Ah ha, my bacon experiment is under way. A bit of business took me to the far side of the country for a bit, and when I had returned I found that my pork had spoiled. I did not let this deter me though, and restarted with a new set of ingredients.The wet-cure process is one in which a brine is used to remove the water from the bacon. It sounds strange that a watery mixture can be used to remove water from a subject; some sort of science is at work here that I'm not an expert of. What it also does is prevent the bacon from spoiling, killing harmful pathogens with a salty death. After much research, I decided on the most basic of brines: a litre of water to 60 g of each kosher salt and dark brown sugar. The reason for such a simple recipe is twofold. The first reason is that extravagance, in this case fancy peppers and spices and tonics added to the brine, are trivialities that need not be explored in my bacon. Undertone flavors are for the wine sniffer, not the everyman. The second is that the bacon, salt, and woodsmoke should provide the flavors I seek, and to try to cover them up does not pay them the respect due.The amount of time needed to properly wet-cure the bacon tends to vary between 3 days and two weeks. I don't plan to set a specific period; I prefer to let my instincts tell me when the curing process is complete. The temperature must be kept at or around 3 degrees. This is not a problem; I have an icebox that will do fine, but I prefer to keep it outdoors, as the weather is agreeable to these conditions.My next update for the adventure will be formidable, and a substantial bit of improvisation will be required to see its success. Do not fret, though, I will prevail. Merrye Christmas to ye all.
Some quick thoughts I had to myself after a stirring conversation with an acquaintence. A science is a record keeping of the laws of nature, in essence. It is a grouping of data points, infused with the premise that certain patterns tend to appear, given certain circumstance. The motive here is that if the pattern is known, the pattern can be predicted. The overreaching goal then is to complete the archive, to find all the patterns, and answer all the questions. One interpretation of this is that there would exist a mathematical construct that, when inserted with the proper initial conditions, would describe every single particle and energy in the universe that ever existed and ever will exist. This would include the atoms in your body, the electrical impulses in your mind, the memory of that nice day in 1972 that you though your life reached its pinnacle, the day in 2018 when you get run over by a cement mixer in Shropshire visiting your cousin. A man with a calculator could tell you your life with better detail than you could remember it and tell your fortune with explicit accuracy.At a rate of scientific progress that is faster than ever, when more technogical advances per capita than ever shower our globe in new shinies and preserve our own existence longer while simultaneously destroying it, when communication and cars and accelerated education make our lives go by so fast we can't even see it sometimes, the masterstroke of science still sounds about as wonky and nutty and as far off base as a sandwichboard toting homeless man screaming 'the end is nigh' at the top of his lungs. If God were here, He'd be an equation.
Another bleary day in western England. A land known the world over for poor outdoor environs, and it still takes me aback at how unpleasant it can be. I had an errand that needed running, less than a mile away, and yet I could not bring myself to make the walk. It was simply dreadful out, but this errand could not wait. So I put on my seaman's jumper and overcoat and climbed in the seat of my auto, my 1975 Peugeot. It had been maybe 3 or 4 weeks since I had started her up last, and even then it was only an idling to keep the engine clean. I had no idea whether or not she was fueled, but the thought of trudging about in the snow and ice forced my hand to the ignitor. She whirred a bit and fell through the cycle a few times but finally began to start and lifted the gate for the driveway and was off. The snow had not yet accumulated enough to hamper the driving, and made me second guess whether or not I couldn't just walk. The outside was cold and windy, but having a good walk every few days is immutably good for the body and mind, and I had been remiss ever since the weather turned. As time went by I felt like I had made the proper choice, and every time I slid the window down I was reminded that I am not a young man anymore and too much exposure could be fatal, or at least send me into a sputtering chill for the next several days, which is, I decided neither deserving of my intelligence or my class.Of course she had fuel in it. The engine has yet to fail me, in the 26 or 27 years I've owned it. Once I got comfortable and resigned myself to the drive I quite enjoyed it. I looked out the window as I turned from Nelson to Fairfax in Broadmead, at this little tree. The tree was a leafy one, one of those broadleaf types that I'm sure anyone else in the room would immediately be able to identify. The tree was about twenty feet tall, its bark was a light brown. It had no visible signs of abuse, be it by human or animal or insect. Its leaves were already down, and it seemed quite alone in its own world; not a single tree was anywhere else in its vicinity, only the hustle of the city. There is a rather large goings on in the area, as it is near the galleries, and so people are walking by hurredly throughout the day. Trees are obviously not self aware, but how strange it would be to exist in a world that you cannot relate to any living being you see. Nor can trees see I suppose.The remainder of the drive was uneventful, although there was a vagrant outside the store I needed to visit. The man, who introduced himself very loudly and nearly unintelligibly to the entire street corner as 'The Jigger In Charge.' He was dressed in what appeared to be a torn dress shirt with a cheaply made sweatshirt, ripped overcoat, windbreaker, and an undeterminable number of pairs of trousers. He proclaimed a number of racial slurs and various other highly exceptionable affectations about the government and, in particular, its law enforcement branch. To see such sights in my own neighborhood is disturbing, but something must be said about the dedication in this weather. I sincerely believe that even if I were a drooling lunatic I would still have the good sense to do it indoors on days like this. I, like any other time, decided not to stick aorund for the second act. He would go on to receive attention from the other passers by, anyway. I entered the store, purchased a bottle of brandy and a package of prophylactics, and went home. The entire excursion lasted about seven and a quarter minutes.
