Author: J. Thorp

Homebrew I: English Pale Ale

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

It’s official: I’m a home-brewer.

I tried brewing once, probably a decade ago, in Michigan. I had pretty basic equipment, and a kit from a big can, and I did it with The Complete Joy of Homebrewing to provide too much information and with no mentor to filter it.

It was a train-wreck. Among other things, my standard of cleanliness was nowhere near brewing standards, and in mid-boil, my third-grade teacher called (seriously?!) because she had heard I was back in Michigan and wanted to reconnect (SERIOUSLY?!?).* I made enough mistakes that the wort (pronounced “wert”) never so much as belched, let alone bubbled. For a couple weeks I had a murky brown liquid in my basement, stagnant as swamp water. Then I dumped it. Nobody told me I could get new yeast and re-pitch it in hopes of starting fermentation. I kept the equipment, but never went back to it.

Now I have a slew of friends who brew, or have brewed, and lots of practical experience to guide me. So back in September, four of us got together to brew: a porter, two 90 Shilling clones, and an English pale ale, my choice, because Bass Ale has long been my consistent favorite beer to drink, any time, any place.

Brewing notes:
Brewing went smoothly until late in the process. The first sign of a potential problem was after I loaded my fermenter in the van to return home, and noticed that the disinfected water filling my airlock was slowly, but steadily, dripping into my brew. I refilled the airlock, drove home, then looked at the temp gauge on the side of the fermenter, and saw that it was still pushing 80 degrees. I was not supposed to pitch the yeast into the wort until the temp was down to 78 degrees — and if you pitch it too hot, the heat can kill the yeast. The dripping airlock was a signal — as the sealed fermenter cooled, the pressure lowered, drawing the airlock fluid down.

My brewing friends were already reporting active fermentation, and nothing was happening on my end. I did some quick googling and learned: 1) It can be a couple days before things really get percolating; 2) yeast are tough, and can survive temps up around 100 degrees without any real ill-effects; and 3) if it didn’t take off in a couple days, I could get new yeast and try again.

My fears were ill-founded, as it turned out: by that evening, the airlock was bubbling merrily.

We brewed on Sept. 3. Within a couple of days, the fermenter was bubbling steadily every couple seconds; over the course of the next week it decelerated by about half each day. By Sept. 15, active fermentation had ceased, and I transferred the brew to my secondary fermenter. I bottled on Oct. 9. On all three dates, the hydrometer showed about 4.5 percent alcohol, and the taste started out good (as wort) and improved steadily.

Beer notes:
The flavor is good: malt and hops balance well, with no “off” flavors so far. Chilled bottled drink very smoothly and easily — a little too smoothly, in fact — the colder it is, the harder it is to taste much of anything. At first I thought it was more like an English bitter (which, strangely, are less bitter than pale ales), but at closer to room temperature, the flavor and mouthfeel seem to “thicken up” a bit. (Not sure if that makes sense, but there you are…) At warmer temps, it reminds me more of Old Speckled Hen than Bass…though it’s been years since I’ve had Old Speckled Hen. Guess I’m due for a refresher, in case I’m misremembering.

One problem (aside from the flavor being a little too faint): it does not hold a head. I get about half or three-quarters of an inch of foam that quickly disappears. This may be an issue of glass cleanliness, but I don’t think so. We’ve also encountered one flat bottle that appears to have been inadequately capped. (Sorry, Butch — you didn’t have to drink it!)

This English Pale Ale kit came from Northern Brewer in St. Paul, and was brewed using Wyeast 1945 NB Neobrittania. I hope to compare it to the Brass Ale kit (a Bass clone kit) from Midwest Supplies in the near future. This coming weekend, however, I’m brewing Midwest’s Irish Stout. Wish me luck!

—–

*Turns out she had a “money-making opportunity” she wanted to share with me and my wife — one of four people from my past who emerged that year to try to get me to sell Amway.

Living with Unbelief

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

“The new rebel is a Skeptic, and will not entirely trust anything. He has no loyalty; therefore he can never be really a revolutionist. And the fact that he doubts everything really gets in his way when he wants to denounce anything. For all denunciation implies a moral doctrine of some kind; and the modern revolutionist doubts not only the institution he denounces, but the doctrine by which he denounces it. … In short, the modern revolutionist, being an infinite skeptic, is always engaged in undermining his own mines. In his book on politics he attacks men for trampling on morality; in his book on ethics he attacks morality for trampling on men. Therefore the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything.” – G.K. Chesterton

I have a friend from high school – an intelligent and articulate husband and father who reads widely, is well informed on a wide range of issues, and is fearlessly outspoken. I admire these things about him. He is also the closest to a conspiracy theorist of anyone I know. He appears to be skeptical of the government, the media, and the motives of nearly everyone he encounters who is unknown to him or disagrees with his perspective. I can live with that – but I can’t live like that.

