Check out my earlier post (as well as the comments) on vinegar-making for helpful tips and informative web links.

I didn’t know how to tell you, so I’ve put off this post for some time. I killed my vinegar mother—the gelatinous substance that turns wine into vinegar. Over a year ago I acquired a mother from Jackie Dill, the self-sufficient, wise wildcrafter of Coyle, OK. And since I was so grateful that Jackie shared her mother with me, I’ve felt guilty about wasting it.

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My basic understanding of the vinegar-making process is this: a mother is the name for the bacteria that develops on fermented liquid. She eats up the alcohol and creates acid. This could happen just by ignoring an open container of wine for weeks or months, until the right wild bacteria finds the wine—same concept as sourdough yeasts and the open fermentation of beer. Maybe this bacteria is more prevalent in certain geographic areas? I’m not sure. Regardless, you can speed up the process by buying or acquiring a vinegar mother like I did. The mother is put in a glass or ceramic container or an oak barrel and is fed a diet of red or white wine. You need to pick which wine you’re going with and stick with only that type. You can keep her alive indefinitely by feeding her alcohol.

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There seems to be two main approaches to feeding the mother: 1) add a glug of wine to your mother every day or so or 2) add a bottle at once and let the mother do its thing. I chose the latter and ignored the mother to a fault. I have to admit—I was intimidated by this whole process, which is, I think, why I neglected/forgot about the hungry, vinegar-making blob at the back of my pantry. I basically starved her to death since she eventually ate all the alcohol and I didn’t give her any more. Although I killed the mother, I was still able to get some delicious red wine vinegar out of the experiment.
My first try at vinegar making has been an education I hope to build on once I get another mother.

The vinegar mother that I got from Jackie Dill. It came in pear wine vinegar.

I strained and reserved the pear wine vinegar so I could use the mother to start my red wine vinegar. I covered the container opening with cheesecloth and slid it to the back of the pantry. Instead of fearing and ignoring the vinegar for 9 months, I should have tasted the liquid every couple of weeks to check its progress.

Out of sight, out of mind. Nine months later I finally strained the mother out and pasteurized the vinegar. In retrospect, it was hasty to assume the mother was dead. I should have tried to keep her going by adding more wine.

My vinegar-loving friend Nicole and I had a taste test between my store-bought and homemade red wine vinegar. As you can see, the homemade vinegar is much deeper in color and body. Its taste is rich and mellow compared to the store-bought vinegar, which makes my eyes water and my mouth pucker.

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If you’re interested in learning more, these websites are helpful:
http://www.gangofpour.com/diversions/vinegar/vinegar1.html
http://www.foodandwine.com/articles/the-virtue-of-homemade-vinegar
http://chefsblade.monster.com/training/articles/782-making-vinegar-with-a-mothers-love
http://www.squidoo.com/Vinegar_Starter_Culture

Photo by dhamzza

The corned beef recipe from Charcuterie was creating lots of chatter on the Oklahoma Food Cooperative listserv, so I thought to give it a try. The timing worked out perfectly—we got to enjoy it just in time for a circa-St. Patty’s supper.

Corned beef has nothing to do with corn…unless you’re using feedlot beef. “Corned” instead refers to the “corns” or grains of salt used to cure the meat. Since my first experience with corned beef, I was under the impression corn was somehow involved.  I was as a teenager working in a grocery store. We were trying to be snazzy like the big grocery chains and had people handing out samples on Saturdays. The butcher had his tray of corned beef: thinly sliced, pink, salty. It was mysterious and it was good.

Corned beef is incredibly easy: the brine and stove top do all the work. The most difficult part is acquiring the spices for this particular recipe. At the recommendation of a fellow co-op member, I used Butcher & Packer to order the allspice berries, mace, and pink salt. The brisket marinates in pickling brine in the refrigerator for 5 days. Then you rinse of the meat, cover it with fresh water, add more pickling spice, and simmer for 4 or so hours. The result is tender, shredded, flavor-packed succulence. It disappeared quickly, along with the potato and cabbage bake, Irish brown soda bread, Guinness and homebrew. Sláinte!

Here’s another blogger’s documentation of the corned beef process, along with the recipe. I’ll be making it again soon with a bison brisket I’m getting in this month’s co-op order. Why not? It’s such an easy, flavorful dish that two people can  eat on for several days.

Corned beef pickling spices: coriander seeds and peppercorns, cloves, mace and ginger, red pepper flakes, cinnamon, allspice berries, bay leaves, and mustard seeds.

It looks so bland, but it’s anything but.

Today I learned about COOP Ale Works, a microbrewery in Oklahoma City. They are located next to the 51st Street Speakeasy at 51st and Western. From what I’ve gathered, because of Oklahoma’s screwy laws and such, the brewery is classified only as a distributor—not a distributor/retailer. Lemons? Make lemonade. They’ve partnered with the Speakeasy to do tastings. The plan is to do tours on Saturdays and send people over to the pub to drink, eat, and enjoy the patio. Love it.

After work, Matt and I went to the Speakeasy to quench our thirst. We both tried the Native Amber. It’s great. I love Belgian brews (our dogs names are Chimay and Abbey), so I’m looking forward to returning to try the DNR and tour the brewery. COOP seems pretty cool all around: the beer is great; they’re working to reduce their carbon footprint by using energy efficient technology, as well as sourcing local ingredients; and they seem like a neat group of passionate guys fulfilling a dream.

