Makin' fuel, well, he calls it 'Boom Juice'...

Chapter Eighteen: Corn, Fire, and Curiosity

It was finally time to pull the corn, and I tell ya, those rows were standin’ proud like soldiers waitin’ for orders. Gold-tipped and thick, they caught the light from the never-settin’ sun in a way that made ‘em look polished. Made me proud, too—first full cycle on this strange little patch of paradise.

The boys were lined up like it was a parade. Uno had a burlap sack slung over his shoulder like some kind of corn pirate, and Seis already had husks in his hair.

“Alright,” I hollered. “Start at the low end and move up the slope. Check for dry husks and good kernels. No rot. We ain’t feedin’ hogs here.”

“Can we eat one raw?” Quattro asked, grinnin’.

“You can, but your guts’ll pay the toll.”

Lu handed out work gloves and grinned as the boys scattered like field mice. I kept a crate near the still, ready for the first batch.

Once we had ten sacks full—clean, solid ears—I called it good for the first press. I sat with Uno and Dos near the distillery shed, shellin’ ears and dumping kernels into the grinder.

“We makin’ more pilsner?” Uno asked.

“Nope. This one’s different.”

“What’s it for?” Dos asked.

“Fuel.”

Both boys blinked.

“You mean like… for tractors?”

“Exactly. Ethanol. We’re gonna see if we can make a batch strong enough to power the mule.”

Uno scratched his head. “Ain’t that like moonshine?”

“Close cousin. But stronger, cleaner. More fire. And no, before you ask, you can’t drink it.”

“Why not?” Dos asked, already too curious for his own good.

“Because it’ll peel the inside of your mouth like you licked a comet. This stuff’s the devil’s mouthwash. Drinkin’ it’s a shortcut to meetin’ your maker.”

They both looked impressed and horrified at once. I chuckled.

We fed the first grind into the cooker, mixin’ water and a bit of enzyme starter Lu had found tucked in an old box labeled “Emergency Brew Stuff.” It bubbled and hissed like a livin’ thing. We watched the vat work like it had a grudge.

“Think it’ll blow?” Uno asked, eyes wide.

“Nah. I fixed the pressure valve this mornin’.”

“Still feels like it might.”

“Good. That means you’re payin’ attention.”

While it simmered, Lu brought out fried plantain slices with honey drizzled on top. She sat down next to me, elbow against mine.

“This one’s a little risky,” she said, watching the steam curl.

“Worth it,” I replied. “Fuel prices where I come from were a nightmare.”

“Here, you got your own refinery,” she said with a wink.

By late afternoon, we had our first test run bottle. Clear as crystal, with a sharp smell that could burn your nose clean off.

Uno leaned in to sniff and recoiled instantly. “Sweet mercy!”

“Told ya,” I said. “That ain’t cider.”

“What do we do with it now?” Dos asked.

“Well, if it tests clean, we’ll feed it to the mule and see if she runs.”

They were both thrilled. Little scientists with dirt under their nails.

Lu looked at the bottle and shook her head. “You really are makin’ a life here, aren’t you?”

I looked out over the corn rows—half harvested, half still dancin’ in the breeze.

“I reckon I am.”

That night, I sealed the rest of the batch and labeled it Experimental No. 1. We’d check it again in a few days. But for now, I sat with Lu on the porch, a mug of real cider in hand, and watched the boys chase fireflies that had no business existin’ in eternal daylight.

Tomorrow, we’d run the engine test.

Tonight, I had family.

Chapter Nineteen: Full Throttle and Golden Kernels

We ran the test batch of ethanol through the old mule just after breakfast, and I’ll be honest—I half-expected the thing to sputter, smoke, and blow its bolts halfway down the gravel lane. But wouldn’t you know it, she started up like she’d been waitin’ all her life for a sip of moonshine’s sober cousin.

Uno and Dos whooped like rodeo kids, and even Lu clapped her hands when I gave the throttle a push and the mule rolled forward smooth as buttermilk. The whole setup smelled faintly like sweet corn and lightning.

“Well,” I said, leaning on the hood, “looks like we’re in the fuel business.”

That meant we had to do the rest, and quick. That hectare of corn wasn’t gonna pluck itself. Lucky for us, the old harvester Gus had traded me—on the condition I brew him some blackberry cider next season—was still parked in the lean-to, only half-rusted and mostly operational.

We got it runnin’ with a little coaxin’, a lotta grease, and a prayer or two. I put Uno behind the wheel—he’s got a good eye—and the rest of us fanned out along the field to check spacing and snag any cobs the machine missed.

The thing roared through the corn like a beast. Corn stalks vanished into its maw and came out separated, spit into the collection bin like magic. We ran it slow to make sure nothin’ jammed, but that engine hummed like it knew what was at stake.

Lu and Tres stood by the sorter, where the good ears got tossed into crates and the spoiled ones—mostly bug-bitten or sun-split—got piled for compost or animal feed.

“Do we really need to sort all of ‘em by hand?” Quattro asked, fingers already stained yellow.

“If we don’t, bad kernels’ll foul up the mash,” I said. “This is where the real work starts.”

Seis handled it with care, even singin’ while he worked. Lu hummed along with him, sleeves rolled and a strand of hair caught in the breeze.

Hours rolled by, and we kept at it—harvest, sort, load. The boys passed buckets like pros, makin’ a line from the harvester to the still. Dust clung to our necks, and corn silk floated in the air like golden cobwebs.

I stepped back at one point, wiped my brow, and just watched. My crew. My people.

We processed the haul in batches—grindin’, steamin’, coolin’. The barrels stacked up one by one in the fermentin’ shed, warm and full of promise.

That night, Lu brought out a pot of hot stew and a fresh loaf of honey bread. We ate on the porch by lantern light, the boys still jabberin’ about the harvester and how “Uno made it dance.”

“You did good,” I told them. “Every last one of you.”

“We gonna keep makin’ fuel?” Dos asked between bites.

“If we’re lucky,” I said. “Might even sell a few barrels to Gus. Could be a good side hustle.”

Lu looked thoughtful. “Gus said folks farther out have been needin’ reliable stuff to power their equipment. If yours works, they’ll come runnin’.”

I leaned back in my chair and took a long breath. This place—this sunlit, sideways patch of paradise—was startin’ to feel more and more like the right place to be.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “we clean the still and check the test batch again. And maybe—just maybe—we name our first line of farm fuel.”

Uno perked up. “Can we call it Boom Juice?”

I nearly spit cider out my nose.

“…We’ll workshop it.”