'Twas a few weeks before Christmas and all around the house, not an airlock was bubbling, in spite of myself. My Vienna was lagering in the refrigerator out there, with hopes that a truly fine beer, I soon could share.
The Airstat* was useless, 32F couldn't be set, so I turned the 'fridge to Low, to see what I would get. On Monday it was 40, On Tuesday lower yet, On Wednesday morning I tweaked it, seemed like a good bet.
Later that day when I walked out to the shed, my nose gave me pause, it filled me with dread. In through the door I hurried and dashed, when I tripped on the stoop and fell with a crash. Everything looked ordinary, well what do you know, but just in case, I opened the 'fridge slow.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear, My carboy was FROZEN, I had made Ice beer! My first thought was tragic, I was worried a bit, I sat there and pondered, then muttered, "Aw Sh##!"
More rapid than eagles, my curses they came, and I gestured and shouted and called the fridge bad names. "You Bastard! How could you! You are surely to blame! You're worthless, You're scrap metal, not worth the electric bills I'm paying! To the end of the driveway, with one little call, They will haul you away, haul away, haul away all!"
Unlike dry leaves that before the hurricane fly, when brewers meet adversity, they'll give it another try. So back to the house, wondering just what to do, five gallons of frozen beer, a frozen airlock too. And then in a twinkling, I felt like a goof, the carboy wasn't broken, the beer would probably pull through.
I returned to the shed, after hurrying 'round, gathering cleaning supplies, towels, whatever could be found. I'd changed my clothes, having come home from work, I knew if I stained them, my wife would go berserk. I was loaded with paper towels, I knew just what to do, I had iodophor-ed water and a heating pad too.
The carboy, how it twinkled! I knew to be wary, the bottom wasn't frozen but the ice on top was scary! That bastard refridge, it had laid me low, trying to kill my beer under a layer of snow. I cleaned off the top and washed off the sides, picked up a block of ice and threw it outside. I couldn't find the airlock, it was under the shelf, and I laughed when I saw it, in spite of myself.
The work of a half hour out there in the shed, soon gave me to know, I had nothing to dread. The heating pad was working, the ice fell back in, I re-sanitized the airlock, I knew where it had been. Not an Eisbock, but a Vienna I chose, it was the end of the crisis of the lager that froze.
I sprang to my feet, to my wife gave a whistle, and we went off to bed under the down comforter to wrestle. But the 'fridge heard me exclaim as I walked out of sight, "Try that again, you bastard, and you'll be recycled all right!"