I have an immoral confession to make: I do not actually enjoy brewing. If I'm being perfectly honest with myself, I perceive the brew day as a weird alternation of waiting for stuff to happen and having to do too many things at once, held together by the universal theme of cleaning. At the end of the day, when all is done and the pressure not to forget anything has dropped, I feel tired and actually relieved it's done.
But then comes the magic of fermentation. No matter how many beers I make, I anxiously await the start of fermentation, that bubble in the airlock, and it always comes as a great relief. This moment where this bulk of overly sweet, overly bitter and downright unpalatable wort suddenly comes to life and begins its transformation into something beautiful, remains a mystery to me. Even if my yeast comes from a laboratory, packed in a plastic bag, I do experience an almost spiritual sensation and a sense of connection to the countless men and women hundreds of years back, standing next to their wort, channeling the spirits to ignite the spark of life inside.