Bacon is, simply put, one of the world's most perfect foods, speaking directly toward flavour. It has a meaty, salty, smoky taste that appeals to the everyman. It should then follow that an understanding of the bacon making process is a fine thing for him to practice. It is sufficiently masculine, and the rewards are quite decadent.In my constant attempts to better myself, I will be, for the first time, preparing some of my very own bacon. I see no reason not to openly discuss the process in this forum, as it is a fairly simple one. The first step is to obtain the ingredients. Normally, pork belly is the preference, but I will be using a small batch of pork side, the kind of cut typically seen in store-bought bacon. It is less fatty, but this is a small experiment, and I see no problem using such a conventional cut.To start this occasion, and to give myself a sort of reference point and palette cleanse, I cooked up some of the raw product and ate it. Unseasoned pork is quite distasteful, mostly in that it has the approximate flavour of fried strips of shoe leather. I was not expecting much, but this might have made me physically ill to my stomach.The next step in the process is the wet-curing technique, which will imbue the bacon with its characteristic saltiness, as well as remove pesky water that makes good meat spoil. There are a number of formulations for the wet-cure, known as a brine, and I am in the process of making a decision as to what seasons and humours will bring the best out of this project. I have to say I'm quite excited about all this, and since this is my project which you are reading, you are invited to share in my excitement.
Apparently that insufferable man Roger Ebert has taken a certain Ben Stein to task for his anti-evolution movie. Read this if you enjoy someone taking a gambling analogy to the most extreme limits imaginable. From what I'm reading about it, Expelled seems like a Michael Moore style documentary, which makes me want to never see it.And you have a fine day.
It is verifiably true that today was my life's anniversary. The seventh of December, the 341st day of the standard year. The day that the womanising Max Planck discovered the law of black body radiation, initiating the study of quantum physics. The famous 'blue marble' photograph was taken from the final American flight to the moon, Apollo 17. I share birthdays with Tom Waits and Harry Chapin. Many other great things have happened that may or may not be located in an encyclopaedia entry for this date. But can being born on the same day as a certain event give one any sort of connection beyond the trivial? I suppose not. The calendar system is as arbitrary as anything. Yet it is still enjoyable to ponder such things on a day that I specially like to reserve for self upkeep and review.
I have come off a series of rather uneventful birthdays, and I have to say to a degree I enjoy making myself unavailable to well wishers. If today is my day, my one out of the year, then I would like it to be truly my own.
By half past 2 I had not really faced the day. I spent the morning and early afternoon catching up on the woes and tribulations of the economic situation courtesy of the fine people at NPR's Planet Money. It seems like the remedy for problems that originated from uncharacteristically low mortgage interest rates that facilitate the buying of unaffordable homes is to lower interest rates. It is clear that no one knows what portends the future at this point, so the roller coaster will not end any time soon. I also wanted a perspective of life that I could approach that makes me think of better times, so I picked up an old copy of short stories by the great F. Scott Fitzgerald called Flappers and Philosophers. My copy of This Side of Paradise is packed away in another property, which is what I would rather be reading, but perhaps a trip to the library would make me feel better after a gloomy beginning of the day. I'm probably the only man in the world that brings his own books to the library to read.
By 7 pm I had lost the interest to read most entirely. I came to my senses late in the afternoon and called upon a few close friends to enjoy the remaining hours of my special jour. I made a meager lunch and slowly trekked my way to a local establishment. There I made good on my promise to treat myself, on both literary and celebratory aspects. A fellow of mine had me taste some concoction that he had brewed himself, and though I find beer to be most unrefined, I told him it was a fine stock.
By the evening I had mostly regretted the previous assertions that a birthday is to be spent solely on one's self. The evening went by solidly, and it made me happy to see that others were as ready to wish me happy returns as they were to be distracted by the day to day tribulations of their own lives. Mankind, though strange and many times uncouth, is still a social beast. Time spent among friends is always important, and I can do well not to forget. I tend to get a little lost in my own habitations and fall back upon the notions that my person has risen above the needs of the gentleman. Even the most hardened cynic is sometimes ready to reevaluate his or her attitude.
Upon final reflection, my birthday was eventful in its uneventfulness. In a day I had originally intended to avoid and shy away from I now feel reinvigorated with the prospects of new days with new chances and new opportunities on which to capitalise. These difficult times call for a new breed of gentleman to overcome, and I shall be that man.
Goodness, I feel as if I slept for ages and have finally awoken to the call to update. The posts come when the mood strikes me to write, and it is embarrassing that such a long time occured between this and my last. The holiday season is upon us and I plan to trek back to the homestead to spend it with my ailing mother. She cannot even recognize me anymore, but she still enjoys the company and it warms my heart to see her in that state.I wanted today to share some of my criticism of this foolhardy waste of time, the internet, to accompany my last work which was complimentary to the excess. I have some things here in my bag that I will now take out and show you:
Twitter: In a world when we can send 175 character text messages on our mobile phones, what use is there for Twitter? This website is a redundancy in society and has found success because complete morons use it. There is nothing a twitter can do that a blog cannot. Simply put. Rest assured, if an emergency came up, this is the place you will find me.This next one is a design complaint, and applies to a number of website that I find disagreeable. It involves highly busy front pages, and its main perpetrators are magazine websites like Pitchfork, Allmusic, and PopMatters (not necessarily music magazines in particular but those three examples are the top of my mind). Also news websites such as The Huffington Post and New York Times. The theme is this 3 column format, with no preference towards any one story, but hundreds of little links to click and tabs leading to more links to click. I am supposed to look at these messes and discern real information. Physical newspapers have large headlines and magazines have a cover and sequential order of articles for a reason: Humans can only read one thing at a time. To offer us more is to offer us confusion. My old eyes cannot take it. The Drudge report is an abomination of a news aggregate, but its simple design makes it get more traffic through it than anyone here. Blogs are pretty good at this as well.Well that left me in a rather chagrined mood. Tomorrow is my birthday and perhaps I shall write some prose if the mood fits the occasion.
