It's the Imperial Stout I brewed on Labor Day with Hunter Thompson and Jim Morrison's widow. I hadn't named it, but I can't drink a beer without a name, and Sweeney Todd is dark, rich, Victorian and of British origins. Much as my potent elixir (and no, it's not piss like Pirelli's) was brewed here in the Midwest, suburbia even, it has its DNA deep in the pages of Dickens.
While it makes me hungry for pot pie now, just knowing it's in the fridge, I almost didn't get this done. I've been ailing, as opposed to ale-ing, and while I moved the carboys to the kitchen Sunday night to keg Monday evening, all I could think to do Monday evening was fight the fever. Tuesday I wasn't much better, but since I'd have the girls Wednesday, I had to either get the stuff in kegs or move the carboys back under the basement stairs. It's been six-plus weeks since pitching, and I learned the hard way with Beyond the Pale, let it sit on the trub too long and you can take a brew that would tempt a Temperance Union recruiter and turn it to something that might put W.C. Fields into an AA meeting.
So I didn't feel like it, but I racked it into kegs. I guess it wasn't much more work than it would have been to put everything away for another time.
Final gravity, 1.026, which given its 1.094 origins means it's on the syrupy side. I had a hot mash, so more unfermentable dextrines. About 9.3% ABV, so figure it at roughly double strength: a twelve ounce serving counts as two beers if you're planning to drive.
My infection compromised sinuses might be mistaken, but I think it smells like pretty good shit. Tastes good, too, even bone-flat, but again, we'll see what my healthy palate makes of it in a few days.
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