The beginnings of the lambic I brewed about six months ago is starting to get footy as hell.

At the urging of Michael Agnew at A Perfect Pint, I’ve done my very best to just forget about the damn thing, leaving the microbial mish mash in the dark corner of my basement to slowly distort and turn into a cheesy, funky, and sour concoction.

A definite pellicle has formed on the surface of the beer, with some “ropiness” beginning to take effect, thin strands of bacteria colonies streaking their way through the beer likely from the pediococcus. A layer of dust coats the neck of the carboy, and a spider has also decided to form a nearby web, making this even more authentic based on my understanding that the cellaring rooms of traditional Belgian lambic brewers look something like the opening scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

I’m planning to make this a fruit lambic, and will give it until at least summer before I rack and spur on secondary fermentation. The fruit I’m leaning toward using is thimbleberry, a relatively little known (and not widely commercially available) fruit indigenous to Minnesota and parts of the upper Midwest, commonly found along the North Shore. I did locate someone in Michigan who sells the stuff in bulk, and may buy five or six pounds from her, if I’m not up for traipsing through the woods near Lake Superior in hopes of finding my own.

Thimbleberries are very similar to raspberries in shape and flavor, so I’m hoping the finished fruit lambic will come out tasting something like a framboise with some nice sour raspberry notes combined with the traditional lambic funkyness.

Once the beer is aging on fruit, it’ll likely be at least another year, if not longer, before I even consider bottling. Lambics are not for the impatient.