In the Ben Stein documentary Expelled—a interesting film with numerous serious flaws, in my opinion—one of the atheist academics says that he rejects the idea of a higher purpose or meaning to the universe, and indeed, rejects free will. He has suffered a brain tumor, and says if it comes back, he will shoot himself in the head.

My first thought was, “Will he?”

How does he know? What if the chemicals and synapses line up differently? What if his neurons compel him to look into the sight organs of those of his species with whom he has chemically bonded, and some subconscious part of his brain gives rise to the unbidden hallucination that these “others” matter to him? Will he override those impulses, knowing that they are false and irrational?

I suppose he won’t. He has no free will, so he can’t override anything. I’m not sure how he professes to believe anything. His choices (er, potential life paths) are two, as far as I can see: either choose nothing, ever, to see whither his impulses lead (they will perhaps compel him to eat, drink, breed, and die, like an animal) or to insist upon his beliefs, but act otherwise – to live as though he had decisions to make, even as he says he doesn’t. He will regard this as perfectly rational. And if he kills himself, those who love him shouldn’t mourn or blame him. It’s nobody’s fault.

I see a similar (not identical) problem with the diehard skeptics and conspiracy theorists. It is reasonable, especially these days, to look around and think the deck is stacked against us. It is prudent, then, to proceed with caution and with our eyes open, doing our best to build a good life, and protect what we have and those we care about. But how much is too much? When you see the government, and those who are wealthy or powerful, and the political structure, and the healthcare system, all as false or corrupt; when you are ready to quit participating in government “of the people,” however flawed it may be; when you are skeptical of transcendental Truth and dismissive of religion – what’s the next step? Secession? Revolution? Or marriage? Can you justify bringing children into such circumstances? I admire my friend’s tenacity in uncovering possible lies and conspiracies, but how, then, does he live his knowledge? On which false information does he act? And what will he teach to his children?

In my college days, I called myself agnostic, thinking this was the most intelligent way to regard God. After all, how could anyone know the unknowable? Only later did I realize that I was hedging – that I didn’t have the courage to believe in God or not. I found, over time, that I could not disbelieve and believe at the same time. I could claim to be an agnostic, but I had to live as a believer or a non-believer.

Devout skepticism, like hard determinism, diminishes the possibility of a credible life without contradiction. The diehard skeptic knows only that he’s skeptical – everything else is uncertain. But I suspect that my friend, like me, has made his choice. He’s a good man, a devoted husband and father, and he genuinely cares about others. He must see something of value in this world, in this country, in his marriage and family, which makes him persist in the face of his doubts. Is it God? Love? Freedom? I don’t know. But he doesn’t behave like an unbeliever. I believe he wants to make the world a better place – and to that extent, his heart is a believer’s heart. It’s a step – forward, in my opinion.

Life In The Bubble, Redux

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

We had some friends over last Friday evening for a fall chili feed. The week was busier than we’d hoped, so up until the moment our guest began to arrive, we were still cleaning, cooking, and prepping…plus managing our kids, our dog, and our jobs. With 30 minutes to go, I was sincerely wondering if this little “get-together” was gonna be worth the effort.

Our friends began to roll in, bearing snacks and sweets, beer and wine, to complement the spread we had started in the kitchen. These were all our friends and all from St. Michael Catholic Church — and most of them knew many of the others, but I’m not sure if anyone but Jodi and me and Fr. Richards knew everyone. We said grace as a party, sampled chilis and home-brewed beers, and talked about kids (had we invited whole families, the dozen or so couples would have had more than 70 children in tow), work, school, politics, hunting, and most importantly in The Bubble, our shared faith. The men ultimately congregated in the basement, and at one point, I walked in to hear a good friend of mine relating how, at a retreat, I once stopped mid-witness, smacked by the Holy Spirit, tearful and trembling and grinning, to tell the men on that retreat, “You guys gotta try this!” Upstairs in the kitchen, three or four life-giving women of our parish were gathered near the sink I was trying to access, talking frankly about how God’s will manifests itself in our lives. I listened a moment, then quietly said, “I love you people.”

