Calendars, evidence, and the difference between done and stuck
I expected my pear wine to spend two to three weeks in primary fermentation.
It spent nineteen days. The yeast went in on September 23, and on October 12 I siphoned the wine off its sediment and into a glass carboy.
So the calendar was right. That still isn’t why I moved it.
What the calendar is for
Every fermentation recipe comes with time estimates. Primary takes one to three weeks. Secondary takes a few more. Bulk age for a few months. Those numbers aren’t wrong. They’re averages across a lot of batches, and they’re useful for exactly one thing: planning. They tell you when to have a clean carboy ready, when to clear some space, when to stop making weekend plans.
What they can’t do is tell you that this batch is ready. Yeast doesn’t read recipes. It works at a speed set by temperature, sugar, nutrients, acidity, the particular strain, and the particular fruit, none of which the recipe author has ever met.
So the recipe gives you a forecast, and the fermentation gives you evidence. Only one of those gets to move the wine. If they happen to agree, as they did this time, that’s a pleasant coincidence, not an authorization.
The rule winemakers actually use
The traditional test for “primary is done, time to rack” is simple: take readings over several days, and when you get the same reading three times running, fermentation has finished.
What I like about that rule is what it isn’t. It isn’t a date. It also isn’t a single reading, because one measurement tells you where the fermentation is, not whether it’s still moving. It’s evidence sustained over a window. Time is part of the test, but only as the space in which the evidence has to hold still.
Here’s what the pear’s refractometer readings actually looked like:
| Date | Raw Brix |
|---|---|
| Sep 23 | 12.9 (before the yeast) |
| Sep 25 | 6.0 |
| Sep 30 | 6.0 |
| Oct 2 | 5.7 |
| Oct 4 | 5.6 |
| Oct 7 | 5.6 |
| Oct 10 | 5.6 |
| Oct 11 | 5.6 |
| Oct 12 | 5.6 |
Two things in that table are worth a closer look.
First, the early plateau. Most of the sugar was gone within two days, and then the reading sat at exactly 6.0 for five days. If I’d been looking for stillness and nothing else, that looked a lot like the end. It wasn’t. The fermentation was slowing down, not stopping, and over the next week it crept down further before it finally held. Two matching readings were a pause, not a verdict, which is precisely why the rule asks for three.
Second, I didn’t stop at three. By October 10 I had three consecutive readings at 5.6, which satisfies the rule. I kept reading anyway, and waited until five readings across eight days agreed.
Then the racking itself handed me one more piece of evidence. There was more wine in the primary fermenter than the glass carboy could hold. Rather than pour the extra down the drain, I filled a hydrometer jar with it: a completely different instrument, measuring a completely different physical property. The refractometer, once corrected for alcohol, put the wine at about 1.004. The hydrometer said 1.002. Two independent instruments, close enough to agree, and the second one confirmed that the correction formula I’d been trusting for three weeks was doing its job.
I like that this happened by accident, because it isn’t really an accident. A hydrometer needs a large sample, which in a one-gallon batch is too expensive to take routinely. At the moment of a transition, when wine is being moved anyway, that same sample costs nothing. The transition is when the more trustworthy evidence becomes cheap.
None of that is the calendar talking. That’s a guard, and it was satisfied before the wine moved.
Status is a column anyone can write
In a lot of systems, state is a string in a database, and a transition is an UPDATE statement.
UPDATE orders SET status = 'shipped' WHERE id = 4417;
Nothing in that statement requires that anything was shipped. It’s a label, and anyone with write access can apply it for any reason: a cron job that marks orders shipped two days after payment because that’s usually true, a release train that promotes whatever’s on the branch because it’s Tuesday, a support tool that flips a flag to make a ticket go away.
Each of these is the software version of racking the wine because the recipe said two to three weeks. Most of the time it’ll even be right, just as my calendar was. The transition happens on schedule, the dashboard updates, and the system now asserts a state that nobody verified.
The fix isn’t elaborate. A transition should have a guard, a condition that has to be true, based on evidence, before the state can change. “Shipped” should require a carrier scan. “Released” should require the checks that define releasable. “Primary complete” should require stable readings. The state machine’s job is to refuse the transition when the evidence isn’t there, however much the calendar insists, and to keep refusing even on the days the calendar happens to be right.
Same evidence, two states
Here’s where it gets interesting. “Three consistent readings” is the signal for done. But a fermentation that has stalled also produces three consistent readings.
Mead is notorious for this. Honey has very little natural buffering, so as fermentation proceeds the pH drifts down, and past a certain point the yeast slows or quits entirely, often well short of dry. From the refractometer’s point of view, a stuck mead and a finished mead look exactly the same: a number that has stopped moving.
