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Overly Dramatic Rye Pale Ale

It was a very cold morning when I awoke next to the love of my life. I turned to her and she looked ill. I
helped her out of bed and to the sofa. I continued with my morning routine, drink coffee, eat breakfast,
poop, repeat. I made by beautiful love breakfast and found her all the medicine I could, but it was to no
avail, she was not getting better. I had hoped this was just another stomach ache she had sometimes to
get me to leave her alone, but this was something worse.

“Honey?” I asked. “Are you alright?”

“No,” she said. “Get away from me.” She then spit in my face.

I kissed my darling love and moved into the office. I surfed the web, read some books, but I kept coming
back to that Rye PA recipe had been thinking about for months. I have conquered the Black IPA and the
87 Min IPA in the past, but I have not been able to tame this elusive beast.

After a few minutes of being alone with my thoughts, I needed attention.

“Honey?” I asked again. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Baby,” she replied. “I need you to do something for me. I need you to get the hell away from me, I
don’t feel good.”

“Do you want me to brew?” I asked.

The thought of me spending the rest of the day and most of the evening in the garage excited her.

“Yes!” she said. “I need you to brew!”

I knew what I had to do. The quest was given and I had to answer. It is for my darling love and I cannot
fail her.

I strapped on my gun belt and headed for the car. There is just something about the cold blue steel
against my hip that brings me comfort. Especially in the morning of the arctic cold that was Texas. It
had been snowing long enough that the cocky Texan drivers with their 4 wheel drive felt stupid enough
to venture out. I got in my Toyota and headed to get supplies. As I drove, I saw the dead bodies and
mangled cars along the side of the road from the moronic Texans. I breathed a sigh and kept going. It
was for her. My darling love.

I made it to the turnpike when things got ugly. Everyone on the road was either driving 20 or 80. I was
going 90 to prove them all wrong. A giant big foot of a truck cut me off. I pulled my .45 and went to
town. I caught the eyes of the driver as I saw him take his last breath. I saw the vacancy of his gaze
as he fell sideways on the wheel and flipped his truck over. I felt no remorse. He knew what he was
getting into when he dared to get on the road.

I made it to the brew supply store around high noon. There were a few extras there, a few regulars.
People I’ve never seen before. The grain table was empty. I started measuring trying to mind my own
business. I needed 8 pounds of Rye and 20 pounds of two row. I measured out the rye and barley and
threw them in the mill, like I had done a hundred times before.

“NO! Stop!” the humble store owner cried. “You can’t mix rye and barley …!”

It was already too late. The mill exploded with a deafening shrill. I remember seeing rye and barley and
hops and body parts everywhere. I ran to the nearest wounded man. He was already dead.

“What have I done?!” I yelled already knowing the answer. I had been here before when I conquered
the 87 minute IPA. I knew what I was getting into. Everyone at that store did. We all knew the risk. I
was there for my darling love…

I helped the store owner repair the mill. We had quite a bit of help. We needed it. The owner had
lost the use of his left arm in the blast. We got most everything back in working order. I paid for the
ingredients and left.

The drive home was less eventful that the drive there. There were still carzys out, but they seemed to
be in fewer numbers. The blue steel of my .45 helped keep my mind where it needed to be. I made it
home, no worse for wear. My love was still on the couch, this time watching Streisand. I bent down for
a kiss and she stabbed me.

“She must be delirous,” I thought. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.

“You can leave me the hell alone like I asked you 2 hours ago,” she replied.

Had I forgotten about my quest? Was I that stupid? Of course, but all I needed was reminding and a
knife wound to the thigh.

“It will be done,” I said. “For you, My love.”

I moved back to the brewery when I realized that vandals had ransacked my equipment. This was not
going to be a simple repair. I had to re-drill 8 in steel plate. I took a deep breath and got to work. By
the time I finished and got my equipment in some sort of usefulness, it was dark. The bitter cold was
creeping up again. I soldiered through and made a plate of meat and greens. My darling love had fallen
asleep. I made her a plate and set it by her on the coffee table. I could hear the uneasiness of her
breathing. It was as if she was awake but didn’t want to talk to me. I knew that couldn’t be the case.
She was ill. Yeah, that’s it, she loves me.

I started the brew process. The bitter cold took a toll on my equipment. I couldn’t hit my target mash
temperature. The boil went well, other than it being very dark and not being able to see that I only
collected about 7 gallons instead of 10. When I went to cool the hot wort, my outflow hose was frozen.
I disconnected it and sprayed water all over the brewery.

By the time I was finished, my darling love was asleep and I was kinda drunk. I had completed my quest.

I did it for her. My darling, my love.

 

Brewing Method: Full Grain
Batch Size: 8 US Gallons
60 min mash
OG 1.076
FG: 1.018

Boil Time 60 Minutes
Primary Fermentation: 2 weeks
Secondary Fermentation 3 weeks

Yeast:
Wyeast American Ale II 1272

Grain Bill:
20lbs American 2 Row
8lbs Malted Rye
1lb Crystal 90L
1lb Crystal 60L
1lb Crystal 20L

Sugar Bill:
none

Hop Bill:
First Work (in hop sack)
1oz  warrior 16% AA,
1 oz cascade 6% AA

Bittering  (60 min in hop sack)
1oz  warrior 16% AA,
1 oz cascade 6% AA

Flavoring (5 min no hop sack)
1oz  warrior 16% AA,
1 oz cascade 6% AA

Dry
1oz  warrior 16% AA,
1 oz cascade 6% AA

1oz Whirfloc 15 min

Peanutbutter Bill:
No PB

Notes:  Too cold; strike wasn't hot enough, mash started about 140 for
30 min, stepped up to 150 30 min mash out 150-155

Tags: PA, Rye

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