Bullocks 2008 - A Year in Review

Well, old man 2008 has but a fortnight left in his belly before he falls, breaks his hip, and expires. We, on the other hand, only have one more year until those stupid "Happy New Year 200x" where the zeroes are the eye holes go away, unless some asshole decides to cram the "1" in 2010 between your eyes. I'm trying to stay optimistic that it won't come to that.

We're only a couple of days away from the Bullocks's Brewing Co. Company Christmas Party as well. All six BBC styles will be available for tasting. I sampled a little of each this weekend, and here's a brief rundown.

Tobias Funke's Cream Ale
By far the lightest of the 2008 batch. It is, as the name implies, creamy. It's a little hoppier than Bud or Miller and their ilk, but overall a very enjoyable beer.

Frank Shirley's Christmas Ale
Shirley's is a little darker than Funke's, and has just a hint of cinnamon, nutmeg, and mace, mostly because I put cinnamon, nutmeg, and mace in the beer.

"Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I'd like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, fore-fleshing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is. Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where's the Tylenol?"

Hopped Up on Goofballs I.P.A.
The very first beer I made from my own recipe, which consisted of me grabbing a bunch of grains and malts and hops and hoping for the best. In retrospect, it's a little hoppy for my taste, but I did use three different kinds and dry hopped for the first time. I'm not sure it's technically an I.P.A., but whatever.

Trappist John, M.D.
This is the crown jewel as far as I'm concerned. It received rave notices at the Thanksgiven party I went to a couple weeks ago, and I have to say it's my favorite. Brian Palatucci, a prominent beer drinker, said "I might describe TJ, MD as 'exceptionally smooth.'"

T'ej Dancin'
Named by esteemed punnist Jeremy Lott, T'ej Dancin is a take on the Ethiopian Honey Wine t'ej, made with orange blossom honey, light malt extract, and some sticks that cost $10. This was the most suspect, as it was almost undrinkable after secondary fermentation, but after chilling and carbonation, it actually tastes pretty good. It will be interesting to compare it to the Huevos Caballos Wait til they Get a Load of Mead.

Mississippi Barry Phlegm's Vanilla Porter
This beer is as interesting as the author who inspired it. This is from a fairly robust porter recipe I got from the Home Beer Wine & Cheese shop up in Woodland Hills. The "experts" said to add two vanilla beans to the secondary, but I've never been one to read instructions or listen to people. I used six. And I still have over 120 left. That's right, everyone. I'm a vanilla magnate.

See you Saturday.

Fall 2008 Wines - They Actually Taste Like Wine

So much has happened at Huevos Caballos and Bullock's since we last corresponded, dear readers.

I took my 08 wines, the Ruby Cabernet and the Riesling, to the Home Beer Wine & Cheese Shop up in picturesque Woodland Hills, California for their free post-harvest wine clinic. Vinters from all over the area were buzzing around a room that reminded me of the Henrietta, Texas Church of Christ rec center. The main differences were that all the men had beards, and there was not a drop of punch to be had. Related? I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Both wines are within nominal pH ranges, meaning something good, apparently. The Ruby Cab is a beautiful ruby color, proving that whoever named it wasn't an idiot. It's also developing a rich flavor that I would describe as "wine-like," something to which I'm unaccustomed. I would use other foods to describe what it tastes like, but I've found that making wine doesn't make one better at doing that. If pressed into a corner, I would say it tastes like carnitas and buffalo wings. Happy?

Wines change tastes throughout their aging, and I don't think I'll know exactly what they taste like for a few years. The woman we bought the grapes from gave us some of their 2005 vintage from the same vines, but the country elected an intelligent person and pirates have taken over the coast of Somalia since then, so who knows what dazzling flavor characteristics have weaseled their way into the grapes?

You've read all about the Riesling saga, but I'm happy to report that primary fermentation is completed in both the main 5 gallon batch and in the one gallon Gran Reserva batch. They're so new it's hardly describing what they taste like, as sediment is still dropping out and the pH hasn't settled down, but it tastes good. Like spicy white wine. Um, I'm gonna go with cayenne pepper and apple fritters for this one.

