I used to be very dogmatic about my brewing. I would draft recipes following strict guidelines after having reviewed dozens of sources. I’d measure specific grain weights to the nearest half ounce (one does not simply substitute Briess Caramel 20L with Weyerman’s Carared20L). I excessively toiled over hitting my mash temperature while reviewing three different thermometers placed at varying depths. Despite attempts to plan and tightly control the process, there would always be that metaphorical Liège fortification that would stymie my advance on Paris.
Through practice, though, these issues became small and never caused much of a headache. However, something has changed, and recent brew days are full of World War One–era Belgian bastions requiring 420 mm cannon fire for pacification. The change is time—I no longer have the luxury of a “brew day.” Life has turned this sacred time dedicated to fretting over beer into a 4-hour window filled with constant interruptions and distractions. I must attempt to wage a two-front war, hoping to deal a decisive blow on the Western Front for homebrew before dealing with the slog of the East. All notions of tradition and precision are sacrificed in the name of efficiency.
However, efficiency is a fickle tactic, and if you don’t handle it with care, it can leave your flank exposed, resulting in more mistakes and an even longer brew day than the most dire scenarios could have predicted. The following bits of “wisdom” are designed to help every stressed brewer avoid the many pitfalls of expediency.
Never mill your grain at a local brewery.
I buy most of my ingredients in bulk, so I can assemble a recipe without visiting my local homebrew shop for at least a few batches. Conversely, I tend to visit my local craft brewery quite often, and I’ve developed cordial relationships with the brewers on staff. Not having invested in my own mill, I’m always tempted to ask to use their mill. After all, how cool is it to mill thirty pounds of grain in thirty seconds all while filling a growler and enjoying a pint? Two birds, one grist. I avoid the arthritic crank-elbow of a human-powered mill or the numb wrist of a drill-powered mill. On the surface, this seems like a win-win—a tasty beer enjoyed while a brew day is prepped.
Not so fast. These commercial brewers have their mills precisely spec’d out for their system and not my rickety old clunker. I’ve made this seemingly benign decision several times, and it never ends well. There are not enough rice hulls in old Manchuria to prevent the dough ball that will ensue from this course of expediency.
Perhaps I’m alone in this. Maybe everyone else is more considerate and isn’t putting their brewer friends in an awkward position by propositioning them to misappropriate company resources. Either way, I’ve finally learned my lesson and will take this opportunity to visit the fine folks at my local homebrew shop. Maybe they’ll have a mill for sale.
Avoid (or work through) a stuck mash.
The chances are that if you worship at the Altar of Expediency, you’ve probably already transitioned to a batch-sparge or no-sparge lautering process, adjusting recipes to reflect lower extraction efficiencies. As I mention above, it’s critical to find the right grist size for your mash screen, and no article about mashing is complete without the obligatory insistence on using rice hulls. Nothing new here.
I typically batch sparge; it makes me feel like I’m doing something while meeting the criteria of haste. I often push the transfer a little too hard, and what was once steady stream chugging into the boil kettle turns into a trickle. I suppose this could be avoided by transferring at a more reasonable speed, but the Czar’s forces are advancing on Eastern Prussia.
Not waiting to see whether it resolves itself, I immediately jump into the breach. First, I back-flush the pump and mash screen with some tactical blowing through the transfer hose (caution: this can expose your tender lips to hot wort and your tender ego to derisive looks from your neighbors). If this doesn’t solve the issue, I use a mash paddle to gently loosen up the grain bed, and if I don’t want to wait for the grain bed to resettle, I place a mesh colander or stretched muslin bag on my transfer hose to catch any husky debris. If none of this helps, I tell myself to stop brewing Imperial Roggenbiers!
Exercise the redundancy contingent.
Much like a rapidly advancing army, a rapid brew day requires unfettered supply lines and logistical support to ensure a successful operation. I prepare redundant systems for my brew day. Two propane tanks are a must; no matter how full that tank felt in the morning, it will fail in the middle of the boil, becoming more useless than the Austro-Hungarians.
When I upgraded my brew system, I held on to the older tools as either backups or complements to the new design. I seem to clog my plate chiller every time I brew a hop-burst IPA, no matter the length of whirlpool or rest. So I have standing by my dusty copper coil immersion chiller, which—like the aging Ottoman Turks—can prove to be a serviceable ally when called into action.
Finally, I make strategic alliances with people who brew on complementary brew systems and borrow their equipment on brew days. I’ve started friendships with people for the sole reason that they have tri-clamp fittings on their pumps. This approach requires trust and the occasional reciprocation of lending equipment, so I choose wisely. I may come to find other reasons to enjoy their company, but why not make arbitrary equipment preferences the foundation of a lifelong friendship?
Take care of the homefront.
Finally, a successful and efficient brew day is only accomplished by maintaining your brewing infrastructure. You wouldn’t go to war while the rail system of the homeland is in disrepair and the factories are using nineteenth-century technology. Although this is advice that I rarely follow, take a day you were planning on brewing to do some preventive maintenance to your system. Sure, this means you’ll have to pay for well-crafted beer brewed by professionals while your fermentors remain fallow, but you’ll minimize future headaches.
Despite the best preparations and ability to adapt to change, you may still be destined for an unfavorable peace at Versailles. Don’t stress out. It’s just beer, and it will probably still be drinkable, which will make dealing with the Eastern Front a little more manageable.
Prost!