HLM – Chapter 859 The Aroma of Sweet Potato Wine

Wang Bo and his group were preparing to brew some fine wine. Atulu, being a bit of an expert, first asked, “Boss, have you ever fermented sweet potatoes? Don’t tell me everyone came here today just to ferment sweet potatoes.”

“Uh… do we need to ferment the sweet potatoes in advance?” Wang Bo asked humbly.

Atulu gave him a look that clearly said, what nonsense are you talking about? “How can you make wine without fermentation? Do you plan to just distill it straight? That would give you sweet potato water, not sweet potato wine!”

Qingyang waved his hand, “Don’t ask the boss. He doesn’t know. I’ve prepared all this stuff—fermented sweet potatoes included. They’re all in the courtyard’s warehouse.”

Wang Bo asked in surprise, “When did you prepare this?”

“After I asked you where the sweet potatoes were stored, I started preparing them,” Qingyang said with a smile.

“How do you even do this?” Wang Bo asked, genuinely curious.

Qingyang explained, “It’s simple. Slice the sweet potatoes and let them dry in the sun, then steam them and mix in the fermentation starter. Finally, add the yeast. But New Zealand doesn’t have traditional yeast; they use fermentation powder, which you can buy at the supermarket.”

“There’s plenty of fermentation powder—it’s a loophole in government regulation,” Hani said.

New Zealand has strict control over spirits, so many people make their own liquor at home, which requires fermentation powder. That’s why it’s so popular there.

After fermentation, the starch in the sweet potatoes converts into alcohol. All that’s left is to distill it, and you get sweet potato wine.

Qingyang explained the process called cooking and steaming: put the fermented sweet potato mash into a steaming barrel, add water, and steam it.

Wang Bo remarked that he didn’t know Qingyang had this skill. Qingyang laughed, saying his grandfather specialized in this back home; their family had a brewery that made sorghum wine, sweet potato wine, corn wine, and so on.

At the courtyard, Qingyang carried out several sealed wooden barrels. Seeing him straining with veins bulging on his forehead, Atulu lifted one with a single hand effortlessly and said, “This is light. Why do you look like that?” He chuckled afterward.

Wang Bo lifted one barrel per hand, then lifted two simultaneously, saying, “It really is light. Atulu, watch and learn.”

The Maori man said nothing and slunk off toward the kitchen.

Hani laughed, “Boss, you’re truly a rascal. You never miss a chance to assert your authority, just like a mafia leader.”

“Change your wording. You can call me a tyrant,” Wang Bo pretended to shiver. “The kind of ‘you’re a rascal’ comment is usually for lovers.”

The kitchen had a stove. Westerners aren’t inherently reliant on gas stoves—they have traditional stoves too. Unlike China’s large pot stoves, these were flat stoves where steaming pots are stacked to steam bread.

The castle has several kitchens. Wang Bo was using the main kitchen. Back when there were more family members, the kitchen was four or five hundred square meters—like a playground.

Previously, he found the kitchen too empty; now he was accustomed to such a large space, and returning to a small kitchen would feel cramped.

He had converted a corner of the kitchen into Eva’s bakery, filled with bread ovens and other baking equipment, occupying over a hundred square meters, so the kitchen no longer felt so empty.

The stove had never been used; the castle didn’t have many people, and there was no need for such a large stove for big pot meals. This time, it could be used to distill sweet potato wine. Qingyang said, “It’s a pity we don’t have the earthen pots from my hometown. They’re perfect for this. This stove is big, but the distillation might not be very fast.”

Wang Bo placed the wooden box he had brought onto the stove and was surprised that it fit perfectly. “Are there standard sizes for this sold online?”

Qingyang shrugged, “Oh, this isn’t bought online—the pot is. I had Dayan make this by hand, and I measured the dimensions myself.”

Wang Bo immediately realized the value of having a skilled carpenter in town.

First, the pot had to be placed. Since the stove is flat, the pot must be supported above it, with firewood underneath. That way, it could be used.

Qingyang and Atulu busied themselves arranging the pots, while Wang Bo examined the wooden box.

From the outside, it looked like an ordinary wooden box. Looking inside revealed something different:

The lid was separate and movable, and the bottom consisted of two wooden panels forming a groove, with a halved bamboo tube fitted into the groove.

“What’s this for?” he asked curiously.

Atulu peered in but shook his head, “I don’t know.”

Qingyang explained, “This is a method from my hometown. I asked my grandfather and drew up the design. Farmers used to put the fermented sweet potatoes in the box, press down with the lid, and the pressed liquid would flow into the groove and out of the box, giving sweet potato wine.”

Hani exclaimed, “Ingenious!”

Wang Bo smirked, knowing this was just customary praise. China’s modern achievements were limited compared to its ancient history and inventions. So when foreigners hear about Chinese inventions, they usually remark on the wisdom or ingenuity involved.

The fermented sweet potatoes, poured into the iron pot, gave off a strong alcoholic aroma mixed with a tangy smell that hadn’t yet blended—so the taste wasn’t great.

Seeing Wang Bo frown, Qingyang laughed, “This is what fermented sweet potatoes smell like. Actually, it’s already pretty good. Otherwise, the sour, stinky smell is unbearable.”

They lit the fire, and with a blower, the flames quickly roared.

Chunks of firewood were added, and within ten minutes, steam filled the air.

The steam carried the aroma of alcohol, which was wasteful but inevitable since alcohol evaporates faster than water. Yet most of the wine flowed slowly through the bamboo tube.

There was ice inside the bamboo tube to cool the alcohol vapor back into liquid.

Wang Bo asked, “Won’t this dilute the wine?”

Qingyang shook his head, “Sweet potato wine is low-proof, which makes it tasty. It’s not strong liquor.”

The flowing wine was pale yellow and slightly cloudy, resembling unfiltered beer.

Eva, coming into the kitchen for her routine baking, smiled at the scent and asked, “Are you making wine?”

By this point, a small barrel of sweet potato wine had already collected, about five or six hundred milliliters.

Atulu poured some into a glass and offered it to Eva, “Madam, try it! I bet this is the best sweet potato wine you’ve ever had!”

“I won’t refuse, then,” Eva said with a gentle smile. She took the crystal glass, sipped a little, and her red lips brushed the rim with subtle elegance.