Brewmaster Part II

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When we last saw our heroine she had left her glass jug full of beer in a dark corner to ferment, and ferment it did.  I checked on my beer several times over the two weeks it was fermenting, each time half expecting for something dramatic to have happen.  It did not.  It foamed at the top, then the foam dissipated.  One day it would seem to be darker in color, the next it would look lighter.  I had no idea what it was supposed to look like at this stage in the process, so when my friend Matt showed up and said it was “looking good,” I was relieved.  With him, Matt brought two bottling contraptions that would help me get my beer ready for mass consumption.

We transferred the beer from the glass jug into a plastic bucket with a spicket using a long piece of tubing. Then we added one of the most important ingredients: priming sugar.  This is what carbonates the beer once the bottle top is sealed shut. We added it to the nearly five gallons of beer we had brewed and started bottling.

Bottling contraption

I have to say, bottling is my favorite part of brewing, maybe it’s because it is the most active part of the process.  One by one we sterilized the new empty bottles I purchased (some people use empty bottles after they have drunk their store-bought beer, but because it was my first, and perhaps only batch, I wanted the bottles to be neat and free of label residue from their former life) and filled them up with my brew.  I then used a red bottler to seal the bottle top on. Using the bottler took a little bit of effort, but not enough to tire from (even when bottling two cases of beer). I got a huge sense of satisfaction with every “THWAMP” the red contraption made.

After we filled 50 bottles, the moment of truth had come… I was finally going to taste my I.P.A.  I was infinitely nervous about this.  What if I had over hopped my wort and it was too bitter?  What if the yeast didn’t get enough sugar and it had no bubbles?  I had talked a big game and invited dozens of people over to try my beer, what if it was disgusting? I took a slow sip…mind you, I am not a huge I.P.A. drinker, so I wasn’t exactly sure what it was supposed to taste like, but you know what?  It tasted like beer, and that was enough for me!  Matt, who does drink I.P.A.’s, said that it was good, it was at that point I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  At the very, very least I won’t poison anyone.

I am super excited to share my brew with my friends, I will report back after the mass taste-test!

Why yes, that is a custom koozie!

Who Do I Think I Am?

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I am going to admit one of my guilty TV pleasure. No, it’s not a cheesy tween show on the CW, although I have a few of those.  I love “Who Do You Think You Are?”  It’s the find-your-roots NBC series that heavily promotes its sponsor, Ancestry.com. Each week a new celebrity traces his or her roots, which usually leads them across the world to an ancient cemetery where they stand and say they feel proud of whom they are now, not so alone.  It’s a little cheesy, a little predictable, always riveting.

New England Genealogy Society

I thought it would be fun to see if there are any compelling stories hidden in my family tree.  Being of Irish decent with roots in Boston, I was half hoping to uncover a bootlegger or something equally retro-chic.  Most important, being a genealogist seems like a pretty cool job: part research, part detective, surprises at every turn.  To test this theory I headed to the New England Genealogical Society on Newbury Street to see what I could dig up.

My mother was born in Milton, Massachusetts, and her family, the Kinnealeys, have lived in the Boston area for several generations (I assumed, like most Irish, my forbearers immigrated to America around the time of the Potato Famine), but other than my great-grandparents, I don’t know much about their journey.

Marie Daily, one of the society’s researchers, helped me get started by searching for records of my great-grandparents in the census from the late 19th century. This process is a lot less exciting than the TV show would lead you to believe.  For every family find, there were several searches that turned up a Kinnealey spelled a different way, or located in another part of the country or world, or a plain old dead-end.  But when I did find something, it felt as if I had won the lottery.

City of Boston marriage record for Bridget and William Kinnealey

With Marie’s patient assistance, I found my great-grandparents and the names of their respective parents, including my great-great grandparents, Bridget and William Kinnealey.  I found their marriage record (right), hand written in beautiful script.  I have to admit, just like those celebrities on “Who Do You Think You Are?” I got goose bumps as I uncovered little nuggets of information about my relatives.  I learned that when Bridget and William emigrated from Ireland (separately, around 1865), neither could read nor write.  This was not uncommon at that time, but to see that fact written out on old documents was eerie.  I started thinking about how hard it must have been to navigate the world without those basic skills.  I also thought how lucky I am that I grew up in the circumstances that I did.