And so far it seems the brewery business isn’t being affected (much) by the quagmire that is our economy. Cheers!

Pumpkin Alfredo
The Gardeners’ Community Cookbook
:: 1.5 c cooked pumpkin or other winter squash
:: 8 T butter
:: 1 shallot, minced
:: 1 small leek, trimmed, halved lengthwise, thinly sliced
:: 1/2 c chicken broth (substitute veggie broth for a vegetarian recipe)
:: 1.5 c cream
:: 1/2 c white wine
:: 1 T fresh lemon juice
:: 1/2 c cream cheese
:: 2 T chopped fresh sage
:: 1/2 t chopped fresh thyme, or 1/4 t dried thyme
:: 1/8 t ground nutmeg
:: 1/2 t white pepper
:: 1 t salt
:: 1 T brandy

1. Mash the pumpkin pulp in a food processor or with a fork and set aside.

2. Melt the butter in a large pot. Add the shallot and leek and sauté over medium-high heat until wilted, 2 to 3 minutes. Whisk in the broth, cream, wine, and lemon juice. Bring to a boil and cook over high heat for 2 to 3 minutes, until slightly thickened.

3. Add the cream cheese, sage, thyme, nutmeg, pepper, salt, brandy, and pumpkin purée. Bring to a boil, whisking to smooth, and remove from heat.

I read Real Food by Nina Planck several months (maybe even a year) ago. It’s like In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan, but more simplistic. Both have their merits, but I took away more from Real Food probably because it was easier to digest. Though, In Defense of Food may go further in convincing any skeptics that low-fat is a bunch of bologna.

Back to lard: In Planck’s book, she talks about fatty acids, raw milk, real meat, and all sorts of interesting stuff. She raves about coconut oil, which I haven’t yet tried. She also lauds lard. Surprisingly, lard seemed more accessible to me because it doesn’t impart any porky flavor, while coconut oil may be more limiting as a cooking fat because of the flavor. Plus, it seems lard is the key ingredient for delicious baking, refried beans, tortillas, fried chicken—decidedly awesome things to have in my culinary arsenal.

I bought some pig fat from Rowdy Stickhorse and stored it in the freezer until one brave weekend when our friends, Chelsey and Jeff, visited. Matt and Jeff bottled beer. Chelsey and I rendered lard (we also made pasta, but that’s another post).

It’s a simple process that I managed to screw up. You just put the cubed pig fat into a dutch oven with 1/2 cup or so of water. Cook it on the stove top over medium low until it is fully melted (rendered) and the cracklings float to the bottom. Apparently lard can burn very easily. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention. I had to transfer the lard to a different burner, so, to compensate, I cranked up the heat on the new burner. Once it started smelling bad, I realized what happened and turned down the heat. After the render was complete, we tested the cracklings. Hopes were high from the inspiring and beautiful blog entry on Homesick Texan, but the cracklings tasted like charred bacon. That was the first clue that the lard experiment was not successful. The second clue was the color. Rendered lard is supposed to be white. Ours was a caramel color. Clue #3: Chelsey took some home and made a pie crust. It stunk up the house and the crust tasted foul. Bummer! But we won’t be deterred! I’m ordering more pork fat in December’s co-op order.

Chelsey slicing the lard. According to Wikipedia, pork fat can be called lard in both its rendered and raw forms.

We’ll know if the guys were successful in a few weeks when we get to taste the beer.

Last night we had supper at The Local.
A passerby told me it was a 1959 or ’60 El Camino, el-el-cam-in-o. The drinking hole is cute, though the trash cans are an eyesore in this photo.

And drink local, we did. I had a Green Flash West Coast IPA, which was mellow at first, then followed by distinct, almost 7-UP-like citrus notes; it was yummy, refreshing, and like no other beer I’ve had. Then I had a more conventional Stone Pale Ale. Matt had a Karl Strauss Red Trolley Ale and a AleSmith IPA. I’m sure there will be more where that came from.

Lobster and fish tacos with a spicy cream sauce and plenty of cilantro.

And the pizza was good. We got the Italian Stallion, which had Italian sausage, fennel, red wine tomato sauce, and probably other ingredients I can’t remember. I don’t know why, since there was plenty of cheese, but there was no goo-factor. It was a fresh-feeling pizza; not one that bogs you down. Don’t get me wrong, I like gooey cheese, but this type is good, too. Especially when you have a full night ahead of you.

They serve Choc, which is nice, but we opted for Flying Dog lager from Denver. It’d be nice if they got some local wines. All the prep is done in the dining room and it’s cool to watch the dude sliding the pies in the brick oven.

One gripe: the staff loiters.

It dawned on my why the sauce is so runny! I used the wrong type of tomato. Sometimes I think I am inexplicably wise and dismiss instructions because (in the zeal of the moment) I doubt they are founded on anything besides mere preference. Ah, foolish confidence!

Well, here I am a complete novice food preserver, and I decide to use the generic, red, round tomato since that was all that was available through the Co-op. Had I opted for a paste tomato, such as a Roma, my virgin tomato sauce would be just that—a sauce, rather than a soup!

So, instead, I add a little canned tomato paste to my too-runny sauce and make do. The pizza was delicious along with the red wine we picked up at the Summerside Winery on our way home from Missouri over Thanksgiving. We tasted several types, but the Route 66 Red was our favorite.