Chapter 5:
Lu's Boys and the Man From Earth
Chapter Nine: The Stillery Hustle
The day had that familiar false-morning glow. I swear, it could’ve been 7 a.m. or 7 p.m., and you wouldn’t know the difference without a watch. Lu was already buzzing around the kitchen, prepping something wrapped in a dish towel. I peeked over her shoulder.
"Biscuits," she said, noticing me. "They’re a little lopsided. I tried your recipe, but I added my own twist."
"Well, if they’re half as good as your twist on scrambled eggs, we’ll survive just fine."
After breakfast, we loaded up the mule with a few things: two oak barrels filled to the brim with mash liquor, four growlers of honey pilsner, and three crates of hard apple cider—all sealed and labeled. Lu helped fasten the barrels with a thick strap.
"These barrels heavy?"
"A bit. But they roll easy. Just don’t lose a finger."
"Noted."
We rode into town with the mule humming along. It took about twenty minutes, long enough for Lu to ask questions about pricing and strategy.
"So, how much for the cider, Pa?"
"We’ll sell it by the crate—twelve bottles. Thirty credits for the whole crate. Pilsner’s in growlers—fifteen a pop. Mash liquor is the priciest, sold by the barrel: 200 credits. Fifty is refunded if they return the barrel. Like a core charge."
"Smart. Keeps waste low and keeps 'em coming back."
We reached the saloon, a sturdy building made of polished cedar planks with an awning that looked like it had been patched up recently. A black tabby catfolk stood out front, arms crossed, gold hoop earring dangling from one ear.
"You the distiller?" he asked as we approached.
"I am. Name’s Ron. This here’s Lu. We brought a sampler."
He grinned and stepped aside. "Name’s Clutch. I run this place. Heard about your brew from Hal at the store. Said it knocked his boots off."
We unloaded the goods and rolled the barrels inside. The saloon had a polished wood bar, some round tables, and a chalkboard menu behind the counter.
"Go ahead and tap that barrel," Clutch said.
I did. He poured a small glass and took a sniff. Swirled it. Took a sip.
"Whew! That’s punchy. And clean. You distill this yourself?"
"Yes sir. Double run and filtered through charcoal. And I don’t cut corners with the mash. All-natural ingredients."
"Alright. I’ll take two barrels. One on tap, one in the back. And I’ll need five growlers of the pilsner and two crates of that cider. Folks’ll lap it up with lunch."
"I can get you more each week. Might even take orders."
"Sounds like we got a deal."
We spent the next hour signing papers, marking deposits for the barrels, and settling on a schedule. Clutch handed me a pouch full of credit chits and a handwritten receipt.
"Tell ya what, Ron. You keep supplyin’ this kind of stock, and I’ll make sure the whole town drinks nothin’ else."
Lu beamed with pride as we walked out.
"That went smooth," she said.
"Too smooth. Makes me think somethin’s gonna bite me later."
We stopped by Hal’s store on the way back and dropped off an extra crate of cider for good measure. Hal looked like he’d just won the lottery.
"Bless ya, Ron. Folks been askin’ if I’d get more. I’ll spread the word."
Back home, the kids had handled their chores well. The hens were tucked in, and the cows had been milked. Lu went to unpack the supplies while I checked the stillery. Everything was right where it should be, fermenters bubbling along steady.
Supper was already in motion by the time I got in. Lu made roasted root vegetables, boiled eggs, and a savory loaf that smelled suspiciously like cheese and onions.
We all sat around the big table, the kids chatting about the fox from the trap, and Lu chimed in about the saloon deal.
"So we’re real merchants now?" Dos asked, eyes wide.
"That’s right," I said. "We run a proper stillery, and the town’s already buying. This little farm’s going places."
Uno raised a glass of cider—barely fermented for the kids—and toasted.
"To Pa, to Lu, and to not burnin’ the toast tomorrow!"
