Hot, Wet & Dirty

By Sal Emma

I always knew homebrewing is hot, wet, strenuous and potentially dangerous work. Today, I know making beer for pay is hot, wet, strenuous – and even more dangerous.

It brings new appreciation for that hoppy IPA or tart saison they’re cooking up at your local brewpub or micro. It’s (almost) like eating king crab after watching “Deadliest Catch” on Discovery. Sure, few brewers pay the ultimate sacrifice for their craft. But you could easily mess yourself up pretty nicely in a brewery.

Whether it’s wear and tear after hand loading a ton of grain or having 220-degree steam melt your face off … the men and women who brew your favorite beer are putting their all into it. Next time you hoist a glass, toast the folks who forced it into existence.

We had an up-close and personal look at all this recently, apprenticed to a patient and gracious tutor, Tim Kelly. Tim’s the brewmaster over at Tun Tavern Brewpub in Atlantic City. And he was saddled with overseeing our attempt to scale up our 1.5 barrel homebrew recipe to 5.5 barrels at the Tun.

Terry Leary and Sal Emma at Tun Tavern, Atlantic City

We won the Tun’s annual homebrew contest. We entered three beers: Bruges Blonde, a Belgian-style golden; Old Coot, a British old ale and Black Hole Porter, a big, hoppy, robust porter. The Black Hole took first, which earned us the privilege of brewing it at Tun. (The Bruges took third, which didn’t win us anything – but it’s kinda cool.)

Picture the scene. After five years on the job, Tim knows every tic and burp of this aging Newlands brewery. He gets it – and routinely churns out delicious varieties in spite of a few bad motors, bum thermocouples and other bits of busted gear. At 15, the brewery is starting to show its age. Tim works it like a musician – and makes it sing.

Into that well-oiled orchestration toss three ogle-eyed homebrewers, all gung-ho to get their boots wet in a real brewery: yours truly; Terry Leary, a retired letter carrier from Marmora; and Terry’s nephew,  Brian Hutchings, an I.T. man from Somers Point.

For days before our scheduled brew, I was fretting over how our romp through Tim's brewery might affect him. Imagine trying to get a day’s work done with a bunch of photo-snapping tourists at your elbow. What a pain in the neck! I had little to worry about. Tim was an amazing host and teacher. I think this can be credited directly to the fact that he started out as a homebrewer. He knows the neurosis from which we suffer, first hand.

It was clear from the minute we walked in that we were the day’s brewers. Tim supervised – to keep us from ruining the beer and destroying ourselves. After that realization, Terry asked, “So, if the beer sucks, it’s our fault?” Tim’s response. “Absolutely.” One of many great laughs throughout the day.

Brewmaster Tim Kelly and apprentice Brian Hutchings

Tim had all the numbers crunched before we arrived, adapting our recipe to his brewhouse. And he let us do just about everything, within the safety margin. We monkeyed with the pump manifold, dipped into a furiously boiling brewpot for a test sample, hoisted 50-lb. sacks of malt, raked out the spent grains, weighed out the hops … the whole nine.

There’s a bit of voodoo in the process. Scaling up a recipe for a different brewhouse is not straightforward. A lot of judgment calls and creative decisions – substituting hops, settling on the various temperatures, for example. But, by day’s end, we had produced a beautifully hopped, rich and roasty brew that was delicious, even unfermented. We could taste potential there.

Now we wait, as it bubbles in Tim’s fermentation room. After dry-hopping and conditioning, it will occupy a tap at Tun in June. And we’ll serve it on the Battleship New Jersey at the Garden State Craft Brewers Guild’s Annual Beer Festival, June 23.

Update: Tim will tap our beer at the Tun the same day as the beer festival, Saturday, June 23. Get yours while it lasts.

Lincoln's Jokes

At a recent presentation at the Philadelphia Union League, author and scholar Dr. Gene Griessman provided a rare window into Abraham Lincoln, the man.

Portraying the 16th President, complete in period-correct wardrobe, Griessman told a lot of funny stories. He explained how Lincoln used humor to deflect his somewhat severe appearance. And it became one of his sharpest tactics to disarm adversaries and put his audiences at ease.

Griessman opened his talk with a promise. “I’ll tell you a story or two. And if you laugh, I’ll probably tell two or three more.”