I found another document that listed my great-grandfather William’s place of work as the Boston Custom House, which is right next to my office.  When we have a fire drill at work, we line up on the steps of the Custom House.

My great-grandparents,William and Alice, with three of their six children, from left to right, Joe, Tom and Arthur, my grandfather*

After several more hours of playing detective, I walked out of the Genealogical Society and took a stroll over to the Custom House, then over to Quincy Market, where my grandfather and my great uncles, respectively, started their businesses over 70 years ago.  Incrementally, generation after generation my family has marched up the economic scale, with a constant emphasis on the family.

For us, the family is not just a mother, father, sisters and brothers, but rather a large network of cousins, nieces, nephews and aunts and uncles who are like second sets of parents.  We all gathered together this past weekend for Easter, which coupled with our annual family football game on Thanksgiving Day are traditions that go back decades (over 70 years for the football game by my aunt’s count).

While I am relatively new to Boston in many ways, I’m now able to see the history, my history, surrounding me on nearly every street I walk down, and every building I pass.  I know I am not unique in this regard, but sometimes we need a reminder to put it all in perspective: our singular experience in the grand scheme of our history.  My day as a genealogist certainly gave me this perspective.  We are all an amalgamation of those who came before us. Now, much like those silly celebrities I made fun of, my heart is full, I feel tremendously blessed and I don’t feel so alone.

My grandparents on the Cape, circa 1938

My grandfather holding my mother and aunt

* Correction: in an earlier version of this post I stated that Alice and William Kinnealey had five children, in fact they had six.  Thanks Mom, my diligent copy editor.

I found a host of wonderful and heartbreaking tidbits about my family, far too many to include here. Anyone can use the resources at The New England Genealogical Society for $15. If you like doing research and have roots in New England I highly recommend you consider a visit. I was not compensated in any way for this post.

Aww Shucks!

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All of the jobs I have ever held, apart from waitressing that one summer, have utilized my brain, not my (metaphoric) brawn. In this blog I have tried physical activities with a low-level of success.  I was a terrible trapeze artist and an even worse pole dancer.  Now, I am not bemoaning that fact; people have different strengths and mine are obviously not of the acrobatic variety. I am perfectly comfortable with that. This past weekend I decided to try something that, while not requiring a great deal of physical strength or flexibility, does require a little umph!

We are all concentrating very hard as we get instructions

I, along with two fabulous friends, headed to The North End Fish Market.  Every Saturday they offer oyster shucking classes from 1:00 to 3:00.  It is free, you only pay for the oysters you shuck and eat. Our instructor Liz said she had been shucking “for a long time” the way old curmudgeons describe their lives, as if they are looking back through a very long looking-glass.  But Liz looked too young to have been doing anything for all that long.

She walked us through the correct way to shuck: dig the tip of the knife into the hinge of the oyster, use your wrist to get some leverage to pop the hinge, run your knife the length of the right side of the oyster’s shell to detach the muscle from the top of the shell, open it up and then flip the meat inside to detach the muscle on the bottom.  Last step: enjoy!

Oysters

We tried it on our own, first with an Indian Neck from Wellfleet, then with the much trickier Conway Royal from PEI. After several warm-up oysters I asked Liz to challenge me, and boy did she deliver. The PEI oyster she handed me did not have the smooth lines of the others, it was bumpier and looked like a fossil from prehistoric times.  Most importantly, it was really hard to get a grip on.  I am not one to run away from a challenge (especially not one I requested), so I grabbed that sucker and got to it, digging my knife into the hinge like my life depending on it, and in some small way it did: I had talked myself up to our teacher and the rest of the class (note to self, anything new will be challenging enough, why up the ante with false bravado).

I had to trade the very challenging PEI in for a slightly easier one, but I did eventually get that darn oyster open and enjoyed every last bit of it.

Battling my oyster

The North End Fish Market is not accepting job applications at the moment so I will have to maintain my new-found skills at home. And I will, not only do I love oysters, this was really fun!  Tricky at first, but with near instant gratification.  What could be better?  While full-time employment there is not in my future, Liz did invite me back for an entire day, so stay tuned for an upcoming post about the joys, and challenges, of handling and cutting raw, dead fish. I can’t wait!

