With my bag of beer fixings in one sweaty palm, I left the AMC Gremlin smoldering in the driveway and entered the house. Stepping across the threshold, I loudly announced a family meeting. Instantly I heard the patter of rapidly moving feet and the whoosh of three doors closing as my loving wife and children went AWOL.

Reasonably certain that I would be left alone for at least three hours, I went about preparing to create my first batch of beer.

Having sanitized the kitchen prior to leaving for the brew shop, I merely laid out the clean fermentation bucket, cover, and fermentation lock within easy reach, then went to the closet to retrieve our largest boiling pot.

To comfortably create a wort for five gallons of beer, I found out the hard way that one needs to boil at least two, and preferably three, gallons of water in a pot that leaves room for an additional gallon of liquid. (Two gallons of cold water are placed in the fermentation bucket. The boiled wort is then added to this water to bring the total volume to five gallons. This also cools the wort.)

Our largest pot held two gallons of water when filled right to the lip. Of course I only filled the pot seven-eighths of the way, leaving an inch or so between water level and the pot lip to allow for the added volume of the ingredients as it all bubbled into a tasty concoction. I placed the pot on the front burner and turned on the gas. I was an old hand at boiling water, at least under supervision, so my confidence — coupled with being alone in the kitchen for the first time — really heightened the magic for me.

While waiting for the water to boil, I measured 3.25 gallons of water into the fermentation bucket, laying the lid on top as The Book suggested to keep out unwanted organisms, like that stuff from The Andromeda Strain.

I then set out the ingredients. The can of malt extract syrup, bag of dried malt powder, containers of hops pellets and mesh bag, and packet of ale yeast were placed on the counter next to the stove in order of need. The biggest stirring spoon we owned held the position of honor dead center on the stove. It was time to begin.

Per instruction I removed the label from the can of malt extract syrup and placed the can in a smaller pot of water to heat. The Book indicated that warming it would make the syrup easier to pour. I wanted everything to go easy, so I turned the burner to high so that it would warm a lot. I then took my hops pellets and placed them in the mesh bag.

Everything was going according to The Book. I swelled with pride — then I noticed the can of malt extract syrup, now an interesting shade of red and swelling, too.

I’ve got one of those 1-800 legal beagles working on the case, so on his advice I cannot go into much depth. Suffice to say that before you warm up your malt syrup, open the lid with a can opener even if The Book doesn’t say to! I think that if the medieval castle dwellers had poured boiling malt extract syrup instead of oil down on their enemies, the crusades would have come to a quick conclusion. Believe me, I know of what I speak, and by the way don’t change the oil of your car immediately upon returning from a trip to Florida, either.

I managed to save three-fourths of the can and, pinching it between the hot-dog tongs and a utensil only my wife knows the name of, managed to pour it into the now boiling water. Immediately a wonderful smell filled the kitchen, almost overpowering the odor of burned hair. My confidence and the feeling in my left big toe (I’d dropped the can) returned.

The recipe indicated that I add the dried malt extract powder next. It came in a double-wrapped plastic bag. It would be easy to pour into the pot after untwisting the twist tie. I did so, poised the bag over my wort-to-be (which had now returned to a rolling boil), and overturned it.

There are those who claim experience is the best teacher. Well, I want to speak from experience: Don’t believe it.

Apparently malt extract powder, unlike the gunpowder I was familiar with, really is a powder and enjoys all the same properties that any
well-hackled trout fly enjoys. It floats. Worse than that, when it hits hot water it sticks together, forming a solid base upon which the remaining powder may rest, except for that portion of the powder that rises on the air currents, covering the stove, kitchen, and any open wounds. I suddenly had a two-pound pyramid of malt powder riding a turbulent and extremely tropical sea.

The sight made me breathe in sharply. Nothing like compounding a problem. I coughed on the malt powder, causing more to leave the pyramid and take flight. The Book never covered this. I turned away to catch a breath of air for a moment. That’s when something The Book did mention decided to take place. The Book had warned that there would be a sudden rise of foam after the malt extracts had boiled a bit and to be careful or a small mess might develop. Understatement, pure and simple.

My attention was drawn back to the fiasco on the stove when my brain accepted a message from my feet: They were getting wet, it wasn’t raining, and hey, we’re inside. Through my watering eyes, my malt pyramid had now taken on the look and attitude of Krakatoa, a sight made all the more impressive by the way the malt powder would spark and flare as it touched the flame of the burner beneath the pot as it rode the malten lava flow down the side of the stove to coagulate at my feet. Things were rapidly getting out of hand. That made me think of my ammo-reloading buddy, Lefty, and I knew then what I had to do. I turned off the gas.

Instantly the turbulent sea subsided, and the malt volcano settled like the Lusitania after a couple of torpedoes in her gut. I picked up the spoon and attempted to push the malt mess down into the pot, the result of which was to displace even more of the muck out of the pot and onto the stove. The cooling malt solution, apparently kin to polyurethane, was self-leveling and rapidly covered the general area. The Blob could have learned from this stuff.