A few examples:

On the subject of age:

You know, I’m over 200 years old. The best thing about that? No peer pressure.

On the subject of appearance:

I sat for a portrait in Mr. Brady’s photographic studio. The assistant charged with making the photograph said, “Just look natural, Mr. Lincoln.” To which I replied, “That is precisely what I am trying to avoid.”

A woman walked up to me and said, “Lincoln, you’re about the ugliest man I’ve ever seen.” I said, “I can’t help it.” She said, “You could stay home.”

On my birthday, folks said the prettiest baby in three counties had just been born. Unfortunately, my father traded that pretty baby for me. And three cows.

On accomplishment:

A small boy approached me the other day. He said, “Mr. Lincoln, you’ve inspired me to become President of the United States.” Well I was flattered and delighted. So I asked, “What exactly did I do to inspire you?” He said, “Nothing … it was something my daddy said. He said if Lincoln could be president, then anybody could.”

On conflict and language:

That reminds me of a little church in the mountains of southern Georgia. A huge rift had formed over the existence of hell. It had split the congregation into two camps, one firmly believing that hell exists and the other, unconvinced. No compromise, no settlement. It got so bad that the skeptics left that church and built their own, just down the road. The minute the last brick on the new church was laid, they erected a sign out front, which read: “There ain’t no hell.” So the other church erected their own sign in reply: “The hell there ain’t.”

On music:

Apparently General Grant is a bit tone-deaf. He told me, “Sir, I can recognize two songs. One of them is Yankee Doodle. The other is not.”

On brevity:

A man had lost his way and asked a local farmer for help. “Does it matter which road I take?” he asked. The farmer replied, “Not to me.” The man said, “Have you lived here all your life?” And the farmer said, “Not yet.” So the man said, “You don’t know much, do you?” To which the farmer replied, “Well, I ain’t the one who’s lost.” So the man asked, “Why did you take an instant dislike to me?” And the farmer said, “Saves time.”

On psychiatry:

A man walked into the psychiatrist’s office and shouted, “Bugs! I’ve got bugs crawling all over me!” And the psychiatrist said, “Well, get out of here, I don’t want them getting on me!”

On death:

I was walking through the churchyard the other day and saw an interesting gravestone inscription. It read:

Behold and see as you pass by;

For as you are, so once was I;

As I am now, so will you be;

Prepare unto death and follow me.

What struck me was the hand-written reply, scratched underneath:

To follow you I'm not content;

Until I know which way you went!

Breakfast with President Lincoln

By Sal Emma

Had breakfast with President Lincoln the other day.

Well, not exactly. It wasn’t a séance. It was Dr. Gene Griessman, author, teacher, actor and raconteur.

A writer who also does public speaking, Griessman does it with a twist. He has built a career becoming Abraham Lincoln. He trims his beard to match his long coat and stovepipe hat.

Greissman addressed a group of business leaders at the Union League in Philadelphia. A member and good friend invited me. And, I have to admit, Greissman surprised me. His schtik wasn’t at all what I expected. Well, not totally, anyway.

If you’ve never been to an event at the Union League, it’s largely paunchy, middle-aged, wealthy Republican WASP guys. I don’t exactly fit in. I’ve got the paunchy, middle-aged bit covered. It’s the wealthy Republican WASP part that makes me a fish out of water. I’m Italian. I have no money. I’m a left-leaning independent. And I don’t own a single $1,000 suit. Imagine Louie de Palma at Jenna Bush’s wedding.

That’s not to say there aren’t folks at the Union League representing other ethnic, religious and political groups. (Women, even!) They’re there. But I think they’re outnumbered.

Considering this gaggle of powerful attorneys, financial advisors, bankers and other opinion-makers, I expected something cheesy, uber-patriotic and over-the-top romantic. Draped in red, white and blue bunting.

Plus, it’s the Union League, for crying out loud. Some within their ranks describe President Lincoln as their “patron saint.” Not a surprise, considering the Union League was founded to support the president during the Civil War.

My worst fears seemed reality when Griessman was introduced as “the 16th President of the United States,” complete with a canned rendition of “Hail to the Chief.” Oh, brother.