I haven't tried the GR, but I'm dying to see the difference. For starters, I used native yeast in the GR, and the White Labs Steinberg-Geisenheim strain for the regular batch. The GR was fermented a little hotter than the regular, and I added yeast nutrient to it as well. Bored yet?

I also bottled the 2008 Wait til They Get a Load of Mead, a sweet honey mead I started on the day The Dark Knight came out. It's a handsome looking mead, a nice golden color that might be mistaken for Sauvignon Blanc or Chardonnay by someone who is unwilling or unable to read the label. The case is currently sitting on the floor in the kitchen, waiting for its moment in the sun...December 13, 2008.

In our semi-regular trips up to the central coast, we've joined a little winery called Sort This Out Cellars, a fairly new but very cool little joint in Buellton. It's run by two guys who used to work together at Club 33 in Disneyland, and has a Rat Pack/Swingers theme to it. We've thoroughly enjoyed every wine we've bought from there and Lauren joined the Wine Club a couple months back.

I've been talking to the owners about my own winemaking for a couple months now, and last time they suggested I bring up some of the mead next time and I can give a little mini-tasting to whoever wants to try it. So if you're not busy on December 13th, come to Buellton, California and drink some mead.

Riesling the Body Electric, Part the Second

It's been almost four weeks since I ordered my pail of Johannisberg Riesling juice from Delta Packing of Lodi, California. My previous shipping attempts failed in grand fashion. FedEx spilled 5 of the first six gallons, but I decided to make wine out of sour grape juice. From this orphaned juice, Huevos Caballos plans to produce five bottles of wild yeast fermented Riesling Gran Reserva, perhaps the most reserva wine ever.

UPS "damaged" the next attempt. There were no survivors.

UPS was again dispatched on Monday of this week, with my shipment to arrive on Wednesday. Wednesday came and went, and Condescending A-Hole #3 at UPS said I would have to wait another day before I could put a tracer on the package.

Thursday morning, I did just that, and, surprise surprise, UPS NEVER EVEN PICKED UP THE PACKAGE. I spoke with the supervisor at the station in Lodi, who also passed UPS condescension school with flying colors, and she told me that Delta didn't put it out. I called Delta back. The guy I spoke with told me that it had been sitting on the dock, but the driver didn't pick it up. She informed me that they would not overnight it to me for no charge. I delicately told her that I found this to be disagreeable, and hung up.

The next call to UPS landed me an elderly sounding C student from UPS Condescension School who told me very nicely that it wasn't their fault and that they would indeed not overnight it to me. I asked her to cancel the order, then sighed heavily.

And then I went crawling back to FedEx. Sure, they're a hair more expensive, but I don't hate them with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

Then something amazing happened. I went to their website, scheduled the pickup, sent Delta the packing slip, and FedEx picked up the package. Then Saturday morning, they brought it to my house. In one piece.

Sure, the box was a little wet, and maybe a little less than half a gallon of juice had leaked out, but with all the drama that accompanied this juice, I would have settled for two gallons and a kick in the jumblies from Pauly Shore.

Thankfully, that didn't happen.

All the juice's numbers seemed to be correct according to my half-assed measurements. The homebrew store in Woodland Hills is testing your wines this weekends for free, so I'll be taking the Riesling and Ruby Cabernet up there for their mid-terms. If they don't pass, no PS3 for a week.

---

The 2008 Wait til They Get a Load of Mead is bottled. It's a nice color, the little sip I had of it tasted pretty good, so I'm excited to see what a little bottle aging will do. Only 12 bottles were produced, so this should be in pretty high demand in fantasy town.

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In Bullock's Brewing Co. news, I've bottled Frank Shirley's Christmas Ale and Tobias Funke's Cream Ale, and will be bottling the Belgian Dubbel this weekend. I also started an Ethiopian T'ej, which is a cross between mead and beer. I made a trip to the Ethiopian district on Fairfax to buy a $10 bag of sticks that I need to make it, so good times there.

