Drive - A Memoir 99th Installment
This
disaster notwithstanding, Russ and I begged Edith and Vernon out of a
gallon of the good wine and set out to build a still. We decided to
use an old pressure canner. We took the pressure regulator weight fob
off and connected a ¼ inch, twenty foot long copper tube to it. We
stretched the tube out, and then curled it into a coil with the other
end in a mason jar. We stuck a thermometer onto the lid with some
sticky paste we found. Lastly, we parked the cooker on our Coleman
two-burner camp stove and lit it up.
“I’ve
been reading in the Encyclopedia Britannica for the last few minutes
and discovered that alcohol evaporates at 176 degrees, and we know
from school that water boils at 212 degrees.” I began explaining to
Russ.
“So
what?” Russ said. “Less talk and more cooking. I always say, turn
up the heat – only cowards cook on low.”
“No,
this is important!” I said, irked by his lack of patience. “If we
boil the wine, we’ll get steam mixed in the alcohol which will make
really watered down booze. On the other hand, if we carefully cook it
at 180 degrees we’ll get pure ‘white lightning’! We have to sit
here and watch the thermometer and adjust the flame to maintain the
perfect temperature.”
We
brought the brew to 180 degrees and re-adjusted the flame – and
then – and then – drip, drip, drip.
“Hallelujah!”
Russ was really getting into this. “Praise the lord, we have white
lightning!” We cooked for another hour or two and soon the still
almost stopped dripping and the last drops were a little off color.
Done. We were probably burning the mash. The distillation of the
gallon of wine produced 2/3 cup of white lightning that we figured it
was over 90% alcohol because it would flash at room temperature.
“Now
to the tasting,” I remarked a little excited. I took a sip from the
jar. Bam! A slap in the face impact of burn in my mouth, the tiny
bit reaching my throat took my breath away, and the attempt to
swallow was like a spasm. “Holy Moly!” I managed to say,
seemingly without breathing, “It’s so strong, I believe it
evaporated in my mouth before I could swallow. This batch is
perfect!”
“Let
me try,” Russ was reaching for the jar. His reaction was much like
mine. First a gasp, then he threw his head forward and gave three
hacks–cough, cough, cough and then the long, slow exhale of all the
air in his lungs. At last he rasped, “Bottle it and save it for the
gods.” We carefully put it in a small glass bottle with a tight
screw–on cap. We didn’t drink it. We only allowed ourselves small
sips and sample sips to folks that asked us and then only if we liked
them.
500 more words tomorrow
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