But once the music and undeserved standing ovation faded, Griessman surprised me. He talked about Lincoln’s lifelong challenges – as a boy supporting his family, trying to make a living in rough country. His lack of formal schooling. His bouts with depression and melancholia. His feelings of inadequacy. Griessman brought dimension, familiarity and human frailty to a history book character we tend to lionize.

With photographic evidence, we know Lincoln was not the most handsome of presidents. Apparently Lincoln was all too aware of his severe appearance. It was often the root of jokes he is reported to have retold. He used humor to disarm and embrace the people he came in contact with.

Apparently, his reputation as a jokester occasionally got him into trouble. According to Griessman, Lincoln opened a cabinet meeting with a joke shortly after the battle of Antietam. To this day, Antietam remains the bloodiest day in American history – a slaughter of 23,000 Americans. That’s nearly half the total killed over 10 years of America’s involvement in Vietnam, in just one day.

When one of his cabinet members asked how he could possibly laugh at such a time, Lincoln responded: “I laugh to keep from crying.”

As a writer, what intrigued me most was Lincoln’s devotion to the written word and his scholarly treatment of iconic writing, like the Bible and the works of Shakespeare.

A bit of trivia: Lincoln read out loud. Seems an odd habit, but it makes sense when you consider his upbringing. There were no public schools in the woods of Kentucky and Indiana where Lincoln spent his formative years. Instead, parents pooled their money to pay a teacher to train their young charges in the three Rs. These humble little log cabin one-room schools earned the nicknamed "blab school." It was common for all the children to recite their lessons, out loud, in unison. It’s said you could hear a blab school a mile away.

In President Lincoln’s case, the payoff was profound. He wrote for the ear, because to him, words were always recited out loud. He learned cadence and rhythm from history’s greatest authors. It made him a better attorney. And it certainly cemented his place as one of the finest writers among those who have held the office of president.

Griessman demonstrated Lincoln's mastery of the spoken word with his most famous speech: the Gettysburg Address. The program turned to cheese again here – but thankfully it was brief. Griessman’s delivery was excellent and should have been unaccompanied, as the original audience heard it. But the presenters succumbed to temptation and put patriotic music behind it, which diluted its impact significantly.

Weighing in at just around 280 words, the speech ran under two minutes. It’s a polished, carefully constructed work of oratory that truly showcases Lincoln's incredible skills. Made more incredible when you realize that he pursued most of his advanced learning on his own, with no college or university.

Following his Lincoln portrayal, Griessman returned as himself, as it were, and spent some time discussing how businesspeople might apply Lincoln's leadership techniques. The entire program was informative and completely enjoyable. Griessman performs the Lincoln show at various gatherings throughout the country. If you have the opportunity to see it, I heartily recommend it.

Burned by Scantily Clad Women

By Sal Emma

Every word of what you’re about to read is true. Honest!

Beth, of course, says differently. And she takes great pleasure in telling her side of the story. Here’s what really happened.

On the long drive home from North Carolina after a recent family mini-reunion, we were targeting a spot to walk the pooch and grab a bite. The weather was OK. Sunny and dry, so we opted for the outdoor mall at White Marsh, Md.

As the family’s resident beer snob, I volunteered to pick the venue while Beth and Max took Westmonster for a walk. Lots of choices, but as always, beer selection was the prime motivator. I stuck my head into two or three places. Narrowed it down to the brewpub and, across the way, Tilted Kilt, a chain pseudo-Irish pub.

Let the record show, your Honor, that I’d never before heard of this particular establishment nor had I ever set foot in one before this occasion.

On any day, I’d go with the brewpub. I avoid chain joints like the plague and will almost always opt to enrich the true local economy by patronizing locally owned haunts. But I couldn’t this day. The problem, the place was heavy with the dense and somewhat overwhelming aromas of brewing. Stink, most would say. As a brewer myself, I have only respect for any brewpub trying to make a go of it (especially in such a horrid location as this, a Disneyesque fake main street in a fake mall parking lot.)

But the place was really ripe that day. I could have tolerated it OK but I knew Max would be unhappy, with his more easily offended olfactory sensibility.

So I decided the simulated Irish pub would be the better choice. No malodors to contend with and the beer selection was off the charts. Perfect.

