How To Brew Daddy Mac's Scotch Style Ale

Brewing beer is a fun and rewarding hobby.  My buddy Nicolas and I have been doing it sporadically for years now.  He's getting to be an old pro, and he's an India Pale Ale man.  He loves the hops.  Yesterday, I borrowed all his gear and did what we called "my first beer" at my house with the recipe that I wanted to try.  We started with the recipe for Belhaven Wee Heavy and made a few changes to make it our own. 

When brewing beer, the first and most important thing to remember is that there are times in the process that absolute care and attention to sterile equipment is imperative.  One little bacteria can ruin a whole batch of brew so the very first thing to do when brewing is to bathe all of your beer hoses, drilled carboy bung, wort chiller immersion coil (if you use one), and carboy in a bleach solution.  You can leave the hoses soaking for most of the process until they are needed (at the end).  Once the carboy is sterilized, cover the mouth with some saran wrap to keep it clean.

Get a big ole tub and bring some water to 155º F.  Nico and I use a 3ish gallon camp cooking pot and a dial thermometer that hangs on the rim of the pot.  Make a "teabag" with the following grains using a cheesecloth bag:

• 9 oz. British 55ºL Crystal Malt
• 4 oz. Belgian Biscuit Malt
• 3 oz. Belgian Aromatic Malt
• 2 oz. Peated Malt
• 1.5 British Black Patent Malt
• 1.5 oz. Roasted Barley

Your local brew supplier will measure out everything for you and mix them all together in a paper bag that's ready to pour into the cheesecloth.  We go to Fermentables in Dogtown.

Remove the pot from the heat and steep at 150º for 30 minutes.  

Then sparge the grains with about a gallon of 150º water.  (I love the jargon.)  Sparging is simply pouring hot water over the grain bag to get all the good juices out so that nothing is wasted.  We even mash the bag, squeeze it out real well, when we sparge.

While you're returning your wort to a boil, pick a lemon off your lemon tree.  :-)

And juice it.

Make a simple syrup by boiling about a cup of water and 12 oz. of sugar.  I used 6 oz. granulated sugar and 6 oz. of brown sugar.  

Then, invert the sugar using the juice of the lemon.  This changes the molecular structure of the sugar.  (Traditional Scotch style ales use a traditional Scottish syrup for this ingredient.  You could probably find some at a specialty grocer like Fresh Market.  I had fun making my own, with my home grown lemon.)

When the wort reaches a boil, add 10 lbs. of Golden Light pure malt extract.

Add your inverted syrup of choice.  

Add 2 oz. of Fuggles hops.  This acts as a bittering hop.

Remove three ounces of the wort and caramelize it in a separate pan, then add it back to the original wort and boil for 45 minutes.  Then, add 1/2 oz. more of Fuggles hops.  This is called the flavor hop.  It would be GREAT if you could add a tablespoon of Irish moss here too, but we didn't have any.  Irish moss is a type of red algae, and one of its common nicknames is LITTLE ROCK.  I kid you not.  Next time I brew this beer, I WILL have some Irish moss.

Boil the wort for 15 more minutes.  

Now it's time to GET STERILE.  Scrub down your hands, and get all your hoses and stuff ready.  We rinsed the heck out of everything that was bathed in bleach because you don't want any lingering bleach either.  Remember, the fermentation process is alive, it's ALIVE!!  The yeast effectively eat the sugars so bleach can ruin the process as much as bacteria.  You have to be CAREFUL with the remainder of the process.  I can't emphasize this enough.  It's really, really, very, extremely, super important.  

Here's Nico with his uber-clean hands dropping the wort chiller immersion coil into the wort.  Attach a water hose to one end and run cold water through the coil to speed the cooling process.

It was a chilly day so Rome Lee enjoyed playing in the warm water that comes out the other end of the coil.  He was bobbing for apples a few minutes after this picture was taken.  We changed him into some dry clothes before Mom got home from running some errands.

When the wort cools to 70º, it's time to siphon it into the carboy.

And it's high time to pitch the yeast too!  As you can see, this recipe calls for Edinburgh Ale Yeast.  The yeast should be activated and working.  I kept it in my pocket most of the day, next to my heart to make sure it was warming up and working.   

Dump the yeast into the carboy.  

Siphon the wort into the carboy for the primary fermentation.  Make sure not to get too much of the "junk" in the bottom of the pot.  Keep it as clear as you can.  And no splashing, yo?  This is a good time to drink a beer that you've brewed in the past.  We had a Berjot Special IPA and then compared it to a Boulevard Single-wide IPA.  Nico's was better in my humble opinion. 

