Beer is a lovely experience, to enjoy and to make. Home-brewing beer is a mirror from which we may reflect our life's journey. Its successes and failures mirror the real world, and the measure of wisdom or folly gleaned gives us fresh personal insight. These stories explicate my 15 years brewing at home, and professional misadventures in the East Coast beer capital itself, Asheville, NC. Starlight in a Glass tells you how to make beer, avoid mistakes, yet when you make them, revel in them!
Your First Recipe
Lambic Beer – A Journey into Obscurity or Something Better' n Nice
My Most Successful Failure
Breaking Bad - Going All-Grain
Becoming the Captain of your cellar
It's a fast paced, experiential narrative. Brewing beer has not only led me on bright world travels, to beer capitals like London, Brussels, and Wallonia, but into the heart of sour lambic beer cellars, sepulcher-like, cobwebby and mystical. Beyond travel and enjoying craft beer, homebrewing is transformative, leading to existential journeys of the heart. Get ready!
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About the Author
I've been a carpenter, brewer, teacher and back-porch guitar picker, these last two still pretty avidly. I grew up in the Piedmont of North Carolina and also spent 18 years up in the hills around Asheville. I came to Asia on a 7.5 month contract, and that was 11 years ago. I now call Taiwan home. I’m still American though and I reckon I’m just taking the long way home.
If you long to change lives, yours or others, or are thinking hard about it, I’m here to tell you unequivocally, dive in head first, as the water in the deep end churns profundity. As a writer, I enjoy sharing the trials and joys of a beer brewer, a teacher, traveler, and adventurer- as in the end they vibrate as one.
For me, a boiling beer kettle and an icy mountain trout stream are akin, and bring solicitude, like listening to an old vinyl record you remember from your youth, talking to a dear friend, or walking a broken path in a medieval village, catching glimpses of the past’s shadows. My past is ever present in my memory, and to borrow the words of a great American troubadour, I’m walkin’ on the backroads, by the rivers of my memory, and for hours you’re just gentle on my mind…