I went back in to inquire about the dog. He’s a service dog in training, so most places understand that they have to let him in under ADA rules. But on very rare occasions, we’ll run up against an uninformed restaurateur who holds his ground, for one reason or another. So out of courtesy, we tend to ask ahead of time instead of barging in and demanding that the place accommodate him. I approached the hostess station.

It’s important to note, your Honor, this object’s construction.

It was a tall wooden box, maybe four and a half feet high. A young woman was standing inside. I could see her neck and head, and little else. I’m not much of a fashionista so I don’t normally notice what people are wearing. But in this case, the cabinetwork obscured her duds so they were completely out of mind. I asked if the service animal would be OK and she was very polite and friendly in her approval. I took a closer look at the beer taps, where I saw the second of only two employees I encoutered during this reconnaissance: a guy in a T-shirt.

Key details, your Honor. Woman in a wooden box. Guy in a T-shirt.

Back outside, I circled around to the bookstore to pick up the rest of the family, satisfied with my scouting mission. We headed back across the pseudo-street and marched through the front door.

At this point, we were immediately approached by a trio of Tilted Kilt representatives, female, bubbly and enthusiastically welcoming.

One thought went through my mind: I am so screwed.

Let’s just say the Tilted Kilt work uniform allows unrestricted views of almost all piercings and tattoos. If you’re not against scantily-clad women, take a look. 

Oh well. Already in deep, no turning back. We sat, settled the dog and I held the giant plank of a laminated Technicolor menu before my nose to avoid eye contact with my wife. It was in vain.

“So. We came here for the beer selection, huh?” came my spouse's incredulous response.

For the foreseeable future, “beer selection” has officially become our family’s euphemism for the architectural features of a pretty, perky and barely contained young woman.

“Wow. Would you look at the beer selection on her?”

And of course Beth won’t think of letting me live it down.

Rubber Pancakes ... crowdsourced!

Yeah, man. We're at the cutting edge now. Crowdsourcing like the best and brightest, web-savvy 20-somethings.

Well. As long as you consider one guy a "crowd."

It was my buddy Denny. Part of my hope in posting the "Anyway" piece was that somebody in our vast global audience would know more about it - since it came to me without writing credit.

Denny nailed it:

It's called "The Paradoxical Commandments for Christians." The author is Kent M. Keith. He wrote it in 1968 when he was 19 and a sophomore at Harvard. It was part of a pamphlet he wrote for high school student leaders. It is now the basis for his book titled "Jesus Did It Anyway."

Keith penned the commandments in the 1960s and they quickly became fodder for the pre-Web Xerox sneakernet. Even Mother Teresa was rumored to have kept a copy.

Read more at the Amazon page.

Mystery solved! Thanks, Denny!

Anyway ...

By Sal Emma

[Postscript: a savvy RP reader recognized the poem, identified the author and taught us more about its origin.]

If there was one day I first began to absorb the amazing power of the World Wide Web, it was probably this one. It came into sharp focus, 20 years after the seed was planted.

My friend and former co-worker Mark reminded me of this little tale in an e-mail exchange yesterday. We were talking about how you try to do the right thing for your friends and neighbors and sometimes you get no thanks for it. Occasionally, your reward for doing somebody a favor is a swift kick in the pants. And we agreed that you have to do the right thing, anyway.

Which reminded me of a 20-year quest for a sentimental little poem.

Those of you old enough to remember a world without e-mail and Facebook might remember the analog version. The network administrators were office workers. The platform: Xerox. And by that I mean the ubiquitous photocopy machine. It was a sneakernet. You made the copy and carried it, on foot, to another who might make a copy of her own. On the network, jokes, cute stories, obscene drawings, bawdy limericks - you name it. All the same crap today's office workers zip around the world at the touch a button. But in those days, it took a little more effort and the network was a bit slower.

They were copies of copies of copies - the IBM Selectric typewriter font swelling to barely-readable Rohrschadt blobs of ink and toner. Most folks pinned these to their cubicle walls for casual observers.

Others - let's call them the bloggers of the pre-Web world - carried them around. Sometimes, full color on coated paper. These guys were serious. When you met one of these characters in the street, he'd say something like "Have I showed you my pride and joy?" Then extract a crinkled snapshot from his wallet for your examination. Really.

