Making Moonshine, An Activity That Any Sensible Adult Should Avoid!

Let me begin by stating, for the record, that I am not a criminal mastermind. If anything, I am the opposite: a man who once spent twenty minutes trying to open a child‑proof bottle of vitamins before realising it was, in fact, a jar of olives. 

So when I decided to try “making moonshine,” I should have known things would go wrong. I should have heard the tiny voice in my head whispering, Jim, you are not the sort of person who should be allowed near flammable liquids.” But I ignored that voice, because I had recently watched a documentary about Appalachian bootleggers, and I thought: How hard can it be?

This is the same thought process that leads people to buy treadmills, assemble flat‑pack furniture, or attempt to trim their own fringe.

The first step in making moonshine, according to the internet (which is never wrong, except when it is), is to create something called a “mash.” Mash is a mixture of grains, sugar, water, and the faint smell of regret. It looks like something you’d find in a medieval moat. It bubbles ominously, like it’s plotting something. If mash could talk, it would say, “I’m not sure you’re emotionally prepared for what comes next.”

Once the mash is fermenting, the next step is to build a still. This is where things take a turn, because a still is essentially a metal contraption designed to heat alcohol until it becomes vapour, then cool it back into liquid. In other words, it is a device whose entire purpose is to create a highly flammable situation in your shed. This is why moonshine operations traditionally take place in remote forests: not because of secrecy, but because trees are less likely than neighbours to call the fire brigade.

I built my still using instructions from a YouTube video hosted by a man named “Uncle Randy,” who had three teeth and the confidence of someone who has survived multiple explosions. Uncle Randy assured me that all I needed was a large pot, some copper tubing, and “a healthy disregard for building codes.” This should have been a red flag, but I pressed on, because I am a man who once followed a recipe that began with the words “First, catch a chicken.”

After several hours of assembly during which I burned myself twice, glued my hand to a saucepan, and accidentally created a device that looked suspiciously like a medieval torture instrument the still was ready. I poured in the mash, lit the burner, and waited.

This is the moment when you realise that moonshine-making is essentially a slow-motion anxiety attack. You sit there watching a pot of bubbling liquid, knowing that at any moment it might produce either alcohol or a small mushroom cloud. The vapour began to travel through the copper coil, and I felt a surge of pride, the kind of pride a parent feels when their child takes their first steps, except with more fear of sudden combustion.

Finally, a clear liquid began to drip out of the end of the coil. This was it: the forbidden nectar. The homemade hooch. The stuff that, according to history, fuelled entire generations of people who thought wrestling bears was a reasonable pastime.

I took a sip.

Let me tell you: moonshine tastes like someone distilled the concept of danger. It tastes like a punch-up between petrol fumes and a dentist’s mouthwash. It tastes like something that should come with a warning label reading, “May cause temporary blindness, permanent blindness, or spontaneous banjo playing!”

I survived, somehow. The shed survived, although it now smells like a chemistry lab that had a nervous breakdown. And I learned a valuable lesson: some hobbies are best left to professionals, such as neurosurgery, lion taming, and creating beverages that could strip paint.

But I will say this: for one glorious moment, as that first drop of moonshine emerged, I felt like a true pioneer  a rugged, self‑reliant craftsman of the frontier.

Then I remembered I’d melted part of my shoe!