Plug the carboy with a drilled carboy bung and insert a tube to vent the carbon dioxide that is released when the yeast feeds on the sugars.  Ferment for 7 days or until fermentation slows.  Ideal temperature for fermentation is between 66º and 68º, the exact temperature of my garage under Natalie's apartmen

24 hours into primary fermentation, it's a perfect 66º.  It's alive!

After primary fermentation, siphon into the secondary fermentor (another 5 gallon glass carboy) and wait until secondary fermentation is complete, target gravity is reached, and beer has cleared (approximately 3 weeks).  Many beers don't even have this secondary fermentation step.  Ours is special!








The last thing to do is to bottle it with 1-1/4 cup of Muntons Extra Light Dry Malt Extract that has been boiled for 10 minutes in 2 cups of water and let it prime in bottles at about 70º for another 3ish weeks.  We'll be drinking home brew by Christmas break!

Sterilize bottles in a bleach solution.

Triple rinse.

Siphon beer into bottling bucket while adding sugar solution and bottle.

Cap.

Voila!

I'm calling this batch Daddy Mac's Scotch Style Ale in honor of my great-grandfather (and one of my son's namesakes), Lee Leslie MacLellan.  And why not?!  Daddy Mac's father, Angus Dominion MacLellan, immigrated to Canada in the 1870's from Scotland and later moved to Minnesota, where my grandmother, Perky, was born.

WWBCD?

Three Ravens

I'm teaching the Medieval Period.  One of my favorite days of the year is coming up tomorrow and Friday, when we discuss some medieval alehouse ballads.  Here's one of my favorites, "The Three Ravens," performed by Peter, Paul, and Mary:

I'll also be playing and singing "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall" by Bob Dylan.  It's a version this old alehouse ballad, "Lord Randall":

"O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son! 
And where ha you been, my handsome young man!" 
"I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? 
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?" 
"O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son? 
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?" 
"Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." 

"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son? 
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?" 
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." 

"And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son? 
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?" 
"They stretched their legs out and died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down." 

"O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! 
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!" 
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." 

"What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?"
"Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?"
"My gold and my silver; ; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?"
"My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son?
What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
"I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

Nice little thought for the day:

Whom, then, do I call educated? First, those who manage well the circumstances which they encounter day by day, who possess a judgement which is accurate in meeting occasions as they arise, and rarely miss the expedient course of action. Next, those who are decent and honourable in their relations with all men bearing easily and good-naturedly that which is unpleasant or offensive in others, and being themselves as agreeable and reasonable to their associates as is humanly possible to be. Furthermore, those who hold their pleasures always under control, bearing up under them bravely and in a manner worthy of our common nature. Finally, and most important of all, those who are not spoiled by their successes, who do not desert their true selves but hold their ground steadfastly, as wise and sober-minded men, rejoicing no more in the good things which have come to them through chance than those which through their own nature and intelligence are theirs since birth. Those who have character which is in accord, not with one of these things, but with all of them, these I maintain are educated and whole men, possessed of all the virtues of a man. 

I read this on the AP English teacher list-serve this morning.  It was surrounded by fierce debate over who said and/or wrote it.  Plato, Socrates, or Isocrates.  So far, some of the brightest English teachers in the nation can't seem to come to an agreement.  And when I looked for myself--mind you I did not spend much time looking--I cannot say for sure either, though my best guess would be that Socrates said it, and Isocrates wrote it down at some point.  I really don't know though.  Strike one, internet!  Regardless, it's a nice little meditation for the day.  

Seriously, this is not happening?!

The Braves lost.  Cards are tied in extra innings.  Is it time to go crucify a goat or something?  I mean really.

Three Games for the Wildcard

Thanks for nothing Cubs.  Now we sweep the best team in baseball.

The Braves go to Philly and the Cards go to Houston.  Three games remaining, one game lead.

Questioning Authority

I've been hit at times over my career with comments from students that have thrown me off kilter pretty hard.  One of the things that you have to accept when you become a teacher is that you are becoming part of the establishment.  You are, to some, The Man.  There are rules to respect and even enforce at times.  There are certain conventions that have to be followed.  There are traditions to uphold.  There are places to be and times to be there.  Modern times and rock-n-roll and probably more than anything else the two-headed bureaucratic monster of public education policy and administration have given more and more young people the notion that school just plain old sucks.  After a failed attempt at a music career, I used my undergrad degree to get a job as a teacher--ironically because school had sucked so bad for me.  I had 5 teachers that I considered to be great throughout the course of my entire education--K through college.  And those 5 teachers were all it had taken to make the difference in my life--academically, socially, even spiritually as weird as that sounds.  I wanted to be one of those guys.  And I knew it wasn't going to be easy going in.  After all, I had hated school myself.    

