Bottling Day

The brown, faceless beer bottles have been accumulating at the top of my stairs in paper bags for weeks; looking as though I decided to raid the neighbor's recycling bin in hopes of reaping a reward. In actuality, it is my husband and I who have been drinking this beer, all in preparation for my first bottling day. The reward I am hoping to acquire is cupboards full of bottled homebrewed ale.

The preceding three weeks I have spent much of my time, like a mother hen to her chicks, countlessly totaling seconds between bubbles escaping my primary and then secondary fermenters. It was my growing desire this year to begin brewing my own beer. And as each bubble of CO2 escaped my fermenter, that ambition was closer to being realized. It has taken a total of three weeks, two fermenters, heavy lifting, diligent sanitizing, and vivid dreaming that has sustained my utter excitement to this very day: Bottling Day.

I'm not sure if every batch will be as meaningful, but this first brew holds special meaning, as does all of my firsts: first kiss, first dance, first car, first child. I've been keeping a keen eye on my brewing beer and have reveled in the fact that soon enough I'd be drinking it; I'd be consuming the fruits of my labor just as I've eaten the foods I've grown, drink the coffee I grind by hand, cherish the creations of my crochet needle. This is one more hobby, one more passion, that has helped me grow closer to the woman, mother and wife that I intend to be. After today, one more of these roles has been fulfulled: official ale wife.

I spent two hours this afternoon, while my daughter slumbered in her crib upstairs, muttering around my kitchen in a language only the brewmaster might comprehend. I prepared my bottles, sanitized my equipment and managed to heave a five gallon glass carboy full of fermenting brew atop my tiled counter. I siphoned and muttered, then transferred and muttered, I spilled precious drops and cursed, then muttered. And as the process came together, like two strangers awkwardly meeting for the first time and then finding comfort in their likeness, my brew and I came together, shaking hands and agreeing on a job well done. I filled roughly 50 bottles in two hours with the sweetest dark ale and left it to clear, to settle, to become exquisitely handsome in a top cupboard in my kitchen.

Only 15 Minutes

It's Tuesday, probably the most hated day of the week for me because I still have items on my 'to-do' list from Monday, and I feel that I'm not even near the end of the week, let alone the weekend. I awoke this morning before the rooster up the hill called to the other creatures of the neighborhood, still seeing the moon shining, feeling as though I've never really known sleep. My day progressed as all days do during the work week: rush, rush, rush, go to the bathroom, rush, remember to brush my teeth and holy cow it's four o'clock in the afternoon!

In all my exhaustion and longing for a boring documentary to ease me into the arms of real slumber, my daughter wakens from her afternoon nap. It would be an understatement to state that she is excited to be alive!! I mean honest thankfulness at her ability to live, to see another day, to play, play, play. And, at this point, I'm half comatose , and very close to shaking hands with death if he can promise eternal sleep.

It only takes 15 minutes.

Instantly, somehow I remembered an article I read a year ago in one of many magazines I half-heartedly subscribe to. In said article, one mother exclaimed that it only took 15 minutes a day, outside, with her young children allowing them to exert their "happiness for life". She also remarked that she knew she could survive 15 minutes of outside, personal interaction without dropping dead of exhaustion.*

I knew that I could withstand 15 minutes of the pure and utter happiness exuding from my daughter. I've trained for long-distance races, I can handle an incredibly happy two year old for 15 minutes.

So, I made a plan. We would go exploring at Rancho San Rafael, a local park down the street from our house, for at least 15 minutes. We would look for anything cool, not cool, exciting, not exciting; we would just explore for 15 minutes and come home. Amazingly, our nature hike (which we do frequently; however, not when I'm to the point of literal fatigue) became 45 minutes of total pleasure. My daughter and I had an amazing afternoon. We found acorns, dried leaves of all colors (imagine my daughter racing to each fallen leaf only to grab and exclaim the color of the leaf - this activity in itself could have lasted hours and needless to say I was grateful). We discovered where a pair of squirrels live, we saw a bunny, and even in this chilly, fall weather, we chased one lizard. The wind blew on our faces, our cheeks turning red, noses running; our souls cleansed and somehow, by the end of the 15 minute nature hike turned 45 minute one of a kind memory, my energy had returned, the excitement for living was seen glowing in my eyes, my hair was energized and I easily turned a cold shoulder to death.