I met one of the former variety at a car stereo shop just north of Trenton, N.J. Beth had recently inherited her father's Oldsmobile, a lot like this one. It was about the size of a Korean grocery store and had a really cheesy GM/Delco radio with tinny transistor radio speakers. I decided to ask her to borrow it so I could secretly have a decent sound system installed as a birthday gift. AM/FM/cassette, of course.

I was buddies with one of the guys who worked at the shop which was the only reason they let me hang around during the install. Normally, a place like that will chase the owner away so they can curse at him and make fun of his car when he's not around. The guys at this shop were nothing like that. They went out of their way to be nice to me and were happy to share little trade secrets as they went about their work. At first I thought it was just my connection making the difference - but as the job progressed, it became apparent that one guy in particular really was that nice. He wasn't showing me any special treatment. It was just the way he interacted with everybody.

I was really taken by this guy. His no-questions-asked attitude of treating me like his greatest friend really impressed me. To this day I regret that I never figured out a way to befriend him. But in the 1980s, guys didn't exactly ask other guys for their phone numbers, if you know what I mean. It could send the wrong message.

At some point I had to go into his office for some paperwork. And I noticed one of these 27th generation Xeroxes pinned to his wall among the invoices, receipts and other work trash. It stood out - it might have even been in a frame. I went in for a closer look. It explained everything.

"Wow." I must have said, or something equally pithy and profound. Seeing my reaction, he told me it had become his life philosophy. And it blew me away. I was barely out of my teens and already working hard on cultivating a guarded, skeptical, cynical and somewhat angry-at-the-world mentality. And here was this guy, only a few years older than me, living a completely different kind of outlook.

It would be an overstatement to say that poem changed me. But it sure did stick with me. That entire day would have been forgotten I think, had it not been for the poem moment. My memory is notoriously bad for details of routine happenings three decades ago.

It impressed me. But not enough to prompt me to ask for a copy. Something I wished I had done for decades to come. It wasn't a big deal, nothing earth-shattering. But every three or four years, I'd think of that day, that car, that installer and that poem and think – crap, I wish I'd taken a copy of that thing.

Well, every three or four years quickly turns into 20. That's about how long it took for the poem to find its way back to me, thanks to the World Wide Web.

Somewhere around '99 or 2000, I was telling Mark about it, one day at work. And I thought ... hey, I wonder if anybody has posted it yet. I was skeptical. I could only remember one line of the poem, something about getting kicked in the teeth. But I also remembered a repeating word ... anyway. It was like - if you do this, you'll get that. Do this anyway. And so on. That was all I had.

It was enough. I think I searched "kick teeth anyway." And there it was - the very poem I'd remembered - and forgotten. Another one of those 'a-ha' moments that stick with you. That was the day I fully realized that we were seeing the world change in a gargantuan way, right before our eyes. I probably said "whoa," or something equally pithy and profound.

And here, for your edification, is the poem as I found it that day. It moves around with me and gets installed on each new computer as I upgrade. It's not tacked to my office wall but, like the time I was without it, I think of it every couple of years. When I do, I find it on my hard drive and reread it:

Anyway

By Kent M. Keith

People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered.

Love them anyway.

If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.

Do good anyway.

If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.

Succeed anyway.

The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.

Do good anyway.

Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.

Be honest and frank anyway.

The biggest person with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest people with the smallest minds.

Think big anyway.

People favor underdogs, but follow only top dogs.

Fight for underdogs anyway.

What you spend years building up may be destroyed overnight.

Build anyway.

People really need help, but will attack you if you help them.

Help them anyway.

Give the world the best you've got and it may kick you in the teeth.

Give the world the best you've got anyway.

Cupcakes: the Tale of Two Moms

By Sal Emma

This isn’t the post I imagined. In my mind’s eye, the cupcakes would be a huge success and I’d silently relish the thought that I’d brightened somebody’s day in a meaningful way.

It didn’t quite turn out like that.

But the lesson’s the same. It’s about doing the right thing for the right reason. So I'm posting it anyway.

A few nights ago, we crawled into bed with our usual routine, capping another hectic day. I flipped on my nerd radio (shortwave). She read. When she turns out the light – the signal is clear. She’s read enough to quiet her brain. She’s going to sleep now. Game over. See you tomorrow.

