When Jake and I lived in New Zealand, we made a point of hiking the Nydia Track, which is a phenomenal and hugely under-appreciated hike in the Marlborough Sound. (Read all about it here, if you have the time or inclination.) The coolest part of the excursion was staying at an eco-lodge halfway along the trail, which was only accessible by boat or by foot from the trail. The proprietors were a young couple who tended the lodge and cooked for guests. Our first night there, sore and achy, we enjoyed a delectable steaming curry along with a 40-ounce bottle of the wife’s home-brewed beer. When she served it to us, I thought to myself, When I grow up, I’m going to be the sort of woman who brews her own beer.
And I guess I’ve grown up, because I am now that sort of woman.
THIS IS A MOMMY BLOG, you argue, NOT A BEER BLOG. And that’s very true. But my homebrewing experiment is so uncannily similar to the births of my two children, that I’ve started to call the beer My Third Baby. Witness:
- It was expensive, and at times painful.
- It made me do and say strange things, as though I was in a trance.
- Daddy had to take the other two kids so I could devote myself fully to the process. He did the best he could with what he had.
- I even spent some time in the bathtub with it.
Will the payoff be quite as good as that of a real baby? Considering that it won’t wake me up four times a night, tell me to shut up, ask me for the keys to my car or call me from the police station, I’d wager yes.
Just kidding, geez.