Even I could see that an immediate clean-up was required. This job was way too big for any roll of paper towels, no matter how big the biceps on the wrapper. I tried to move toward the closet to retrieve the mop and bucket, only to discover that boiled-over malt muck has yet another property: It sticks. It makes Crazy Glue look like kindergarten paste. If the secret got out, barnacles would be out of work. My feet were encased. I leaned over as far as I could and was finally able to reach the utensil
drawer, from which I was able to extract (yeah, I know) a spatula. Once freed, I set about straightening up.

A solid 45 minutes later and the kitchen was recognizable, except that the formerly white stove was now a lovely beige (I hardly needed the spatula/trowel at all — the stuff really is self-leveling). I was back in business.

I turned the heat back on, stirring the inactive maltcano gently around the pot until it dissolved, then set the heat for a slow boil and placed the mesh bag containing the hops pellets into — dare I say it — the wort. The hops actually did what they were supposed to — they dissolved, filling the mesh bag to half its volume and permeating the room with a pungent smell. I turned on the exhaust fan. This stuff smelled strong and would be doing so for at least an hour. I used the time to finish repairing the damage to the kitchen and to read through The Book a fourth time. Carefully. There were no more troubles.

After the hour had passed, I pulled the hops bag out of the boiling wort, let it go, then fished it out again with the hot-dog tongs while holding my other hand under cold, running water. I put the aromatic (sometimes called finishing, or in my case finishing off) hops into the bag and returned it to the wort, which cheerfully accepted it and sent a good-natured splop of liquid in my direction. I easily avoided it as I was now used to my first wort’s idiosyncrasies. The timer chimed five minutes. It was time to finish the deed.

I turned off the burner. I brought the water-filled fermentation vessel over to the stove and placed the protective lid on the counter. I then removed the hops bag from the pot (with the tongs; Lefty smiles benevolently somewhere), noting with satisfaction that a minimum of residue remained in the wort. This residue would settle out with the yeast after fermentation, The Book reassured.

I slipped on the hot mitts and attempted to lift the pot to pour the wort into the fermenter, but the malt muck had melded it to the burner of the stove. I mean meld, as in the Vulcan Mind Meld. These two pieces of metal had become a single encrusted entity. Only after applying 170 pounds of torque, and the assistance of my largest block and tackle, was I able to return this entity back to its former schizophrenic state. Back to two separate and distinct personalities: the stove, which had always hated me, and the wort, which had just begun to do so.

I lifted the pot and poured its contents into the fermenter without further ado. I stirred it gently, then removed a small sample with a sanitized measuring cup. This immediately went into the hydrometer testing tube, and my favorite new toy indicated my first wort enjoyed an initial (prior to fermentation) specific gravity of 1.040. Good enough.

I placed an inch of water in the fermentation lock and secured it to the lid of the fermenter, laying the lid on top of the bucket again. All that was left to do was to wait for the wort to cool sufficiently to add the yeast. While waiting, I cleaned up the utensils by putting a gallon of hot water into the boiling pot with a squeeze of detergent. After washing them I went to work on the encrusted sides of the pot itself. I couldn’t help but note the malty smell the dishwater exuded, and on a whim I found it had specific gravity of 1.020. I briefly considered experimenting with an open fermentation, then decided to leave well enough alone as it was time to pitch the yeast into the wort.

It was simplicity itself to tear the foil packet of yeast open, and then, as I had just cleaned the kitchen floor, it was simplicity itself to sweep up all the yeast except what rolled under the refrigerator. Kneeling in front of the fermenter, I removed the cover and there, in the middle of the kitchen floor, on my knees, I methodically sprinkled the yeast from the dustpan over the entire surface of the wort while chanting every beer jingle I could remember. Backwards. I then placed the lid on top of the bucket, snapping it down tight to effectively close off the fermentation process to outside contaminants. Snapping the lid down sent bubbles up and out the fermentation lock, and I found that sight comforting. At that moment, apparently believing it was safe to come out, my wife decided to enter the kitchen.

As my back was turned to the kitchen entrance, the only warning I had of impending doom was a blood-curdling shriek as she launched herself toward me. I rose and turned toward her, keeping my body between her onslaught and the vulnerable wort in the fermenter. She hit me head on, and I wrapped my arms around her even as she bear-hugged me in an apparent attempt to drive my ribs into various necessary
internal organs. My brain brought my Excuse Synapses on-line with the last of the oxygen-rich blood coming its way. I was fading to black when suddenly she released me from the death clutch and pushed back. Her face loomed up into focus, and she was smiling!

“Oh honey!” she gushed, “You put in a new stove! And such a lovely shade of yellow! No wonder you wanted me and the kids out of the way. I’m so lucky to have a do-it-yourselfer around the house!” I was at a loss for words. I smiled, picked up the fermenter, and got out of there.