From 6:30 to midnight, our house was packed to the rafters with beautiful, prayerful men and women. Father was the first to head home, but he blessed us, upstairs and down, before he left for the night. There were friends missing — some who were going hunting or had other obligations, some we forgot in our own whirlwind of busy-ness, some who live states away in their own little bubbles — but we spent the evening basking in personal warmth and genuine love, and even the ache of their absence helped us to feel complete.

Was it worthwhile? Definitely. Scarcely a waking hour has passed since that I have not paused a moment, thought of one of these dear friends, smiled, and said, “I love you people.” And I do. We hope this will become an annual event, and we will do our best to invite all the others…

I’ve always been a big-headed, geeky, heart-on-my-sleeve kind of guy, with no athletic talent, a poor sense of direction, and few other manly aptitudes upon which to hang my hat. I’m old-fashioned, idealistic, and a hopeless romantic. I write for a living; I don’t follow sports closely; and I don’t drink much or tell off-color jokes (anymore). Often I feel like I don’t fit in. Except here, in The Bubble. Here, Jodi and I have met men and women, our brothers and sisters in Christ, who understand exactly where we’re coming from, and what we hope to be.

What a blessing. What a life.

Do Whatever He Tells You

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Above: A Wedding in Cana: my sister Jill and her husband Rusty, married in the Wedding Church at Cana of Galilee, Tuesday, October 18, 2011. Photo courtesy of Stephen Ray, their pilgrimage guide, online at Catholic-Convert.com.

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples were also invited to the wedding. When the wine ran short, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.” And Jesus said to her, “Woman, how does your concern affect me? My hour has not yet come.” His mother said to the servers, “Do whatever he tells you.” Now there were six stone water jars there for Jewish ceremonial washings, each holding twenty to thirty gallons. Jesus told them, “Fill the jars with water.” So they filled them to the brim. Then he told them, “Draw some out now and take it to the headwaiter.” So they took it. And when the headwaiter tasted the water that had become wine, without knowing where it came from (although the servers who had drawn the water knew), the headwaiter called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves good wine first, and then when people have drunk freely, an inferior one; but you have kept the good wine until now.” Jesus did this as the beginning of his signs in Cana in Galilee and so revealed his glory, and his disciples began to believe in him. 

— John 2:1-11

My sister was married yesterday. I was there in spirit. I woke in the dark wee hours of Tuesday morning — 4:18 a.m. — to discover a text from Jill on my phone, sent a couple hours earlier, while I slept: “We are going to Cana right now! Won’t be long!!”
4:18 was what time? 11:18 in Jerusalem. And they were leaving Cana for lunch, according to the itinerary, so they may be there right now.
Jodi slept peacefully beside me. I lay on my back, eyes wide, and began to pray.
I learned later, via text, that at 11:18 local time, Jill and Rusty were likely walking up the aisle in the Wedding Church in Cana. For the half hour I lay awake, praying, they were promising their lives to each other. Those moments are captured in video below, courtesy of their pilgrimage guide Steve Ray at Catholic-Convert.com and FootprintsOfGodPilgrimages.com.

I wore a tux in Jill’s first wedding, a lovely outdoor ceremony on a little island in the Chippewa River in Michigan where her high-school sweetheart had grown up. We were fallen-away Catholics then — my mom, Jill, and I — and her first husband’s family was of no particular faith that I knew, so they were married by a the pastor of the Wheatland Church of Christ, who was a neighbor of my folks, in a short ecumenical service. It was a day of great joy, the start of something wonderful — though we had no idea in what way. 
Today she has two wonderful children, Kayla and Kyle, and an ex-husband who is remarried, and who by all accounts is a supportive dad and a good friend to her again. In the months that followed the breakup, she found herself seeking God, and, with Jodi’s conversion of me and Gabe’s youthful interest in the priesthood as inspiration, ultimately came back to the Catholic church. As fate (or faith) would have it, I was there in Michigan with her when she met with her priest to discuss returning to the Church and the sacraments, and having her teen and her tween baptized. I was there when, after going to Reconciliation for the first time in decades, she received the Eucharist for the first time. And when her priest told her when the baptism of the kids would be, Jill and I were amazed to realize that Jodi and I were already planning to be back in Michigan that weekend — since she had just told us that she wanted us to be their godparents. 
We were also in Michigan this past Easter when my niece and nephew made their First Communion, and Jill and Kayla were confirmed. This was my first opportunity to meet the man my sister had begun seeing during the previous year — a man with whom she was unabashedly smitten. After all she had been through, it had been strange to listen from afar as she met and fell in love with somebody new. I’ve watched a handful of female friends go through divorce, then quickly and repeatedly fall for the wrong guys, and I had to swallow hard. I don’t want to see her hurt again.