I also started a Kitchen Sink IPA, the first beer I've ever made using my own recipe. Of course I lost the grain bill and only vaguely remember what I put in there, but I can tell you that it will be a heady, citrusy IPA. I used a liquid and a dry malt extract, and agave syrup as an adjunct. Three different kinds of hops are in there, and I'm dry-hopping some Cascade for good measure. Thus the name. That and, well, it's made in the kitchen sink.

Keep an eye out for your Bullock's Brewing Company Christmas Party invitation...

The Bootlegger's Grandson

Ben dozed off in the ratty old green chair in the corner of the bedroom, something he hadn't done in quite some time. The kids were all safely asleep, and his wife Mary Agnes was reading an old leatherbound copy of "The Prince" by the light of a small kerosene lamp on the nightstand. His snoring made her smile as she kept reading.

He jolted awake, just an instant before the grandfather clock leaning against the far wall sounded 1:00 a.m.

"Go back to sleep, Ben. You're exhausted." Mary said, not looking up from page 136.

"Can't," he said as he stood up and rubbed his face. "The cattle need attention."

Ben threw on his thick canvas coat and his ever-present grey fedora, something he was never seen without when he was out of doors.

"They're fine," she said, her nose still buried.

"It'll only be a little while." He kissed the top of her head and gingerly walked into the hallway on the creaky old hardwood floor. She never did look up.

Outside, amongst the corn and sorghum, Ben walked briskly toward the ravine.

'Let's get this over with,' he thought. 'I can see my own breath. This is ridiculous. '

Click.

"Why," he thought, "is a gun pointed at me every time I step out of the house. Am I in the right line of work, even considering these challenging economic times?" Grandpa was excellent at both hooch-running and the foreshadowing of events decades in the future.

"Turn around," a deep voice said. Ben recognized it and did as directed.

Staring him right in the face was Ernst Schroeder, his rival for both Mary Agnes' heart and the vast, deep rivers that ran brown with moonshine.

"Evening, Ben," Ernst said, a smirk on his face and his World War I rifle in his hands.

"Ernst," he said, with more sarcasm than one might expect. "Are we going to do this every night?"

"Until I get some of your territory or all of Mary, yes."

"We both know you don't have a big enough operation to handle even one of my customers."

"That's a good point. I guess I'll be needing a few of your men and stills."

"Then I guess I'd better fetch Mary." It was a hilarious rejoinder, but neither laughed.

"You won't be able to control your empire on one leg, Schneider," Ernst said as he leveled his rifle at Ben's knee.

Ben honestly didn't know what was going to happen until it did. Ernst pulled the trigger, but the bolt was so rusty that it sparked when the action pushed down on the chamber, the bullet exploded in the barrel*. Ernst was startled and tripped backwards onto his fat German ass, but he wasn't otherwise hurt.

Until, that is, Ben clocked him in the jaw, knocking out a tooth and giving him a permanent clicking noise that would rear its head every time he ate sausage. In Windthorst, Texas, that meant every meal of his life would sound like a metronome inside his puffy head.

"If I see you here again, you'll end up with the hogs," Ben said as he continued down to the ravine.

Ernst could only rub his jaw and pound the dirt with his fist like Yosemite Sam.

Ben shoved his hands in his pockets and stood next to Armando.

"How are we doing tonight, Armando?"

TO BE CONTINUED

* If it isn't obvious, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about.

An Alternate Take on Winemaking

Alice Feiring, a very well-respected wine critic, recently decided to make her own wine after a long career in writing about and drinking the good stuff. You can follow her adventures here.

She also runs a personal site where she recommends actual wine made by people outside of their kitchens and pantries. You can check it out here: http://www.alicefeiring.com/

Just so you won't be disappointed, she doesn't drift off into meaningless nonsense very often. It's mostly factual and about the experience, blah blah blah.

Riesling the Body Electric

After going around and around with a grape juice supplier, FedEx, UPS, the grape juice supplier again, a priest, a rabbi, and the ghost of a grizzled old prospector, I now know how Rosa Parks felt when she couldn't just get her six goddamn gallons of Riesling juice.