That’s why her question surprised the hell out of me. There’s never any talking after lights-out.

“When am I going to make the cupcakes?”

“What?”

“I have to make cupcakes for one of the girls at work. But I don’t know when I’m going to be able to do it.”

Her tomorrow was going to be just as insane as today. Another trip to Philly. A work reunion after that. Teaching karate after that. Barely 10 spare minutes.

This is Beth’s life. She’s not only living the supermom model, she’s defining it for the next generation.

My initial response was logical: “Why do you have to bake cupcakes for one of the girls at work?”

“Because her son’s birthday is Saturday.”

“Why are you baking cupcakes for her son’s birthday?”

“Because I offered to.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted them and she couldn’t figure out how to make them so she would probably end up getting those crappy ones from the supermarket.”

I shuddered. Those greasy, malodorous sugar-bombs make me cringe. Understanding why anybody would put one anywhere near their mouth is beyond my intellectual capacity.

She had a fair argument. I remained skeptical. But, one thing I’ve learned after 25 years of marriage is that there are times when you have to be very careful to avoid saying the first thing that pops into your head.

This was one such occasion. And this train of thought went through my brain, in silence:

“Are you nuts? You work 50 hours a week. You take care of the house and the kids. You volunteer everyplace. You teach karate. You are fostering a service dog. You’re a Girl Scout leader. Why would you volunteer to bake cupcakes for somebody else’s kid?”

Then, this grenade: “Just because she’s too lazy to bake them herself?”

That was unfair. Below the belt. (Thank God I didn’t say it out loud.)

And then, the amazing thing. After this barrage of stream-of-consciousness cynicism, here’s what I actually said aloud:

“I’ll bake them.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because the kid wants them and I have time.” (Business is slow this time of year, traditionally.)

This was a magical moment. I didn’t volunteer out of a sense of duty, guilt or sympathy. It wasn’t a huffy bit of sarcasm “oh, I guess now it’s my problem …” Anything but.

God simply laid the image of Beth’s friend on my heart. I like her. She’s hard working and funny. She takes good care of her child. She’s from a good family. And she’s a single mom, anything but lazy. It was like the Holy Spirit breathed on the back of my neck and I understood, clear as crystal. Making her cupcakes was exactly the thing that needed to be done, and I was in a position to do it.

It was a blessing I can barely describe with mere words. Because I can guarantee that a few years ago, old Sal – negative, cynical and pissed off at the world – would have not only said all those mean-spirited things, out loud – he would have been completely comfortable with saying them. That's why I am convinced it was a gift from God.

My friend Jim Wilson has been an incredible influence in my life. He’s smart, devoted, funny, hysterically sacrilegious and a true Christian in every sense of the word. I thank God (frequently) for the privilege of calling him a friend – thanks to us stumbling into the coolest little church in Ocean City, N.J. a few years back.

During many discussions of life, family, love, God and grace, Jimmy uses the word available a lot. It’s scripturally based, this idea that you simply lay your day at God’s feet and have him use you as he sees fit. Most of us fail in this, most of the time. (And when I say “us,” of course, I mean “me.”)

Living as a Christian is like anything else. Work, play, marriage, music, riding a bike. You get better at it with time. You stick with it, through fear, doubt, lean times and dark moments and you hope that God is real and that the Holy Spirit really does walk among us as we go about our daily business. You make a commitment to stay ‘available’ to God – and hope for the best. And you ask that he give you opportunities to be salt and light in the world.

Volunteering to bake those cupcakes was that opportunity, sure as shootin’. Inside a tenth of a second – the time it took my brain to conjure up all those negative things I could have pontificated aloud – God tapped on my shoulder. And I made my offer, freely, in love and without a scrap of resentment or hesitation. I couldn’t wait to bake them. (Maybe in the future, I'll go right to the offer and skip the bellyaching!)

So, I know what you’re thinking. How did the cupcakes turn out? I’m sure they’re great. But I didn’t make them. Beth found 27 spare minutes between karate and lights-out and made them herself. While I was out of the house in a meeting. She’s a sneaky supermom, on steroids.

And another true Christian, in every sense of the word.