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November 27, 2002 8:30 a.m. Thank Ye Lord for our Grog A family that brews together, drinks together.

own here in Virginia, where the first Thanksgiving actually occurred (no mail, please), many of us are raising weekend toasts to the Beneficent One, who has not only stocked nature's lauder but who is reportedly preparing the way for a lighting victory in the desert regions. Further word has it that Bill Kristol will be named Imperial Governor of liberated Iraq, with Taki being tapped as Keeper of the Veils, just so we don't forget the Good Lord maintains a sense of humor.

Around our house, we have prepared for these toasts by brewing up various alcoholic beverages. The production of alcohol — which the evangelist Mather called "a gift from God" — is a family affair, our version of going out to play tennis. It also has vast theological implications. We do not busy ourselves contemplating the kind of vehicle Jesus might drive. Quite obviously, someone else would do the driving, just as others were left with the duty of jotting down the Divine Truth. Jesus turned his hand to more important tasks, such as casting out lepers, raising the dead, and, of course, turning water into wine. This we keep in mind as we turn water in beer.

I was an engaged brewer years ago but was weaned away by an abundance of commercial "homebrews." Then the law intervened. The oldest son, off at school, was unable to legally purchase finished alcohol. So he took to buying its components and assembling drink in his kitchen. He has returned home for a brief time and brought with him the brewing equipment. O happy day. He and I do the heavy lifting, the wife stays out of the way, and the younger son attempts to quaff the goods when he thinks he's not being observed.

We create only mild drink. The wife has forbidden the erection of a still on our property, no doubt fearing a decline in neighborhood prestige and the possible corruption of the man of the house. Such fears are not without foundation. In these parts the effects of home-made whiskey are well known. One friend tells of opening a jar of white lightning one afternoon at a construction site; he as his quaffing mates awoke the next morning covered in half a foot of snow.

So we live sensibly on Beer Lane, not Gin Row — though this year we have made our first batch of mead, the legendary elixir of life and love, with its rich history of staggering pharaohs, ax-swinging knights, and twelve-alarm hangovers.

There's not much to mead: five gallons of water, 15 pounds of honey, a few ounces of champagne yeast, a partial teaspoon of Irish moss, and some gypsum, the latter to help clear the liquid after the fermenting is done. Boiling 15 pounds of honey fills the home with a heavenly aroma, and once inside the fermenting bucket the yeast and sugar did monstrous battle. The resulting drink is somewhere around 30 proof. A slightly medicinal taste lingers, though that's not necessarily a bad thing. This is after all the age of medication, and we'd rather take ours by the glass than the tablet.

We also created a batch of stout, which is a bit more involved than mead, requiring the mixing of various malts, hops, yeast, and a great deal of stirring to keep it all in the pot. The smell of cooking wort is a terrific thing, if you happen to like it; otherwise, we are informed by the wife, it makes the house smell like a deeply stagnant bog, one with many small mammals decomposing just below the surface. Stout of course is the drink favored by the Irish, who saved civilization, and thus drinking stout is required of all civilized persons. Or so we believe. This batch also had a dynamic fermentation, which could be monitored by observing a bubbling airlock atop the fermenting chamber.

We found ourselves checking in on the batch from time to time (which bubbled away in a downstairs closet), like proud parents looking in as the child does his multiplication tables. There is something deeply assuring about having more hooch in the house — 15 gallons — than there is in all of Islam regions (theoretically speaking, of course). One might liken it to housing a friendly spirit, a spirit who serves at his master's pleasure but who is always attempting to get the upper hand. A five-gallon carboy of mead is indeed a strong magnet, always tempting one away from mundane duties toward the direction of revelry and perhaps revelation, sometimes in mid-afternoon.

Well, what's life without a little temptation? An uncontested soul is hardly worth having. And so a toast to temptation, to grog, to the other permanent things. And to better days, wherever we might find them.

— Dave Shiflett is coauthor of Christianity on Trial.