Several years ago there had been a rash of vandalism in the city, with car windows being shot out. Late one night my parents were awakened by a loud pop and the sound of breaking glass. My father grabbed the night stick he keeps by the bed (what good that would be against a gun, I don’t know) and crept stealthily down the hallway. When he got to the front hall he put his USAF basic training to work and did a belly crawl toward the living room. He found no damage to the front of the house, so he decided to crawl to the kitchen– and what to his wondering eye did appear?
Some lunatic (that would be me) had given my now ex-husband a “Mr. Beer” for Christmas. Why? I thought he would enjoy brewing his own beer. It seemed simple enough. You put everything in the cute plastic keg and in short order you had beer.
(Let me backtrack now and tell you that my father is a connoisseur of weird things that other people get rid of, so of course, he was in possession of a bottle-capping contraption. )
So, Scott is happily brewing away and had some moderate successes, so he decided to expand his repertoire to include a fruity beer. Cherry to be precise. He brews it up and using my father’s bottle capping machine, INSTEAD of the plastic caps that came with the kit, caps it off and leaves a few bottles with my dad.
When my father finally managed to drag his nearly 70-year-old body to the kitchen he found UN-capped bottles broken on the floor, the glass in a picture frame had been shattered and cherry beer was dripping everywhere. It looked not just a little like O.J., Nicole and Ron had been there.
He gave up home brewing after that, deciding it was best to leave it to the experts. but every once in a while my mom will look up at the kitchen ceiling and say, “is that a piece of cherry up there.”