An encounter with Mark Tranter, founder of the Saison-specialist Burning Sky Brewery, coincides with a homebrewed Grisette, inspiring some reflections on these rough-and-ready, Belgian workers’ ales.
Homebrewing
Brew Day! … “Pursuit of Abbeyness XII”
With an odd 3.7kg of Pilsner malt in my cellar and a three-month-old Wyeast 1762 Belgian Abbey II in my fridge, it was time to brew up a small portion of the beer style I return to most often - the Strong, Dark Abbey Ale.
Go! A Chronicle of Christmas in Beers
Board games, beers, Blimp, and a Bavarian tale make for a nostalgic chronicle of Christmas.
Brew Day!… “Memento Mori” Barley Wine
Making an ale that may require as long as a decade to reach its peak causes a brewer to mull over more than just the way a beer is put together. Thinking in decades makes the ageing of a beer analogous with the ageing of a man.
Brew Day!… Revisiting “Pacific Northwest”
Were brewers to be divided up into “tweakers” and “experimenters”, I would certainly find myself categorised as an experimenter. But I have been tweaking lately... and learning about the ageing of essential-oil components in hops.
Brew Day!… “Christmas Ale 2017”
As the autumn equinox passes and the nights draw in, thoughts turn to Christmas ale, spice in beer, and the spice of life.
The Fruits of Our Labour
The focus on a single ingredient - American hops - is the top of a slippery slope. It encourages an ever-narrowing focus on certain elements of that ingredient, which sends us sliding towards a place where fizzy, alcoholic fruit juice can be mistaken for beer.
Brew Day!… “Pacific Northwest”
With a couple of friends to lend a helping hand, brew day can be a hospitable time of aimless conversation, mutual admiration of shiny brewing equipment, and shameless indulgence in good beer, cheese and ham.
Time: the Secret Ingredient
With Vintage Beer, Patrick Dawson has given us a handy, easy-to-use book on a topic that is attracting more and more attention from beer drinkers.
Message in a Bottle
In my imagination, sometimes the discarded brown bottles of the city sing out to me. They want to be rescued. They want to be washed, scrubbed, cleansed, like seabirds plucked from an oil slick.
