A drink to die for
I would rather jump off a plane over Death Valley than maintain a temperature of 140 degrees Fahrenheit. Then 152. Then 75. Well, would I? Both options will result in a trip to the hospital. Maybe it is better that I neglect to do this at all. Actually? No. I’ll try. As Michel de Montaigne said, “He who fears he will suffer, already suffers because he fears.”
Let it sink in. Also, you can imagine I am not the one maintaining such a fever. The watery potato mash sits in a round pot, which must be heated so high. If it doesn’t keep that temperature, then it’s over. And my fear of long recipes will return to consume me once more.
My friend (let's call him Ole) gave me this recipe. It’s twenty pages that simply unlock the secret to making potato vodka. Yes, potato vodka. It sounds nasty, and I bet you it is! Ole also hates the stuff in general, even though he’s a master distillery owner in the making. His aversion to alcohol is like my aversion to the process. It’s not like either of us should drink it anyway. That would be wrong. But this distillation process makes up for the amount of cleaning I had to do for the past three weeks. We need a successful product to prove that I’m not terrible in such an obscure hobby. It’s only obscure nowadays. “Drink wine, save water.” Regardless, my tiredness from cleaning makes me hang limp like wet laundry on a cold day.
The fridge door hangs open, letting in the cool air as I take out what once used to be a flour container. The fermented rye water (kvass) is unable to hold inside. I duck behind the kitchen island, covering my head as if it’s a blitzkrieg. The bomb covers every nook and cranny of the kitchen. Never underestimate the power of your belligerent, as it is hard to imagine that such violence can come from the little yeast cultures that made this whole thing possible. And to top it all off, we have a large kitchen. The kitchen used to be the hue of light upon cloud—of the kinds of creams and greys that soothe. And so the blues of the walls become a light brown that smells of burnt rye bread. If I’m not swift in my cleaning, then I’ll have a very swift funeral. Ole would laugh during my eulogy. I can’t let him do that, so I must outlive him. I just wish there was a quick chemical solution to this chemical problem.
“I can start the fermentation,” Ole suggests, taking the hydrometer. “And you distill.”
“Are you kidding me?” I demand.
“No. No time for jokes,” He scoffs. “Get to work.”
Jeez. He’s quite the executive. And I’m over here busy scrubbing at the counter. Some of the kvass is still stuck on the granite, unmoving in its saccharine, reminiscing the past attempts. It causes me to sigh. Am I overdoing this? Is it as bad as I think?
Well, distilling is the hardest part. Of course, Ole would leave that step for me. If you mess up a single step, then it’s over since the stuff you don’t want in your vodka will still be swirling around in it. So as I wait for Ole to finish preparing what I need to distill the potato vodka, I pour over the recipe one last time.
The words seem to come together in a mash like that potato mash. Nothing filters into my mind, and I find myself scrutinizing the same sentences over and over. There are several things to ensure done all at once for the best alcohol to be made. Now that I think of it, I must be biting off more than I can chew. And as Aristotle said, “Moderation in all things.”
But hey, I’m still doing it anyway. I reorganize and clean all of the stuff that makes the kitchen look like a secret laboratory found in the depths of a cold mountain. I can’t even tell you what is what. I’m on autopilot. You know, that skydiving idea seems like a super good idea right now. It doesn’t change the fact that Ole prepares the vodka wash hastily. I didn’t even have a chance to observe him. That might have been helpful for future attempts if I dare make any. Fine. As you must know what Jackie Robinson said, “Life is not a spectator sport.”
But the name of the game here is to reduce the amount of sediment in the wash as much as possible. The still is ready, and all I need to do is fire it up. And hope it doesn’t explode.
***
Ole brings out multiple mason jars and begins to pour the still. It’s the most satisfying part of the process, almost like opening a bottle of new wine. This step is the Renaissance, divided into art and science. And I imagine that the measure of separating the still takes a sensitive and experienced distiller to get it right. It could go terribly wrong. But by a little bit, we will still have a good quality product. I hope so, anyway.
As there are twenty pages of the recipe, there are twenty jars full of vodka. A wash of relief falls over me like a wave, and now Ole and I can finally celebrate. He says we have to divide them further by the foreshots, heads, hearts, and tails. And by we, he means me. Once more, I hesitate because I need to get this right the first time. Things in life are that way; you need it to get it right the first time, like jumping off a plane or evading alcoholism.
The scent of each jar varies slightly, but it’s hard to tell where the fine lines are. All I know is that the first few jars are dangerous, while the last few are what you want. Acetone has a distinct, solvent-like smell, making it pretty easy to identify for anyone with a working nose, and I fear that I may not have one. Then, anyone seasoned enough can notice the solvent smell of acetone taper off, and sweet-smelling ethanol comes forth. The last set of jars happen to have an oily film dancing across the top, so those are easy to separate. I have only two groups of mason jars now. The tails and everything else. We don’t even need the rest of the stuff anyway, since who will drink all of it?
Ole picks up the first jar in the row as if it’s the best one.
“Do you dare me to drink this?” He asks. Never mind, I take back what I said. I suppose that he’ll drink whatever we made.
I’m reasonably skeptical, “That’s the worst bit, right?”
“Yes, but do you dare me to drink it?”
I expect his tone to drip with humor, but it never does. Before I can give him an answer, he brings the jar up to his lips and takes a sip of the most volatile liquid ever. His face seizes into an expression I’ve never seen before. An expression that I want to never see again.
I should not rely on my expectations for anything. I expect him to rush over to the sink to wash his mouth out, but he continues to drink. Was he stupid? I reach to fight him for it, and I fail. The jar smashes onto the floor, and all of that liquid is in his system.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Ole struggles to announce. Great. He just bought himself a one-way ticket to Death Valley, and it’s a shame he didn’t invite me.
To him, it seems his life makes a better substitute for alcohol. Couldn’t he have thought of something less stupid to do? Do I really have to call an ambulance? Poison control?!
No. Although I cannot bear to watch Ole wretch over the sink, it’s his fault. I only failed to stop him from this. I only failed to be a good friend, and I only failed at the one task I was meant to do well.
Oh, and here’s no way I’m cleaning that up.