I had a great time at the North End Fish Market, but paid for all the oysters I shucked and was not compensated in any way for this post.

Picture Perfect

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Last month I went on and on about what a talented artist my brother is. And he is. But as an older sister it was just a matter of time before I challenged myself to see what kind of artist I am. I realized I was setting myself up for relative failure; anything I would create would pale in comparison to the work of Daniel Mahlman, but I thought this exercise would help me become more comfortable with doing something just to do it, not to perfect it.

Last week I attended “So You Think You Can Paint,” an event held at the Copley Society of Art, the oldest art non-profit in America. The gallery’s Circle Board (I am a member) sponsored the event where the very talented artist Rosalie Shane inspired a group of us to flex our artistic muscle. Rosalie is well known for her oil paintings of cupcakes with a heavy application of paint creating very realistic frosting. It all started when she painted one for her granddaughter’s first birthday. Eight years on she has painted hundreds of cupcakes, and last week she attempted to teach a roomful of would-be artists to do the same.

I am a better painter than sketcher

I sat down with a small canvas and my model, a Pepto-Bismol pink topped cupcake, which Rosalie was so kind to make for the occasion, and set out to prove that the artistic family genes had not gone exclusively to my little brother. I started out by drawing a cupcake on the canvas. It looked more like the mushroom cloud over Nagasaki than a cupcake, but I convinced myself that I could improve its shape with paint.

I mixed a bright (imagine that, me utilizing a bright color) shade of teal to create the background for my cupcake, then I used a light gray for the table on which it would sit. But when it came time to paint the actual cupcake I was paralyzed. I was worried about messing up. I called Rosalie over several times to discuss technique and approach. I went over and over every detail with her. I looked at the white silhouette where my cupcake should be with my paint brush poised to paint, but unable to begin.

After several more minutes, Rosalie moseyed over again, put her hand gently on my shoulder and said, “This is art. There is no right or wrong. It’s supposed to be fun.” That was exactly what I needed. I felt my old perfectionist instincts melting away.  I told myself that I was painting a cupcake, not finding the cure for cancer. Plus, it was paint! I could always cover any mistakes with…yes, more paint.

Applying the frosting

It was at that point that I rolled up my sleeves and got dirty, literally. I started with the base of the cupcake. My model cupcake was chocolate, but because I am allergic to chocolate I took some artistic liberties and made mine vanilla. I mixed a light yellow to bring the cake to life. I then heaped a generous dollop of pink oil paint on top with a pallet knife. Rosalie encouraged us to slather the paint as if it was actual frosting and the technique proved effective…and appetizing.

Rosalie helping a fellow painter

When it came time to add the sprinkles to my cupcake I took a tiny brush and dotted the top of the cupcake using a quick up and down motion, as if my hand was the needle of a sewing machine. This technique proved so effective that a fellow-painter sitting across from me asked how I was creating such perfect sprinkles. I told her and then she used the same technique. Not only was I an o.k. painter, someone else thought I was even better than o.k.! I put the finishing touches on my painting (a dab of brown on top to create a Hershey’s Kiss and a few stray sprinkles littering the table so the scene wouldn’t appear too perfect) with a sense of reckless joy, unafraid that I would “mess up” my little work of art. This was what the event was supposed to be about: non-artists enjoying making art. Once again, when I stopped worrying about failing, I succeeded.

My final product was cute and fun, and perfectly imperfect. Just like me, and that’s pretty darn good!

My model and finished product

As I mentioned, I am involved with the Copley Society of Art, but I was not compensated in any way for this post.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

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The purpose of this blog has evolved over the last year.  When I started, it was really just for me; a catalyst to try new things and an excuse to continue writing.  I never thought a large number of people would read it, hence I chose a very obscure url.  If I am being completely honest, and why lie on one’s own blog which is a prime location for self-indulgent introspection, I never thought my readership would exceed two…my mom and dad.  But now they both text so they have another avenue to keep tabs on me.