A couple weeks back, I found a supplier online in Northern California who was willing to send your humble diarist six gallons of premium Johannisberg Riesling juice from a reputable vineyard for only $35. I would have to send a nationally recognized transport company out to get the juice who would then use their well-established shipping channels to get it to me, but that was a mere trifle. I ordered a Steinberg Geisenheim yeast, did a little research and idly waited.

The Federal Express Company of Memphis, Tennessee was to pick up my juice on Thursday and deliver it to me on Saturday. As I watched Texas beat the pants off of Missouri that Saturday evening, I watched with great eagerness for gleam of the FedEx truck's headlights against the gray mailbox planted in our front yard.

Sadly, for reasons that I still don't quite have the capacity to understand, that gleam would not shimmer that day.

Tuesday, I drove home expectantly after the Internet had notified me that my sweet, sweet juice would be resting comfortably on the porch, and indeed it was. I knew it would be heavy, probably upwards of 60 pounds.

But the box couldn't have weighed more than 20. Something was amiss.

It was packed especially well. Two pieces of half inch thick plywood sandwiched a six gallon sealed pail, held down tightly by metal bands. This shit wasn't going anywhere.

After considerable effort, I liberated the pail from the metal and plywood, and pried open the sealed pail. Inside, maybe two gallons of white juice that was bubbling like crazy. I was confused. Did the team member I spoke with on the phone send me five liters? Did a roving band of street toughs abscond with my precious juice? As it was well past 6:00 PDT, there would be no way to know until the morning.

FedEx was nice enough. They said that no notes about juice flying all over the fuck had been placed on the shipment. I said thank you to the chap and bid him good day. Then I called the juice monger with that information.

Also very, very accomodating. The guy who packed my order called and assured me that he had indeed packed SIX gallons of pure Johannisberg Riesling. He admitted that they didn't ship a ton of juice, and that most customers came to their warehouse to pick up their orders. It was then that I notified him, in my mind at least, that I was not most customers.

After a few minutes of discussion, he said he'd be happy to send me a new pail for no cost. I thanked him and bid him good day as well, and dispatched a courier from the United Parcel Service of Atlanta, Georgia to him post haste.

After a couple of missed connections, the new pail was picked up on Monday the 27th of October and is currently scheduled to arrive here tomorrow. It is then that we will see if the fates smile upon the Huevos Caballos 2008 Riesling, or if they demand more sacrifice.

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As a brief post script, I should inform you that I'm not going to dispose of the orphaned two gallons of juice like some kid of jerk. It was already well into fermentation by the time I got it, nearly to dryness. Since I hadn't yeasted it up yet, that means that the wild yeasts who summer in the grapes had started their dirty business and had eaten most of the sugar already. If I'm careful, it may produce half a case of Huevos Caballos 2008 Riesling Reserva, an ultra-exclusive wine.

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As another brief post script, I shall now update you on the status of the fruit wines. I racked them all this evening, and they all smell and taste terrible, except the strawberry, which tastes somewhat like something that a human not in prison might wish to drink.

A Slow Descent into Madness

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I've gone totally mental. 

Right now, I have SIX different wines and a beer fermenting, with the ingredients for another wine in the fridge and yet another on a truck on its way here from Lodi. Oh, and Lauren got me a gift certificate for Culver City Home Brewing Supply, so I'm headed out there later today to pick up more beer kits, with an eye on a beer tasting party for the holidays. Seriously, you guys. 

It's not like I even drink that much to begin with. Lauren and I rarely have wine with dinner, and even less often have ambassadors over for fancy dinner parties. "What's that you say, Count Du Rainier? Of course you can have another glass of Pinot. Why yes, that is a hint of burned ammonia on the nose."

I took a couple of days off last week to celebrate my 31st annual gestation cessation celebration, and devoted a goodly amount of time to the creation of some new wines. The kitchen counter tops ran red with the juice of blueberries, strawberries, pumpkin, and blood orange. I'll be posting more when I press the fruit this weekend, for those of you awaiting news with baited breath. 

But that's not the point. One year ago, I had ONE wine, the little Pinot that could, sitting in a plastic bucket. How then, I query, did Huevos Caballos have a 700% increase in wine production in one year? 