My first job as a teacher was at Dunbar Middle in a classroom of "regular" (a label that I absolutely can't stand btw) 8th grade English students, most of which came from and lived the hard knock life.   Over three years, I learned quickly that the system had failed the vast majority of these kids.  And they knew it better than I did.  By the age of 12, the education establishment had largely given up on them.  They were funneled into classrooms like mine, with either the youngest, most inexperienced teachers or the oldest, most jaded and burnt-out or plain old idiotic teachers.  Younger inexperienced teachers, like me at the time, are usually idealistic and have the passion for the job, but lack the concrete real-life methods and practices and even real subject content mastery to be extremely effective.  And the old burn-outs, while they may know everything about their subject area and everything about how to keep a classroom in control, often lack the drive to do anything worth a dern with the kids.  And so my first students were left behind.  And they weren't happy about it either.  And they let me know about it too.  Ya'll would trip out if you knew what I had to go through at times those early years.  Kids pushed me to limits I didn't know I had.  They said things to me and to each other that I didn't know could be said out loud to another human being--particularly one who was intent on helping them out in any possible way that he could muster.  But I was patient with them, and I loved them, and eventually, I earned their trust.  I taught them as much as I was capable of teaching them at that point in my life.  I picked kids up at home in the morning at their homes, sometimes walking over eerily passed out bodies in there living rooms and kitchens to get to their bedroom to wake them up and get them dressed so that I could take them to school early in the morning and teach them to read.  I stayed after school and taught them to work the new garden we had started (Dunbar Community Garden).  I taught them to play guitar after school.  I took them to plays at the Rep, to the Heifer Ranch, and other places like that.  And yet, they never failed, at times, to disrespect me openly and severely.  There was nothing I could do to stop it.  I was a teacher.  It was part of the job and I accepted it.  I understood their frustration.  The system had failed them.

By my fifth year, I had earned some real respect among my peers and administrators in LRSD.  Nancy Rousseau was the new principal at LRCHS and she heard about me through the grapevine.  She was giving Central a facelift, and I was gonna be a part of it.  Our interview was hilarious.  I walked in and sat down--tailored suit and all, and the first words out of her mouth were something like, "This job is too big for you Mista Fosta.  You can't possibly understand the presha, the scrutiny you're gonna face, the microscope you're gonna be unda."  

I was floored.  I had thought she wanted me.  There had been rumors that I was gonna get the job.  I stood up and started to walk out and said, "Looks like this is a waste of our time then," and headed for the door. 

"Sit down Mista Fosta," she explained.  We talked and she warned me that parents and students were gonna demand more of me than anyone was really capable of doing.  She laughed in my face when I told her my rapport with students was going to be my greatest strength and curtly suggested that nothing but content/subject knowledge mattered in this AP program.  And she almost rocked out of her big leather chair when I used the old one about how I'd work as hard as or harder than anyone in the building.  "These kids and parents will eat you alive if you don't know your stuff," she screamed.

"I know my [stuff]!" I roared back.  I left her office as flustered as I've ever been.  I had loosened my tie while I was still in her office, and my face was redder, purpler than it is in that painting Caroline Brown did of me.  I was pissed.  It had been my dream to teach at Central ever since I'd lived in Arkansas.  I had blown it.

When I got home, my wife was on the phone.  She turned around at me smiling and handed it to me.  It was Mrs. Rousseau.  She said, "Mr. Foster, you handled yourself beautifully in the interview.  I'd like to welcome you to the Tiger family."  She didn't even ask if I would like to accept the job.  She just told me I was gonna be the new Senior AP English teacher and that I better start reading everything I could get my hands on right that minute and not stop until the school year started.  Her last words were really sweet.  But my head was spinning too fast to appreciate it.  She had said, "You're the future of Central High."

To be continued...

Open House

One of the real marathon days of the school year is over and done--for parents and for students. I was at work yesterday from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. for Open House. And it's not the Open House your parents went to when you were growing up either. Open House doesn't mean the doors to the building are open from 4 to 6:30 and teachers are in their classrooms grading papers and available to meet and greet parents as they explore the school facilities at their own leisure. Oh no. It's a full-scale, theatre of the absurd-esque, dramatic production, complete with scary clowns "charading" the hallways and miming for money, an hour long public address in the auditorium to a captive audience of antsy observers, and followed by two complete cycles of the bell schedule where parents are forced to race around the building following their children's A day and then B day class schedules. Teachers give the parents ten-minute informational presentations, the bell rings, and then the parents race the clock across the building to the next class, hoping not to be tardy. Four hours later, not a single parent has met a teacher or administrator for any sort of meaningful conversation or introductions, and everyone involved, from the wonderful PTSA volunteer to Danny's poor little sister who is too young to stay home alone, is slam exhausted.

