and hugged over the carboys.

One month later, we stood on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee accepting compliments from the Germans on the “very fine beer” we had labeled Bob & Betsy’s Kissin’ Kölsch. Later, Mark and I raised our stange glasses of homebrew to love — theirs and ours.