For the most part I do still chronicle my adventures for myself.  This journey teaches me more about my personality, my composure, my capacity and my limits each week. But the most pleasant surprise of this past year has been the reactions and responses of my readers. I believe I know most of you personally, but many I don’t, which is amazing. The encouragement I have received has been astounding and it is my greatest pleasure that this blog affords me the opportunity to make so many of you laugh. It is for this reason that I picked this new home for my blog. Hopefully this will allow more of you to find me more easily.

Although my web address has changed, the spirit of the blog has not. I will continue to try new things, put myself in varying — and sometimes precarious — situations to test myself in an effort to figure out what I love in life.  I hope you will follow me to my new home, and continue to follow my journey as I search for my next passion.

Brewmaster Part I

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I have drunk my fair share of beer over the years, but usually it’s light in color and equally light on taste. So when my friend Matt Javitch, a fellow blogger and all-around great guy, told me that he had started brewing beer, I thought maybe I would actually enjoy drinking a beer if I tried – and tried to make – a dark craft beer.

So to honor my Irish heritage, and coinciding with St. Patrick’s Day, I set off on a brewing adventure!  I like to bake, how different would this be? If I really enjoy the process, I imagined mass producing my brew with a catchy name, like “Miss Type A IPA,” to something equally witty.

Matt gave me a shopping list and I picked up our supplies at a The Homebrew Emporium in Cambridge. On the day I was there the store was busier than the Apple store on the day the ipad 3 became available. I finally found someone to decipher my shopping list for me and help measure out all the ingredients which were organized in buckets, refrigerators, and on shelves in a system that resembled a small town library that still subscribes to the Dewey Decimal System.

Soaking the barley-filled cheesecloth

The next day Matt arrived at my place with a monstrously large stainless-steel pot, a glass jug, a plastic jug and a curly copper contraption. We started by packing cracked barley into cheese cloth and soaking it in boiling water. We transferred that to a larger pot, added more water and kept it at a rolling boil.  This concoction is not beer at this point, instead it is known as “wort.” Appetizing, I know. The brew is referred to as wort until yeast is added, and that is the very last step in the brewing process.

The copper chiller at work

As the wort boiled we added a thick goop that resembled — in both consistence and taste — maple syrup. Then came three rounds of hops, the first was to bitter the beer, 40 minutes later we added another dash to add flavor and a third to add aroma. Hops in this form look like the pellet food I used to feed to my guinea pig, Violet, circa 1989.  They dissolve in the wort and leave behind this greenish sludgy substance that stick to the sides of the pot. Once the hops are in we had to bring the temperature of the wort down.  That’s where the copper contraption came in. We moved our brewing operations to the laundry room (which had a more accessible plumbing) so we could pump cold water though the copper chiller. The chiller is similar to the medical device used to induce therapeutic hypothermia (I saw that on an episode of “Grey’s Anatomy”) circulating cold water through the wort so we could bring its temperature down to under 70 degrees.

We then strained the wort to remove all the sludge the hops left behind, poured into a glass jug, and added the yeast. I was thinking we were saving the best for last, but the addition of the yeast turned out to be somewhat anticlimactic. We just poured it in and put a stopper in the top and left it alone. Technically it was then beer, but it will take two weeks to ferment before we can bottle it.

Straining the hoppy sludge from the wort

If this sound to you like a lot of steps and a lot of time you would be correct. It seems to me that you have to really like the person you are brewing with because there is a lot of down time and chit-chat involved. With the wrong person that could be painful…even more painful than the pace of the brewing. I am more of a get up and go gal, so sitting around waiting for a pot to boil took a lot of patience, not to mention a lot of my Sunday afternoon.  At moments I was pretty antsy. I think as a society, and certainly me personally, we are used to a fast-pace, and certainly more interested in instant gratification than the alternative. Many of my previous adventures have been this way. I swung on the trapeze and then fell on my ass, but at least I knew I was a terrible trapeze artist in that moment.  Brewing beer is like the SATs, you do all this tedious work, and then you wait, and wait, and wait to see if it was a success or if you have to go through the torturous process again.