It all started in 1929, when my grandfather, Bernard Schneider, made moonshine. At least that's what he told me when I was younger. My mom claims that he bought it at the state fair, but I choose to believe he was a bootlegger criminal mastermind, secretly running Windthorst Texas during prohibition. 

As he snuck off into the cold North Texas night air, Ben scanned the fields around the family farm carefully for anyone watching. Once he felt secure in his solitude, he checked again. 

His was an operation with no room for error. Elliot Ness was after him, and the slightest misstep could spell doom for him and his men. 

As he crept down the rows of corn and sorghum he grew as a cover (Grandpa hated sorghum passionately. "Goddamn sorghum," I often heard him muttering around the hearth) he felt at peace.  He had fooled everyone, including his own beloved family, into thinking that he was a simple dairy farmer. He smiled to himself confidently as he saw the first glimmer of light from his massive distilling operation. 

As he crested the hillock down into the ravine that hosted his "little operation" as he called it, he heard the unmistakable click of a revolver. 

"Freeze!" he heard someone say in a voice barely above a whisper. 

He turned around slowly to see the surprised face of Armando, one of his trusted guards. 

"Oh, Mister Ben, I am so sorry. I did not realize-"

"It's all right, old friend. How are we doing tonight?"

"Good, good. Esteban has stabilized the bourbon. I think you will find it most excellent."

"Very well," he said, as they descended into the hub of the production. 

Copper tanks lined the banks of the ravine, spewing out an obsidian smoke. (Most bootleggers in those days operated with coal-powered stills) A small one-armed boy ran up and handed Ben a blue speckled granite cup, brimming with a corn whiskey that doubled as an engine de-greaser and hobo poison. Ben took a small sip. 

Most men buckled at even a whiff of the undiluted product, but he was no ordinary man.  At his funeral, a family friend told me in confidence that he once drank a bottle of Drano and chased it with a jug of 230 proof horse whiskey, and still made it to church in time to play the procession on the organ. The Knights of Columbus of Windthorst still regard that day as the finest procession ever played in their small town. 

"Good work, son." The boy, whose name no one was sure of, smiled meekly. Someone had left him at the door of Ben and Mary Agnes, and Ben told her that he'd shipped the boy off to the service back in '22. The boy rarely spoke, and did little but make spirits. His blood alcohol level, tests would later reveal, had a standard baseline of 0.30. 

Ben and Armando continued their walking tour of the operation, watching as the hooch was filtered, bottled, and boxed up for shipping all over the country. They smiled in contentment, their empire humming along like the mythical perpetual motion machine. 

They heard a cry coming from the back of camp, and rushed over. Luke, the night foreman, had a worker by the shirt collar. He was red in the face with anger. 

"What's the matter here?" grandpa said, in his stern, managerial tone. 

"I found this man stealing a slice of corn pone from one of the others. He must be punished," Lucas hissed. 

Ben took Lucas' hand off of the man, and comforted the shaking worker. Ben gingerly checked inside the man's lower lip. 

"This man has a tapeworm," Ben said, patting him on the back. "No wonder he's still hungry."

Grandpa laughed and smacked Lucas on the back playfully. The laugh grew and grew, crescendoing until Lucas couldn't do anything but laugh himself. 

WHAP. The back of Ben's hand caught Lucas' unexpectant cheek. 

"Don't ever treat one of the men like that again, no matter their transgression."

"Y...yes, Mr. Schneider. I'm sorry, sir." 

"Now see this man fed and mix up a cup of the rye and two of the malted corn. That'll take care of the worm and any other critters that might've taken residence in his lowers."

"Yes sir."

"You take care, friend. You're a good man, and we need you healthy," Ben said to the afflicted man. A caring look washed away the sternness Ben had exhibited to Lucas. The man smiled. 

"Thank you, Mister Schneider. I will not let you down."

"There's a bright future for you in our little operation, son."

The man smiled as Ben walked away, but then felt uneasy as he noticed the glare Lucas directed at Ben. 

TO BE CONTINUED. 

So you can see how I got into home wine and beer making.