'Twas three months before Christmas and in the Northeast the weather was cooling, heading towards the big freeze. The tap was still dripping, but only a tad, most brews from last season had already been had.
The shelves were near empty of brewing supplies, last season's best grains were invaded by flies. The bottles laid dusty in large open crates, the carboys grew mold like the fur on great apes.
When one Sunday morning the brewster arose, said, "Today, I shall start" as she sprang to her toes. She dumped all the grains that were feeding the bugs, and while tallying the rest gave plenty of shrugs.
The brew fridge sat empty of all her best brews, but some leftover hops added positive news, she continued to poke and whence almost she ceased in the furthest back corner was a starter for yeast.
The top of the flask had an airlock in place but the liquid inside smelled of rubber glue paste. With the list in her hand of remaining supplies, she sat down at the table and prepared to decide,
what ales should she brew that she'd liked in the past. Should she venture to try a lager at last? A holiday ale should be the first brew, it would have several months for the spices to stew.
A brown ale would be next, then a porter would follow, she would brew a light ale for the neighbors to swallow. IPA, bitter and stout would all grace her pans, but she needed a lager to pour black and tans.
She decided to try an oktoberfest first, then maybe a helles would help quench her thirst. Since pilsners were good in the hot summer heat, she'd brew this beer last, so that it would keep.
The brews were decided, now came the best part. Which recipes to use, from the past, or depart? With her brew list before her she sat at the table the list of ingredients read like rhymes of a fable.
At last she sat back for her list was complete, but she laughed with amusement as she tallied the sheet: sixty three pounds of grains, eight pounds of fresh hops the owners would love her at local brew shops.
The long list included twelve cases of malt, three amber, four light, five dark and some salt. She purchased ten packs of the best liquid yeast, plus some extra dry malt so the yeast could then feast.
With a trunkload of goods she pulled into her yard, lugging boxes of malt was especially hard. That night was the night she would start her first batch; first make up a starter, then rest she would catch.
The next day began the first brew of the year, carting brew pots upstairs she began without fear. The grains she would treat to a single step mash, she'd then boil all malts `til one hour had past,
adding hops now and then, some to bitter, some for taste, then she'd cool the wort down in the sink with all haste. The fermenter sat waiting, sanitized, lid unhitched, the temp was now right, the yeast could be pitched.
All snuggled in bed she dreamt of her brew, but the sudden loud bang it made when it blew, sent her down to the cellar as quick as can be and what to her wondering eyes did she see?
The airlock she found was five feet from the brew, the hop mess laid scattered like week old beef stew, She stood there and watched kraeusen ooze from the top then she realized the worst of it really had stopped.
With the carboy all clean and the airlock in place, she returned to her dreams of the Great Home Brew Race. (The crowd all held mugs, the racers were lean, each riding the track on their homebrew machines.)
It was now Christmas Day and the family was near, each person was anxious to try home brewed beer. When the brewster emerged with the keg they all cheered, Hoppy Christmas to all and a Malty New Year!