One important rule I learned was that when brewing beer you have to sterilize everything. This is because you are dealing with live bacteria. I never really thought of beer in this way before. If there is more bacteria than there should be in the wort than that bacteria will eat more of the sugar (in the syrup we added) and grow and grow. For some reason this reminded me of “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes” and I became wary of trying my own beer. But I will…in a few short weeks! I am planning on bottling it and serving it at a re-launch party for this blog. I have purchased a new web address, one that is not quite as long and complicated as this one, and I am in the process of making it pretty for all of you.  Stay Tuned and get ready to drink up!

And it is beer! It will ferment for two weeks before we bottle it

Hail, My Fellow Passion Chaser

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It feels like spring has sprung in Boston this week! This warm weather perfectly coincides with the launch of a great spring line for women designed by a friend of mine. So this week I am not writing about chasing my passion, but I am taking this opportunity to support someone who has found her’s and made it a reality.
Lindsay Jeanloz launched her line, Port Winsor, just last August with some great looking and great feeling tunics in an array of bright colors and patterns (two of my very favorite things). Like me, Lindsay is a part-time passion chaser; she runs her growing company on nights, weekends and whenever she’s not at her full-time job.
I bought this one for my Mom!

Port Winsor grew from Lindsay’s desire to find the perfect tunic. She, like many of us, owned an assortment of tunics from a variety of designers, but each had their shortcomings.  She set out to create a tunic that would flatter figures, be easy and elegant to wear and simple to care for.  Each tunic has darts in the back and at the bust to flatter, a hidden side zip that runs the length of the garment to make getting in and out a cinch, and bracelet-length sleeves. These design innovations coupled with the line’s bold colors and pretty patters really sets her tunics apart. Best of all, the entire line is machine washable. As someone who always ends up with part of her dinner on the long bell sleeves of her Tory Burch tunic, I really appreciate Port Winsor’s bracelet-length.

This spring Lindsay has added beach cover-ups and dresses to her line.  I’m eyeing a dress; they would be perfect for a summer weekend away (can you tell I am impatiently awaiting winters departure?).These tunics look amazing on women of all ages and sizes. I got myself a Port Winsor tunic, not that big of a stretch. But I also got one for my mother and she loves it.  Now, to understand what that means, my progressive, almost hippy, college professor mother thinks “preppy” is a four-letter word. So I repeat, she loves her tunic!

“It’s these seemingly small design details that make all the difference in creating the flattering, classic lines of our tunics,” Lindsay says. “It’s that easy-breezy style and sensibility that have won us so many fans in such a short time.”
I love this one!

It has been energizing to have a front-row seat to Port Winsor’s success. This is really a passion project for Lindsay and she has dedicated herself to it in a way that leaves me in awe.  I embark on my “adventures” on nights and weekends because it’s fun for me, I inevitable learn something new (quite often about myself) and at the end of the day, I get to go home and write about them.  Lindsay loves designing, but in addition to the fun stuff she also has to take care of billing and shipping, details that may be fun, but I don’t want to try them to find out. Lindsay is a model for me.  Following my passion may not always be fun and easy, but it will always be rewarding.

If you would like to check out Port Winsor’s tunics, cover-ups and dresses you are in luck!  Lindsay is having a trunk show this Sunday, March 11th at The Green Room on River Street in Beacon Hill from noon until 2:00 p.m. You can meet the talented designer, plus I’ll be there, in case that sweetens the deal!
Full disclosure: as stated above, Lindsay and I are friends and I own a Port Winsor tunic which I love, but I was not compensated in any way for this post.

St. Tropez Beach Cover-up
Green is my favorite color…

Boston Fashion’s Best Kept Secret

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The tents in Bryant Park in New York are being taken down following Fashion Week. And on Sunday night I was live tweeting my style judgments on Hollywood stars walking the red carpet at the Academy Awards.  I say that to prove my (modest) fashion credentials.

One of the many things I loved about living in Manhattan was that I always felt that I was at the epicenter of so many industries: news, TV, food, fashion.  Don’t get me wrong, I have quickly fallen in love with Boston, but I do miss my style-centric former home, especially this time of year.