Everyone laughed. The sun was still shining through the windows, ever the same. But in my heart, things felt different now. We were making our way.
Tomorrow, I figured we’d start planning a second batch. Maybe even expand the garden.
One day at a time.
Chapter Ten: Pressin’ Day
We were up early—or as early as you could call it in a place where the sun never dipped. Lu had packed sandwiches and a small bottle of cider in each basket, and the boys were rarin’ to go. The orchard was whispering with that dry rustle of ripened apples—branches heavy, some fruit already fallen.
I whistled for Dos and Uno. “You two with me. We’re makin’ cider today.”
They perked up and followed like ducklings, wide-eyed and whispering about the press machine I’d pointed out the day before.
We brought in apples by the crate. Red ones, yellow ones, a few green tart devils I kept for my own taste. We loaded ‘em into the hopper of the old cider press I’d salvaged from the barn’s corner and retrofitted with a crank and drainage tube.
“Alright boys, here’s how this works,” I said, gesturing like a ringmaster. “Toss in the apples. No stems, no leaves, no mushy ones. You turn the crank slow, let it grind. Juice comes out the pipe. We catch it in the big barrels. And what’s left behind—well, that’s your problem to solve.”
They nodded, Uno grabbing the first handful with a grin.
An hour in, we had the rhythm down. Apples in, crank turns, juice flows. The smell of fresh cider filled the air—sweet, a little tangy, sharp enough to make your mouth water.
“Can we taste it, Pa?” Dos asked, already sticky from head to toe.
I dipped a clean mug in the bucket and handed it over. “Sure can. Ain’t hard yet—it’s just juice for now.”
They both drank like it was gold. Uno wiped his mouth and sighed. “Best thing I ever had.”
I chuckled and patted his head. “Wait till it’s been sittin’ in the barrel a while. That’s when the kick comes in.”
By midday, we had five barrels half full and a mound of shredded apple pulp building up beneath the press. That’s when trouble started.
“Pa, what do we do with this stuff?” Dos pointed at the thick sludge cloggin’ the drain.
“Well, usually we scrape it out and haul it to compost. You can feed a bit of it to pigs, too, if you got ‘em.”
“Should we… just grab it?” Uno asked, already poking at the mess with a stick.
“I’d recommend gloves,” I said—but too late.
Uno had already gone wrist-deep, and Dos followed suit, trying to “sculpt” the pulp into some kind of brick.
I stepped away for a minute to check the barrels, and when I turned back, both boys were covered from elbows to knees in sticky, fibrous apple gunk.
“Mercy,” I muttered. “You two look like you lost a fight with a pie.”
“We were tryin’ to compact it like you said,” Dos offered, sheepish.
“Did I say you had to do it? I was speakin’ general.”
I burst out laughing and fetched a hose. “Alright, come here. Line up. Ain’t no way I’m letting Lu see you like this.”
They yelped as the cold water hit them, but giggled through it. I sprayed ‘em down like wild dogs, then tossed each a towel.
“Next time,” I said, “ask before diving into the leftovers.”
“Yessir,” Uno said, teeth chattering.
We scrubbed the press down, sealed the barrels, and rolled ‘em toward the fermenting room. The whole place smelled like late summer—fruit, sugar, and the hint of wild yeast already waking up.
I leaned on the doorframe as they finished stacking the cleaned crates.
“You boys did good today. Got dirty, sure. But that’s how real work looks. Cider season’s startin’ strong.”
They beamed, proud as princes.
That night at dinner, Lu sniffed and raised an eyebrow.
“You three smell like a fruit stand caught fire.”
“We pressed cider,” Dos announced, chest puffed up.
“And became the cider,” Uno added.
Lu shook her head and smiled. “Well, wash up. You’ve got apple in your ear.”
I looked around the table, at my little crew of helpers, and felt something quiet settle over me.
This was startin’ to feel like home.
Please log in to leave a comment.