home brewed


For the mere price of a dollar, how could anyone pass up a used book with such an enticing title? For a grad student with money problems, how to make wine it was a roadmap to a continuous flow of nectar from the gods at low cost.

How hard could it be? After all, Neolithic man made wine, without the aid of a second-hand book recipe. With a little study and preparation, he could produce the same results as illiterate cave dwellers of old.

I read the book twice. A “C” in high school chemistry reinforced the need for a careful understanding of the process. By the end of my second reading, I was convinced that this wine-making thing pales in comparison to understanding Avogadro’s number, a method of measuring the number of molecules in gases. Why would this Avogadro guy care to know that anyway? He lived in Turin, Italy, one of the great wine regions of the world. It would have been better to spend his time drinking a Barolo or an Asti instead of messing with the heads of high school chemistry students. As they say, there is no accounting for taste.

The first part of my plan focused on evaluating the cost of the project. Although he suffered from eternal optimism, he was not naive. The book listed a variety of fruits and vegetables from which wine could be made. Grapes were one of many options. That was a red flag. Better check the price of grapes.

A trip to Grand Central Market in downtown Los Angeles turned out to be a sobering experience. Book in hand, I reviewed the grape wine recipe and checked the price of grapes. The amount I needed pushed the cost beyond what my meager budget could afford.

I made my way through the market, flipping through the recipes and taking notes on the cost of a variety of fruits. The humble lemon, a final choice far short of my hopeful expectations, had a superior and winning quality: a price of five cents a pound.

The water, sugar, and yeast came from my kitchen pantry. I invested in a new plastic bucket and a piece of cheesecloth. He was ready to launch.

The initial stage called for squeezing the lemons, combining the juice with water and sugar, and simmering on the stove. When the liquid reached the optimal temperature for the yeast to grow, I added the granules, stirred, and poured the mixture into the plastic bucket, covering it with the cheesecloth.

The frothy, bubbly concoction required several weeks to settle down. The smell of yeast and alcohol permeated the apartment.

The next step, secondary fermentation, required a gallon glass container with a narrow neck, like an empty water jug. No problem. I had one.

An image in the book showed a device called a fermentation lock. It looked like it might have been ripped from Dr. Frankenstein’s lab. An accompanying explanation described how the coiled plastic tube allowed carbon dioxide to escape from the container while blocking out unwanted microbes that would spoil the wine. One end of the tube fitted through a rubber stopper inserted into the top of the jar. The other end had a small water tank. The gas bubbles forced their way through a water barrier on their way out, but the microbes couldn’t get in. Witty!

I poured the yellow liquid into the carafe, leaving sediment behind, and then attached the fermentation lock.

Now, the hardest part began: waiting six months. Although tempted to taste the wine before then, deferred gratification prevailed over impatience.

When tasting day came around, I called my brother-in-law, Bob, who lived a few blocks away. A fun-loving guy who was up for just about anything, he happily volunteered to judge the product.

I put two shot glasses on the coffee table in the living room. When it arrived, I removed the fermentation block from the gallon jug. The strong smell of alcohol assaulted our nostrils. This wine could be high octane. Since the size of the container made it unwieldy, I poured a pint into a smaller bottle before filling the glasses.

“Ready?”

Bob already had his hand around the glass and raised it to his lips. “Wow! It tastes like lemon.”

“Do you think it’s too strong?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have another taste.” He finished the glass.

I drank half a glass. My body felt the immediate effect of the alcohol.

“I think we should stop, Bob. I’ll put the rest back in the jar and let it develop for another six months.”

“I’ll have another drink.”

“It may not be a good idea.”

He raised the empty glass.

“Okay. I’m glad you’re walking home.”

He finished his second round and left.

Fifteen minutes later, my sister called. “What did you do to my husband?”

“He only had two shot glasses of my new lemon wine.”

The explanation failed to soothe his irritation.

I replaced the fermentation block and let the brew sit for another six months. The wine softened and took on the character of a cordial with vibrant lemon flavor. At the end of a year, the spirits were fit for polite society.

The result of the great lemon wine experiment did not dampen my enthusiasm for home production. I found joy in using anything but grapes.

In my second effort, I used grapefruit which, when squeezed, produced a copious amount of juice. However, I found that the unusual flavor was not well received when offered to guests. “You have to develop a taste for it,” I told him. “Appeals to the sophisticated palate.”

For my third batch, I used carrots. You need to juice a lot of carrots to make a modest amount of wine. What intrigued me about the recipe was the addition of wheat mid-fermentation. The grain fortified the wine, creating a wonderful drink.

When I brought out the wine to the guests, I asked them to taste it and tell me what they thought it was. They said it was sherry, a very good sherry.

Cheerfully, I said, “It’s carrot!”

“You’re kidding,” was the universal response.

“I’m not. It’s wheat-fortified carrot.”

Oh what a feeling. I had produced a wine equal in flavor to a fino sherry from the fields of Jerez, Spain, wines with a tradition of three thousand years. I was at the height of my winemaking glory, worth mentioning at the same time as Ernest and Julio Gallo.

The lesson was clear: Even a grad student who could only afford inexpensive items, a plastic bucket, and a jug of water, someone who received a “C” in chemistry in high school, can rise above their position to compare themselves. with the giants of winemaking. world. Hallelujah! Life can be so wonderful.