And the Hop-Flower Girls Will Arrive Promptly at 4:37 p.m.

Sunday is Brew Day. It feels more like Wedding Day. I'm getting ready to form an unholy union with that 15.5 gallon kettle and his rowdy groomsmen.

I've brewed before, with family and friends. You can count the number of times on two hands. This will be the first time on my own system. Having helped with both extract and all-grain batches, I decided to jump straight to all-grain. Like a schoolgirl hoping she finds the right man someday, I've been reading brewing books for a couple of years now. I have an academic understanding of what is supposed to happen on our wedding night. My friends have shared their private tips. But I'm nervous. What if he doesn't think I'm any good?

Yesterday I found myself, with five-month-old Junior in tow, standing in the plumbing aisle at the local hardware store. For 30 minutes. Looking at hose barbs and tubing, wondering if this European Metric thing would squeeze in to that 1/2" American thing. Hunting for litmus paper to test pH, taking it as seriously as if they were color swatches for new wallpaper.

"Stop it," Junior said. Or maybe it was my last shred of sanity speaking. "Leave this place now. The beer will be fine."

Ugh. I've become Bridezilla.