My parents, on the other hand, had met Rusty and seemed to like what they saw. That helped, especially because Dad has a knack for gauging people. Still, it was difficult to show up at Easter as the only close family member who hadn’t meant this man — and as the person (quite frankly) who was most inclined to not like him. I had my guard and filters up, but he came through clean: a genuinely nice guy who likes good music, a Catholic convert who enjoys talking about his faith, a veteran of the Navy and other life battles who loves his young son and his aging parents, and a good man who did not hesitate to say that he would gladly spend his life working hard to treat my sister right and to get her to Heaven.

They told us that weekend that they were planning to marry, although they weren’t yet engaged. Then they told us they planned to do it at the church in Cana, in the Holy Land, on a pilgrimage to learn more about their faith. We were amazed. How much more different could this possibly be from her first wedding? How far had my sister journeyed, in such a short time?

“Do whatever he tells you” — these words from Our Blessed Mother from the Gospel account of the miraculous wedding at Cana were a statement of faith in her son, that, although He insisted it was not yet his time, He would not allow a need to go unmet for God’s faithful — that  from misfortune he would work wonders in order to manifest God’s love in our lives. He did it again and again during his ministry, and again in the most profound way on the cross on Calvary.

And again yesterday, at another wedding in Cana.

Before she left, Jill told me she was thinking of ways she could have her closest family and friends with her on her wedding day: a family rosary, a lucky coin, that sort of thing. From Jodi and me and our family, she asked that I write a prayer for them to meditate upon.

I was overwhelmed. I had planned to write a letter, but the idea that I could add something substantive to this sacrament when the very location was a homily and blessing seemed like more than I could possibly deliver. I wrote a letter that said as much, then asked that, the night before their wedding or the morning of, they consider doing the following:

  • First, ask the priest to hear your confessions, that your hearts may be pure and open to God’s graces.
  • Second, read the only scripture that ever mattered to me at the time of our marriage (and the only detail of our wedding I insisted upon): Tobit 8:4-9.
  • Finally (not that the prayer of Tobiah and Sarah needs any improvement or addition), please share the following as our prayer for you both:

Father in Heaven, in your wisdom and love, You said:
“It is not good for the man to be alone.”
You made man and woman both in Your holy image,
unique in all of creation, as both spiritual and physical beings,
made for each other, as complements and co-creators, living and life-giving.

Then, in the fullness of time, you called Our Blessed Mother to bear your Son,
and St. Joseph, her husband, to raise and protect Him,
giving to our Lord and to Your people two shining stars to guide us
in holiness, obedience, fidelity, chastity, and courage
in marriage and family life.

We love you, O Lord, and we thank You for Your many blessings:
For life and love, for mercy and grace,
for Your living example of selflessness and devotion shown by Your Son, Our Lord, Jesus Christ.
We ask Your forgiveness for the times we have failed to love as You love,
and for the strength each day to forgive and to try again

O Lord, please bless my beloved and me,
that we may make a true and generous gift of self to each other and to You;
that we may be a light for each other on the pathway to heaven;
that we may be a living sign of Your love and fidelity;
and that we may be a beacon to draw others nearer to You.

This we pray with confidence in the name of Jesus Christ and through the power of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Another friend of ours tells a story related to the biblical account of the wedding at Cana, in which we imagine ourselves as the servants, who, on the word of a wedding guest — a poor but faithful mother from Nazareth — and the orders of her son, also a guest in the house, lug six massive crocks to the city well, carrying back, on foot, more than a hundred gallons of water for who knows what purpose. As a result, they got to see Christ’s first miracle…

When I texted Jill later in the day yesterday and told her how I was with her in prayer, she agreed, and closed her reply with, “Thank you, Jim and Jodi, for leading the way…”

Sister, we were just carrying the water.

How Great Thou Art

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments
Blogger’s Note: This popped more or less fully formed into my head after I received Communion this morning. Perhaps it’s a new prayer for our children?

Lord, make of me a monstrance,
The Eucharist as my heart,
That all may see your light in me
And know how great Thou art.

Amen.