In honor of Fashion Week and the Academy Awards, I decided to investigate Boston’s fashion scene, and in the process I uncovered the man whom many designers consider their best kept secret: Roger Hinds.
Roger at work

Roger does it all: he designs, cuts patterns, sews.  He brings designers’ ideas and sketches to life…by hand. Roger does not advertise and does not have a website.  It’s not necessary, fashion word of mouth is all he needs.  Roger’s talent matches his personality; he’s got heaping helpings of both. The list of designers he has worked with is long and impressive. Sorry, I am not naming names. I promised I would not give away any secrets, but to give you an idea of his caliber, he recently created three dresses for Grammy Award attendees.  Yes, he’s that good.

Roger has been sewing since he was a child growing up in Trinidad and studied tailoring at F.I.T. Even though fashion is one of my passions, watching Roger work quickly convinced me that, despite my serviceable sewing skills, I will never be involved in fashion in a hands-on way.  I quickly focused my attention on Roger’s story, how he followed his life-long passion and in 1994, finally took the leap to strike out on his own.

He told me he had thought about starting his own business since he was 16-years-old. “It takes a special personality to do this,” Roger observed about starting your own business.  “You just have to say, ‘I’m going to do this.’  It will give you strength.”
Very talented, very funny

He has a healthy attitude about the winding road he took to get to his current position as Boston fashion’s go-to guy. “All the companies that fired me, I thank you. They got me to do this.” Hearing Roger tell his story was inspiring.  Roger’s insight into taking the leap and following your passion will stay with me.  It’s never too late, you’re never too old, you are never too imperfect to follow your heart, and your gut.  Striking out on your own, whether it is in business or in life, is never easy, but it is always worth it.

And because I know you are all interested in my picks for best dressed at the Oscars here you go…

Best Dressed: Michelle Williams in Louis Vitton.  I wish I cold pull off a pixie like her!
Credit: Kevin Mazur/Wireimage
Runners up: Octavia Spencer in Tadashi.  She could have gone with a bigger name, but she stuck with the guy who has dressed her all award season.  She looked fantastic! Credit: Alexandra Wyman/Getty
Gwyneth Paltrow in Tom Ford. I am a huge fan of the cape, and the white, but her hair was a let-down.
Credit: Kevin Mazur/WireImage

 

I Want to be a Genius

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This gallery contains 6 photos.

 I am not a genius.  Yes, this may come as a shock to those of you who regularly enjoy my turn of phrase and excellent execution of alliteration on these pages, but it is true. I am especially not a … Continue reading →

I Broke My Valentine’s Leg

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Yes, it was a violent encounter, on-lookers were horrified.  Did I mention that my valentine was the wing chair I am working on restoring? I was not going to miss my upholstery class for a half-baked holiday that makes couples force romance and singles force smiles.  So yes, I spent Valentine’s Day upholstering. Well, there was no actual upholstering; I was trying to salvage my relationship with my valentine.

I started class by loosening all the joints of my chair so that I could glue them back together to be sure my chair would be a steady one.  After applying wood glue I put my chair in traction with large, heavy metal clamps so that the joints stayed tight as the glue dried.  As I was tightening one of the clamps that ran from the bottom of the rear left leg up to the top of the chair’s back I heard a loud CRACK! The leg of my chair had snapped right off, but it was not a clean break.  I gasped, then whispered to my chair “It’s not you, it’s me.”
My chair’s broken leg
Maybe I should have seen this coming, friends told me he would never amount to anything, but I saw something in my chair that I had not seen in others.
I was emotional and heartbroken as I held his leg in my hand.  Heartbroken that a relationship that had started out so promising — and one in which I saw so much potential for the future — was irrevocably broken, snapped in two pieces with painfully jagged edges exposed.  We had a deep connection my chair and I.  We were compatible on so many levels.  Sure, I wanted to change him, but it was for his own good.  I could see his potential.
My teacher assured me that all was not lost. There was hope. It would take hard work (and a plethora of wood glue) but we could get this chair back on track and we would still have years of happy reclining to look forward to. I pulled myself together and squeezed glue all over the breaking point as if it was my only hope for a happy ending. I stuck the broken leg back in place, used some staples just to be sure, and carefully, reapplied the clamp.  It was touch-and-go there for a minute, and I will not know for sure if we have a chance until I return to class next week.  But I am hopeless romantic, and I think this may be it!
Reapplying the clamp after the breakup
If only all relationships could be fixed with wood glue and some clamps…

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!