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Earlier this month, I mentioned that the boy has taken on a homebrewing project of making cider. Unfortunately, I still haven’t figured out the science of the art (or the art of the science?), but I’ve been promised that more brewing is to come in the fall. A larger apartment awaits us when we return to Montreal in September (yes, I’ve finished my finals for the semester!), so I’m hoping we’ll manage to vent the system for beer (which will give off fumes more potent than those innocuous ones from the cider).

The cider bubbled incessantly for the first two days or so, and was quick to clarify – you can see the progression of quick change between days two and five:

 

This is what the cider basically looked the next day when the boy syphoned it using a rather ad hoc set up. I quickly learned the beauty of bleach and tubing (kept straight by attaching to a large chopstick). And realised yet another use for mason jars. 

The stuff still tasted acrid and sharp, but is exponentially mellowing. Now, we wait. It’ll be worth it (hopefully) if we just forget about the bottles for a few months before ‘rediscovering’ the brew.

For four days now, I have been bombarded with fermentation-related jargon. 

With it being the season of final exams and all, my scholastic apathy was forced, 180, into sudden studiousness, so unfortunately, I’ve been unable to digest too much of the boy’s babble. I did, however, happily capture photos of his new one gallon carboy, currently housing his first batch of cider. Stay tuned for updates, and the how-to’s of it all.

Anyone else find the airlock mechanism phallic?

 

Look at the yeasties go!

 

Staring at his new pet:

The glory of St. Patty’s day includes city-block-long line ups in front of Hurley’s at 8:30pm, so we ventured next door to Brutopia instead. Of course, the female bartender served the men before even taking our order, but I would have acted similarly if it meant more tips in my pocket. Drinks in hand, (chocolate stout! – the boy was proud) we agreed that venturing out was indeed a Good Idea. Besides – I now own a button with a shamrock!

Onwards, upwards: to St. Laurent, where poutine lay to be consumed. Frites Alors was suggested, and I politely turned it down, offering an adventure to Mondo Fritz instead – I found the former’s poute to be ‘okay’ the last (and only) time I was there, as the ‘meh’ quality of their fries became the limiting factor. My only other encounter with Mondo Fritz was a couple of years ago, when the line-up for Schwartz’s was too long for my grumbling stomach – I remember the burger being okay, but fries plus flavoured mayos definitely hit the spot. Yesterday, we ordered the Alpine poutine to share (serving size = massive for just the two of us): chevre, mushrooms, grated cheddar, topped with peppercorn gravy. The fries were fantastic in their ‘european-style’ goodness – not too thickly sliced (definitely not shoestring, either), skin-on potatoes, deep fried to produce fries with the perfect ratio of golden-crisp-outer-layer to layer-of-inner-softness. Water is served in label-less wine bottles, and the woman who took our order friendly and efficient. Moral of the story: if you’re going to have a heart attack in a bowl, you may as well go all out. I’m definitely going to have to try their other variations – topped with sausage, or steak… To my veg friends: rumour has it that their gravy is meat-less!

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