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	B.Y.O.B. (Brew Your Own Beer) Homebrewing is part science, part art form Story & Photos: Jennifer Deseo

It's a bright Sunday morning, and Mike Prien is preparing his yard for a cookout. He plants a blue lawn chair, complete with cup-holder armrests, in the lush grass beneath the shade trees. On a small table, his cooking utensils and ingredients stand at attention, awaiting his command. And percolating atop a propane-fed burner is a glistening aluminum stockpot, deep enough for a clambake or a fried turkey.

Home brewing requires a setup that is part chemistry lab, part backyard barbeque.

On this day, Prien's menu features nutty barley cracked slightly in a grain mill and steeped in boiling water. He tosses in hops for a sharp bite, a yeast culture for kicks and plenty of time for all the right chemical reactions to occur. No alcohol is served (yet) because Prien's cookout is B.Y.O.B. That's brew your own beer.

"I like beer," Prien readily declares. However, his taste goes beyond mere admiration for the brew. His palate recognizes the balance of sweet grain and bitter hops. His skills recognize that fermentation is part science, part art form. It's what distinguishes overgrown frat boys from traditional brewmasters. It's what makes Prien a connoisseur.

Prien, a 37-year-old computer analyst from Silver Spring, did not inherit this expertise. His parents imbibed only at social functions and neither brewed beer, although his mother held an important role at Germantown's Oktoberfest. ("She was the auction chairperson for the first ten years," he explains.)

Instead, Prien first developed his interest--where else--in college. But as with most coeds, beer was only a fizzy, foamy means to an inebriated end. Later, he toiled among the ranks of the restaurant business, tending bar and waiting tables.

These were Prien's formative years, when his palate awoke from its Budweiser-induced stupor. Suddenly, there were beers from different lands in a rainbow of colors to experience. Prien had opened the door but had yet to walk through it.

Mr. Beer--a brew-it-yourself kit--carried him over the threshold four years ago. It contained a small plastic keg, a concentrated infusion of malted barley and hops, and the necessary yeast culture. The only thing missing was the water.

"I'd actually bought the same kit for my brother-in-law for Christmas, and then my wife bought it for me" in 2000, Prien says. However, she hid the kit for two years before giving it to him in 2002.

Mike Prien makes a mash, the sugary precursor to beer.

"She was afraid I would get carried away with it," he confesses.

She was right.

On this bright Sunday morning, Prien is set to brew ten gallons of American amber ale. His first move is to make a mash, a runny porridge of cracked malted barley and hot water, which he soaks in a bright orange plastic cooler called a mash tun (pronounced "toon").

After one hour, the liquid, now caramel brown and just as sugary, is drained from the mash tun and set to boil in the ten-gallon stockpot. Hops, which lend both a floral scent and a bitter tang, are added to balance the mash liquid's intense sweetness.

This is where chemistry raises its ugly head. The compounds in hops that impart bitterness are called alpha acids, which appear when the hops are exposed to high heat. The eventual bitterness of the beer depends on the amount of alpha acids in the hops, as well as the brewer's culinary skill.

"A lot of it is in the timing," Prien explains. The longer the hops simmer in the mash liquid, the more alpha acids appear, thus producing a more bitter beer. A relatively brief boil imparts a less bitter, more floral taste.

Along with his watch, Prien also keeps an eye on the amount of natural sugars in the liquid. Maintaining the right amount of sugar ensures proper fermentation, he says.

Once the brewing is complete, Prien cools the liquid, filters it to remove the hops and siphons it into two 5-gallon plastic "ale pails." He adds yeast and then seals the lids tightly. Over the next one to two weeks, the yeast perform their microbiological voodoo, fermenting the liquid's sugars into carbon dioxide (for the fizz) and alcohol (for the buzz).

Finally, the beer is transferred into kegs, although not the common stout, metal cans or romanticized wooden barrels that one imagines. Instead, Prien fills three-foot-long silver cylinders that resemble scuba tanks, and injects them with a blast of compressed carbon dioxide for extra fizz just before serving.

Traditionally, beer is made using only malted barley, hops, yeast and water. However, many commercial and home brewers embellish their original recipes. For example, framboise is a tart, commercially available Belgian beer flavored with raspberries. Prien also has brewed beer flavored with blueberry extract.

One of his favorites is a Belgian white beer (or witbier), so called because proteins from the fermented grains give it a cloudy appearance. Coriander, cumin and bitter orange peel adds spice to this light-tasting beer.

"I've been drinking this all summer long," Prien says, raising a glass of witbier he'd prepared a few weeks earlier. It is also available commercially as Hoegaarden, a Belgian import, and Blue Moon, produced by Molson.

There are also seasonal flavors like Prien's pumpkin porter, a dark, moderately strong ale that he makes with canned pumpkin. He also plans to make a Christmas ale seasoned with cinnamon and nutmeg.

This exposure to unusual flavors has not hampered Prien's taste for commercially brewed beers. In fact, he admits to having a greater appreciation for their distinct flavors and the commercial brewer's ability to create batch after batch with consistent taste.

"I like Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, but I also like the Belgian beers like Hoegaarden, Abbey, and Chimay," he says. Even Old Milwaukee has a place in his heart.

"I used it to steam crabs at a neighborhood cookout," he says.

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