Page 48 of Golden Touch
Unfortunately, I’ve already scalded one hand on the very hose he’s referring to. Not that I’m going to admit it. “What are we doing to balance the water?” Come to think of it, I didn’t see any calcium sulfate, calcium chloride, or lactic acid in the storage room.
“Nothing,” he says.
I pause in the middle of cutting open the last bag. “Nothing? Is the liquor tank treated separately?”
“No. I use the water just as God gives it to me.”
“No shit?” Last night I googled the hell out ofhow to make Goldenpour. I wanted to know what the internet knew about my dad’s recipe. Foamies love exchanging secrets about their favorite cult brews.
Sure enough, I found several reddit threads speculating on the Goldenpour recipe, including photos taken through the mill’s windows. And zoomed-in shots of the temperature gages on the tanks.
Turns out the base of Dad’s famous recipe is just plain old, untempered well water. I want to laugh as I open the valve that starts the flow of water into the mash tun.
“Did you preheat the masher?” my father demands.
“Doing it now.”
“All right. Fill ’er up. Then you can start to add the grain. Slowly, now. We don’t want dough balls.”
I feel like I’m twelve again, because that’s how old I was when I learned how to brew beer. “I’ll go slow.”
“See that you do.”
When the tank is full, I shut off the water and then climb uponto the mash platform. I start the flow of grain from the hopper and grab a wooden paddle so I can stir it up.
This part makes me feel like a cartoon witch with a cauldron.Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…
“How’s it looking?” my father asks. “No clumps?”
“Looking good. All clear.”
“Time to recirculate. Open the pump valve just a crack and let the wort circulate through the grain bed.”
Yes, master. I send the wort circulating back through the grain bed.
“Let it recirculate for about 15 minutes, then we’ll start the sparge. You remember how to set the sparge arm?”
“It’s like riding a bike, Dad. And I’m handy with a bike.”
He mutters something about cocky sons under his breath. But this conversation isn’t nearly as irritating as I’d imagined it would be.
I’m actually having fun, but I’ll take that secret to my grave.
“Good. Call me back when you’re ready for the next step. Don’t mess this up; it’s our legacy in that tun.”
“No pressure, huh?”
“None at all. And Nash? Don’t get fancy and try to ‘optimize’ this. It’s perfect as is.”
That was unnecessary, and it takes my mood down a notch. “I’ll call you when I’m ready for hops.”
“See that you do.”
We hang up, and I tuck my device away. I don’t want to be that guy who dropped his phone into the tun and poisoned a whole batch.
By now, the other brewery employees are trickling into the brewhouse. Including Livia, who’s wearing a dark-green, off-the-shoulder sweater. And I can see the edges of her tattoo trailing across her collarbones.
Something primal stirs inside me. I’d like to peel those clothes off her and inspect all her ink.