My fireweed mead is a few days from that question right now. Its pH started at 3.5 and dropped to 3.1 within the first four days, where it has mostly stayed. Here are its last few readings:
| Date | Raw Brix | Corrected Brix | Estimated ABV |
|---|---|---|---|
| Oct 7 | 11.8 | 4.3 | 10.4% |
| Oct 10 | 9.0 | -0.3 | 12.8% |
| Oct 11 | 8.6 | -1.0 | 13.1% |
| Oct 12 | 8.4 | -1.3 | 13.3% |
Look at the corrected column. The calculator now claims the mead contains less than no sugar, which is impossible. That’s a model being pushed past the range it was built for, and it’s a nice reminder that a derived number can confidently assert something no physical system can be. If my guard were “corrected Brix at or below zero,” I’d have racked the mead two days ago.
The raw readings tell a different story: they’re still falling, slowly. The mead isn’t still yet, so the guard isn’t satisfied, no matter what the corrected number says. And when it does go still, the question becomes where. The yeast I used, 71B, is generally rated to tolerate around 14% alcohol, and the estimate is already over 13%. A mead that stops near its yeast’s limit with the sugar it was expected to consume gone is probably done. One that stops early, with sugar left over and the pH low, is probably stuck.
The mead has already taught me this lesson once, in miniature. Mead yeast needs nutrients added in stages early on, and the textbook guidance ties the last addition to the “one-third sugar break,” the point where about a third of the sugar has been consumed. I scheduled my three additions by day instead. As it happened, the last one landed right around the sugar break anyway. Sometimes luck happens. But luck is exactly what it was: the schedule didn’t know where the sugar was, and if the mead had been a few days slower, the same calendar would have fed it at the wrong time.
In other words, the guard for “done” can’t just be “stable.” It has to be “stable where a finished fermentation should be,” which means the guard needs a model of the expected end state, not just a test for motion. And it needs to know which of its inputs to trust when they disagree.
Software has the same ambiguity everywhere. A batch job whose progress counter hasn’t moved in an hour has either finished or hung. A queue depth sitting at zero means either everything was processed or the consumer died. A replication lag of zero might mean the replica is caught up, or that it stopped receiving anything to lag behind. In every case, “nothing is changing” is evidence consistent with two opposite states, and a transition that only checks for stillness will eventually pick the wrong one.
A transition is an event with a receipt
The row in my pear log for October 12 reads, in effect: 11:10 a.m., 5.6 Brix, hydrometer 1.002, moved to glass carboy. The transition and the evidence that justified it are on the same line.
That matters more than the new status. Months from now, if the wine turns out strange, “racked on October 12” tells me almost nothing. “Racked after five stable readings, confirmed by a second instrument” tells me what I believed, what I based it on, and whether I might have been fooled by a stall.
Systems benefit from the same habit. A state change shouldn’t just overwrite the previous state. It should be recorded as an event: what the state was, what it became, what evidence satisfied the guard, and who or what made the call. Then the current state is something you can explain, not just something you can read. When “shipped” turns out to be wrong, you can see whether the guard was bad, the evidence was bad, or the guard was never checked at all.
What time is actually allowed to do
None of this means time is irrelevant. It plays three legitimate roles, and it’s worth keeping them straight.
Time can permit a transition. Some transitions shouldn’t happen before a minimum interval no matter what the evidence says, like a waiting period before a refund clears, or a wine that needs some minimum aging before bottling. Here time is a precondition alongside the evidence, not a replacement for it.
Time can create the conditions for evidence. The three-readings rule only works because readings are spread over days. Stability over a window requires a window. The pear’s false plateau is exactly why: two readings five days apart looked still, and only more time showed they weren’t.
Time can raise a question. If a fermentation hasn’t finished long after it should have, that’s worth investigating. But notice what the timeout actually tells you: something is unusual. It doesn’t tell you the batch is done, and it doesn’t tell you the batch has failed.
That last one is where software most often goes wrong. Timeouts routinely get wired straight to a terminal state: no response in thirty seconds means failed, no update in three days means complete. A timeout is legitimate evidence that you need to look. It is rarely evidence of what you’ll find when you do. A timeout should produce a question, not an answer.
What time shouldn’t do, on its own, is cause a transition. Nineteen days arriving was not a fact about the pear wine.
Guarding your transitions
Treat schedules as forecasts. Plan with them. Don’t let them move state, even when they’re right.
Put a guard on every transition that matters. If a state can be reached by writing a string, eventually it will be reached for the wrong reason.
Test for the expected end state, not just stillness. Stable and finished are different claims. A guard that can’t tell them apart will someday declare a stall a success.
Know which evidence to trust when it disagrees. A derived value can be confidently impossible. Raw observations and independent instruments are how you catch it.
Record the evidence with the transition. The new state is the conclusion. Keep the reasons next to it.
Let timeouts ask, not answer. Route them to “needs attention,” not to “done” or “failed.”
The pear is in its carboy now, clearing slowly. October 12 was the day it moved. It happened to be a Monday. That wasn’t the reason either.
