Fruit Slinger

I'm writing this post against the backdrop of the steady, cheerful gurgle of the airlock on my bucket of pear cider, the latest hard cider undertaking.

Glurp glurp!

The yeast are consuming the sugar in the juice, leaving behind carbon dioxide and alcohol. The carbon dioxide escapes through the one-way valve on the top of the sealed fermentation vessel, each time with a tiny burst of bubbles.

As I said: Glurp glurp.

Let me tell you that if making hard cider is not completely idiot proof, it is at least highly idiot-resistant.

A few days ago, my friend and I bottled the first batch. I could easily have botched the transfer from the secondary fermentation bucket into the bottling carboy when I let go of the siphon tube and watched cider shoot out onto the floor.

I could have easily botched the bottling when I discovered that the bottling tip on loan from a friend did not fit the tubing that I had purchased, or when I failed to research the question of how much head space we should leave in the bottle. (I left my friend standing with the tube in the bucket while I fetched "The Complete Joy of Home Brewing." Complete must refer to the contents of the book, rather than modifying Joy. My friend yelled after me as I ran up the stairs: "Don't think this hasn't happened before!" She's a brewing project veteran.)

When I transferred the cider into the bottling container, I added honey to foster some sparkle in the final product.

Of course, we also tasted some. It was surprisingly dry, with barely any hint of sweetness. There was a slight effervescence. It's pretty good for a first effort.

It's sitting in bottles downstairs. 

It's better you not ask about the second batch, which I attempted to transfer into a secondary fermentation vessel yesterday. Unlocking the lid, I was smacked by the unmistakable acridity of apple cider vinegar. 

Oops!

Maybe the airlock was faulty. Maybe — and I find the thought fairly horrifying and quite embarrassing — I failed to sanitize everything properly at the outset.

Either way, the bacteria that turn alcohol into acetic acid — which is what gives vinegar its bite — gave me several gallons of apple cider vinegar.

As I said: Oops.

The batch in question was a repeat of the first batch — same cider, same yeast. So the idea of experimenting with different yeasts and juices hasn't been dealt a setback. There's still another batch of apple cider with a different yeast (Lalvin 71B). And now then there's this pear cider with the Côte des Blancs yeast.

Meanwhile, you'll notice I went all out on labels for the first batch.

That reminds me. I have to label the vinegar.

The good news is that I have loosened the grip of my canning obsession. I have done this, of course, by finding a replacement obsession.

Yes, I realize that this is nixing the urge to bite my nails by taking up cigarettes, thank you.

The bad news is that I don't know that I could have found a hobby that is less photogenic, at least in its early stages.

Plastic buckets of mud-brown liquid aren't exactly the recipe to keep page-views rolling in by the dozens.

At any rate, think about jam. How much jam would I normally consume in the course of a year, were it not for the warren of jars crammed into my pantry? The answer is next to none. Of course, when the jam is not just jam — when it's a story and a memory and a place — that's different. But I can count on one hand the number of times I've purchased jam at the supermarket. And there is a limit to how much jam I can consume.

Now consider hard cider. If having limitless access to fruit to turn into jam is appealing, think about how much more appealing limitless access to juice to turn into booze would be — or, I should say, is.

Why it took me this long to make hard cider is beyond me.

Before we get into this, I want to make clear what I hope to prove with this project: Any idiot can do this. Because, really, I'm nothing if not any idiot.

Once you read this article by Nathan Poell on making hard cider, you will know exactly as much as I do. On the third page of the article, there's a list of supplies needed. I will be upfront: You probably don't have some of these things on hand. You will probably need to purchase a food-grade plastic bucket or two, a bit of plastic tubing, an airlock and some yeast. All of this — except the yeast — is a one-time expense and can be reused. The yeast is a consumable, but costs less than a dollar. When the time comes, you'll need some bottles, too.

If you don't have a local homebrew supply store, check out Midwest Homebrewing Supplies, a company with which I have no affiliation other than being a satisfied customer.

Oh. You will also need to buy some cider. Peter will not appreciate it if you just run off with five gallons of his. As it was, he looked at me a little funny when I took mine home — before he nodded and gave a little shrug.

One last thing:

I got an email the other day (regarding the availability of pawpaws) from a reader who said: "I am so tempted to take up canning after reading you ..." 

I'm sorry: So tempted?

I write eleventy million posts and tweets on canning and you were tempted?

(The interlocutor in question also addressed me as "O, wise slinger of fruit," which, strictly speaking, is not necessary to draw an email reply out of me, although you can see where it wouldn't hurt.)

I mention all this because I have visions of organizing a bottle exchange — or at the very least a tasting.

This is a bit ambitious, I'll admit.

And I don't know if it would work.

But it only could work if you join me in making some hard cider.