It only takes getting outside for 15 minutes a day to change not only our children's behavior, but our own. It only takes 15 minutes, which usually turns into 45 minutes, of fresh air to impact the remainder of our evening. I'm going to post this motto on my fridge (on second thought, I may consider posting it on my coffee pot) to remind myself that I can do 15 minutes and I would prefer 45.

*I believe this mother also published a book on this very topic; however, again, I cannot (especially because it is Tuesday) remember this mother's name of the title of her book. This will have to suffice as a just citation.

Encouraging a Tradition

My daughter, who is two years old, is now my regular, most dependable baking buddy. Baking has become one of those expected activities at our house as I enjoy the creative expression baking gives me and more importantly I love eating baked goods. There is nothing more exciting than waiting for a timer to expire, at which, warm, home-made baked goods are extracted from the hot oven where they metamorphosed in a matter of minutes. In the mean time, they also do a wonderful job making my house smell inviting and further fulfill the traditions and memories I intend to leave for my daughter.

My daughter is mastering a routine for both of us when we come to the kitchen with the intent to create yummy food. And, most usually, we are baking with the recipes handed down to me from my mother and to her from her mother.

You'll find us in the corner of my kitchen, both drawn to the location of my Kitchenaid. I pick her up and plop her on the counter, we read through the recipe together; she'll even grab it out of my hand and point to foreign words or numbers and pretend to read the ingredients aloud to me, pointing with her tiny pointer-finger at interesting words she thinks I'll pay particular attention to. I nod and encourage her determination to play her part.

We pull all of the ingredients out on to the counter. Flour, vanilla, cinnamon and the like, scatter and surround my daughter like a moat. All of which my daughter will stick her finger in and steal a taste. She always feels compelled to taste the flour, of which I know must be disgusting, but even my two year old's pride is strong and defiant as she emphatically communicates, "I like this. Nummy."

We begin dumping and measuring our ingredients. I fill the measuring cups and she dumps the ingredients in the Kitchenaid, mesmerized by its continual turning. Once the batter is prepared, combined, and mixed efficiently, our excitement is triggered. We pour our batter into the designated cupcake pan, pie dish, bread pan, whatever, and slide it graciously into a preheated oven. Both my daughter and I wait impatiently for the timer to ding and for our hopes to be realized. We frequently make our way back to the oven, turn the light on, check on the baking "nummy" and agree that we are excited to eat what we have just created.

These moments happen about once a week in my tiny kitchen. My daughter and I come together, even calling a truce on certain days, in order to create something from Nummy flour. We work together, communicate, and create. These moments are hours that I'm living in the present and enjoying my daughter for the young lady she is quickly becoming. I'm not fretting over the coming Monday 'to-do' list, or the unfolded laundry. I'm simply creating with my daughter and encouraging a tradition, in hopes that one day, she and her daughter will spend similar moments in the nook of her kitchen, gathered around the Kitchenaid.

Whispered Legacy

An explanation: The leaves turned, their reds peppering the valley; what remained of the sun pierced through them. Fall gently came in, the days continuing in warmth. One could only feel the approaching chill of early winter in the shadows of the canyon once the sun went down or early in the morning when the sage held onto the night's frosty bite. It floated in, real gentle, like on a breeze through the screen of my opened window. Softer than a whisper, the fall rustling carried this idea to me. And with change set in motion by the seasonal weather, every solstice bringing with it new winds, there in my life remained a constant and a catalyst for all my curiosity, my creations and endeavors. This notion of legacy has hidden itself within me until late, creeping slowly exposing itself within me.

I find incredible interest in the former lives of my foremothers and forefathers in hopes that I can bring the part of them that is me back to this world; not only for myself and the connection I have to them, but for my children and the chance that one day they question themselves and the truth of their heritage.

Is it not unlike humans to search for and find themselves in those that came before them and define their legacy for those that come after them?

This is my attempt: to define my legacy. Who I am, where I came from, and what I intend to pass along.