"Hop-picking in the old days was hard work, a hard time. Hops are nettlesome plants, and a sticky substance called lupulin lies in the bottom of the hop cones. Pickers have to wear full monkey suits, with long sleeves and buttoned-up collars, which back then were made of wool. But as hard as they worked, they played hard, too. The stories we heard at our harvest were something, I tell you." Tim Wallace, "Hip Hops"*
This week I started picking my hops. Teetering on a ladder, sweltering under a humid and hazy August afternoon, I plucked the papery cones, filling bag after bag with beer flowers. I did not wear a
full monkey suit. I dawdled as I picked--my family does not depend on my hops to feed them. My arms get scratched up a bit, but my skin does not react.
Hops grow on "bines." If you are feeling hoity-toity, you can make a big deal about this, correcting someone when they call those twisting green plants climbing up twine 25 feet towards the sky vines. "Ba-bine, not va-vine..." What's a bine? I think it's a vine that grows hops. Wha-whatever.
Comma butterflies love hops. They flit among the leaves and flowers, often settling just to rest. Today my hands were sticky with lupulin rosin. It was hot today, so I occasionally wiped my face with my hand. A comma butterfly found me irresistible, flapping inches from my eyes, landing on my face, then my arm. Usually a little twitch frightens them away. Not today. I must have smelled really good. Or maybe the critter was high on lupulin (hops are related to cannabis).
In days of old,
farmers cut the hop plants, lay them on the ground, and workers (often
women and children) picked all the flowers at one time. Since the flowers do not all
mature at the same time, perfectly ripe hops were mixed with less than and overly ripe flowers. Cutting the bines down before the end of the season was hard on the plants.
Efficiency has a price.
Today, commercial hops are harvested by machines--very expensive machines. The equipment to harvest and dry hop cones runs a couple million dollars. I have one rhizome in my backyard which puts out a dozen or so bines. Ba-ba-ba-bines. I rent myself out for a lot less than the machines. Besides, I enjoy the work.
Synesthesia. A hop flower is ready to pick when it has a certain color, somewhat lighter green than its younger self, sometimes with the edges of the
bracts just starting to turn brown.
It has a certain feel, a springiness--you squeeze it, it bounces back.
The peak ripe flowers smell like fresh beery bongwater.
After picking a few thousand hops, the color and the smell and the feel merge into one. If I see the right color, my fingers tingle with the papery feeling without touching the plant. If I smell a ripe hop cone with my eyes closed, I see the lime green color. Not quite the same as synesthesia. More like embedded memories.
Stay with the same lover long enough and sensations get deliciously mixed up. Or maybe after a quarter century together, we are both just getting old, and our senses lose their edges a bit, images blur, sounds muffle. One sense helps another. Getting older has some advantages; it helps if you sensed your mortality decades earlier, before the senses start to fuse together. Lessens the fear.
Still, reading about it won't make it happen. Picking thousands upon thousands of hop cones will. Wrapping your fingers around any plant for hours at a time, harvesting for the winter, will give plants a veracity you might not feel otherwise. Dirt, air, sunlight, water. Work. Good work. Productive work. I have pounds of hops drying in the attic. By Christmas, I'll have gallons of ale flavored by the same hops, and I will share it with the love of my life.
*from the January 30-February 5, 1997 issue of the Sonoma County Independent http://www.metroactive.com/papers/sonoma/01.30.97/brewery-9705.html