My kitchen turned into a small scale brewery on Sunday. I’m inclined to think that makes me a relatively indulgent wife, considering I stepped in beer puddles on a few occasions and the smell was … unpleasant. Something that my entire arsenal of Yankee candles couldn’t handle. The aroma finally dissipated when the ribs that were being slow-grilled for dinner burned and I turned them into a divine broth. Nothing quite like pork and onions to clear the air.
But what’s a little stink between spouses anyway? Beau was happy as a (drunken) clam, which made me happy even if my feet were sticky. Now the house is aired out and we have five gallons of ale bubbling away in a corner. The bubbles, I have learned, are yeast farts (unrelated to the smelliness). The yeast eats the sugar and makes carbon dioxide. I’ve taken to watching the gas escape from the airlock while dinner is on the stove. Fttttp.