I used to wear a big-fake smile and dance around the room telling the parents all my credentials and qualifications and what they should expect out of their children and my rules and requirements and all about my philosophies and methodologies and assignments and reading. I hated it. I mean really--hated--it. Because you're good and comfortable with kids doesn't mean you like talking to their parents in a setting like that. If I'd wanted to talk to large rooms full of adults, I'd have been a preacher or a politician--or a principal. That's not what I do.

So this year, I continued something I started last year. I put William Carlos Williams's poem "This is Just to Say" on the Smartboard, and I taught it to them.

They signed in, had a seat, and when the bell rang, I walked in, said, "Okay let's get started. This is what we do in class....volunteer to read the poem?.......Mr. Z, thank you. Go ahead..."

"This Is Just to Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold"

"Well read! Where might you find this piece of writing.........right! On the fridge........what is it?............ooooo, a confession, good analysis. Nice word..........this is a poetic form known as syncopated free verse--a HUGE little poem that just continues to bloom in the mind over time--in my case, it's been blooming for about 20 years now, unfolding more and more every year...........so you guys identify with this?.............you eat your wife's Ben and Jerry's?! I'd never do that lol...........is the plum an apple? Is the speaker Adam? Maybe. Is it virginity? gasp Innocence? better....maybe........Is it easier to get forgiveness than permission? Yes..........Will your child feed me a line like this at some point in the school year? lol. Yes...............Do ya'll see what's going on in here? Yes........rinnnnnnnnng.....Bye now! Thanks for coming! Call me if you need anything......don't forget your homework!!!!! lol." They shuffled out of the room just like their kids--smiling and joking. It was actually fun. Fast, furious, and fun.

My experience this time turned out to be positive--but only cause I just did what I do everyday instead of trying to kiss proverbial ass with a dog and pony show. The new and improved Open House definitely goes right along with every other aspect of the "more is better" American way. We're gonna force teachers to be transparent. We're gonna publish their test scores in the newspaper. We're gonna make them publish two grades a week on Edline. But the politicians, administrators and parents can run amuck. I heard there were teachers who got grilled about their AP scores. Parents openly challenged one master teacher's methods in this open-to-the-public, classroom setting. I observed it personally during my "prep" period (I sat in her room and saw it with my own two eyes). One teacher of juniors was asked by a parent--publicly, and in an accusatory tone I might add--if they would be exposing his child to rated "R" movies. The teacher had never done such a thing in her career--well maybe a not-rated-R scene from a rated R movie, just to make a point or introduce a lesson. The hallways are rated X. Heaven forbid a history teacher use a scene from Forrest Gump to make a teaching moment come alive a little.

I think, in the end, everyone involved would have been just as happy to mingle around the building, tour the beautiful campus, stand out by the reflection pool for a minute, and go introduce themselves to the teachers that Danny had written down on a scrap piece of paper, his favorites of course, for his parents to make sure and say hello to.

Note to My Cardinals Fans

Kyle Lohse outpitched Roy Halladay as the Cards beat the Phillies on Monday night to pull the Cards within two-and-a-half games of the Wildcard. The Braves, with both aces Jair Jar-Jar Jurrjens and Tommy Gun Hanson on the DL, are fading faster than a summer tide. The Braves's magic number is 7. This is starting to become painful to watch. Excruciatingly nerve-racking, like watching a bull that's already been slain fight to the bitter end as the evil crowd cheers. I still believe, but damn. If we hold ya'll off, it's looking like it might have to be without two of the best pitchers in the N.L. Not good.

As always, I remind you that I love the Cards, and if it has to be anyone to do it, I want it to be them. So just keep that in mind as you're gloating like a horny goat. I'll buy the damn Moylan's Kilt-lifter Scotch-style ale for you if you win, and I'll watch you drink it. (I made a stupid bet with my tennis team captain.) And I'll cheer for your boys to go all the way if it happens.

But if the Braves eek it out, and they get the Gun and Jar-Jar back, we could make a run that we'll all remember for the rest of our lives. Chipper Jones, bottom of the 9th, Game 7 of the World Series, on one leg a la Kirk Gibson, cue The Natural soundtrack, bases loaded, down by 3...

Go Braves!!!!