NEW IBERIA, La. (AP) - The time is right when beads of sweat drip from your skin without provocation, when the summer heat is so unbearable that bubbles rapidly form and burst in a 55-gallon barrel of corn mash. That's when you might see Tony Alleman stirring mash for next year's whiskey with a wooden paddle.
Alleman, 48, of New Iberia, is picking up where his father left off.
Soon it will be time to cook the mash in to moonshine.
Underneath the shade of a fiberglass boat cover propped up by fleet boxes, Alleman removes the old railroad crossing sign he uses to cover his barrel of mash.
It's not quite noon on a Friday, so the mash isn't steaming yet, but bubbles occasionally form on the surface of the murky concoction. He mixed up this batch just three days ago.
By afternoon, the mash will be foamy.
Alleman is among a growing number of people quietly reviving the art of making moonshine in Acadiana. Although specialty bottles of legal moonshine are showing up on store shelves in the Lafayette area, most home distillers, like Alleman, craft their brand for themselves and their friends.
Alleman begins his mash near the end of July, when there is enough heat to ferment the mash and afternoon showers provide Alleman with the key ingredient for his moonshine whiskey: rainwater.
"That's the ticket, rainwater," Alleman says. "It don't have the chlorine like the city water does. It makes better 'shine."
To begin a batch of his corn whiskey, Alleman mixes 25 pounds of cracked corn, 100 pounds of sugar and 55 gallons of rainwater together to create a mash.
It takes about eight days for the mash to ferment, depending on the weather. The warmer, the better.
Once or twice a day, Alleman drops by the moonshine camp 2 miles from his house to stir the mash and see how it is fermenting.
"You wouldn't think that the muddy water, that dirty water, would create whiskey," Alleman says as he stirs the mash.
Nearby, Alleman keeps the stainless steel milk jug that his father used to transfer the mash in small batches to his copper still years ago.
The antique still that belonged to Alleman's father, along with other family relics, can now be found on exhibit in the Bayou Teche Museum in New Iberia.
"We think it's a good thing," Alleman says. "My dad lives every day."
After his mixture has fermented for 10 days, it is time to cook it.
Alleman begins at 7:15 a.m. Friday, pumping liquid from the barrel into his 60-gallon stainless steel, propane-heated still.
It takes nearly two hours for the liquid to heat to 150 degrees. That's when the first bit of alcohol begins to vaporize into a 30-foot copper tube, most of which is floating in a barrel of cold water.
As vapors travel through the tube, they cool down, return to liquid form and drip out of the tube into an empty 5-gallon water bottle.
The first few minutes of the drip produce methanol, which vaporizes at a lower temperature than ethanol and can be toxic. Alleman throws it out.
Soon, the slow drip turns to a steady stream, getting less cloudy with each passing minute.
Once the still reaches 180 degrees, the alcohol pouring out from the copper tube is safe to drink. Alleman proves it by taking a swig from the copper tube's steady stream.
"I like my whiskey just like Crown Royal," Alleman says. "Forty percent alcohol in 80 proof."
He tests the alcohol with a hydrometer. It shows that his moonshine is right at 40 percent alcohol.
As the still reaches 190 degrees, he cuts down the propane and uses a large wrench to tighten the cap of the still, where a small amount of alcohol is leaking.
As the process continues, Alleman has to cool down the rapidly-warming barrel of water with fresh water from a nearby hose.
He keeps up the cooling process and switches out the 5-gallon water bottle with a new one. Once the second bottle is almost half full, the distillation is complete.
Alleman transfers his clear alcohol into a 25-gallon oak barrel, where he lets it age for a year and a half. The following Christmas, he gives away golden brown whiskey.
A 55-gallon batch of mash produces only 7 gallons of moonshine.
"I could brew it 10 gallons but it wouldn't be potent," Alleman says. "And we want some potent stuff."
Alleman didn't begin making moonshine until after his father died May 2009. It's something he has done each summer since.
He does it with the hope that it will bring joy to the lives of others, much in the way his father's 'shine did.
"I'll never forget what my daddy said," Alleman said through tears. "He said, 'Don't ever forget: It's not what you bring in this world. It's what you're going to leave behind.' I never could understand what he was talking about."
Some of Alleman's most vivid childhood memories come from watching his father and great-grandfather make moonshine.
Alleman recalls through hearty laughter the time he, at 9 years old, watched his father, Bernard Alleman, dig up a 25-gallon barrel of aging whiskey.
"I'll never forget this as long as I live," Alleman said. "My dad dug it. He took his barrel out and the barrel exploded when it hit the sunlight. And my poor dad was so upset he lost 25 gallons of whiskey. And poor thing, I can still see him running, trying to get what he could get. That was his best 'shine."
Although Alleman only ages his whiskey for about 17 months, his father aged his for 12 years in old Jack Daniels oak barrels. He also added dried peaches to his mash, for a unique flavor.
His father sold his whiskey to many lawyers and judges in south Louisiana, but his father's profits didn't compare to his great-grandfather's, Alleman said.
By horseback, his great-grandfather, Bernard Bourque, would ride to Opelousas, where he sold his moonshine to prominent men in the area. It took him one day to ride to Opelousas, one day to sell his moonshine and gamble for new property and one day to ride back to New Iberia, Alleman said.
"Now he was bootlegging to make the money," Alleman said. "He was really sneaky. He was land rich."
When questioned about the legality of his home distillation, Alleman says he has no criminal intent.
"I'm not doing it for the money," Alleman said. "I'm doing it for the goodness of the gift to somebody so they can enjoy themselves.
"It's to keep the tradition alive for my dad because he enjoyed making it so much."
Even if solely for personal consumption, moonshine making is technically against federal law, but agencies rarely mess with small-scale home operations. Local law enforcement officials say the operations don't violate state law.
While making his annual batch of moonshine at his camp, Alleman remembers those who practiced the craft before him in their own camps.
He remembers the tales his great-grandfather told and how much the community loved his dad's aged whiskey.
"They really miss him now," Alleman said.
Four years ago as Alleman brought his father to his grave by horseback, he caught a glimpse of a photographer shooting photos of the procession from a tree.
During the ceremony, Alleman watched as grown men shed tears over the loss of his dad.
It was that moment when Alleman realized that the man who always kept his word to his son had done the same to countless others in the community.
"And that's what my daddy means. 'It's not what you bring in this world. It's what you left behind,'" Alleman said through tears. "And that's the reason I'm doing it."