the dopo on adesso

Dude. Version 3.0 of my wood fired oven. I finished it the previous week and gave it a test with some pizzas. Bottoms cooked up nice, but the oven wasn't hot enough. This time, I've hopefully learned a bit. The fire had been roaring for a few hours and my backyard was looking just right in the late afternoon light. Right for some more experiments with sourdough pizza topped with yard gatherings and local charcuterie, baked in a handmade brick oven.

Hmm? What was that about local charcuterie? Well let me tell you about something special. How about local hog and sun dried gypsy peppers (Riverdog Farms), with no added nitrates all tenderly crafted by the folks at Dopo Adesso. Try a "Zingaro" from the newest stand at the Saturday Berkeley Farmers' Market. Come on down and check them out. They had a crazy line-up of salami and paté, rillete and countless other derivations of porky goodness. Oh and get there early. On their first day at the market, they sold out.

Oh yeah, back to the wood fired pizza. Lets see. Two day fermented sourdough with a pesto sauce. Mozzarella and caramelized onions. Mushrooms, arugula and sliced zingaro. Holy flargin' cow I was drooling so hard in anticipation. If only I could cook these without burning the shit out of myself turning them in a 700 degree oven with a tiny handled spatula and gardening gloves. Well, see now, the homebrew is for a good reason I guess.

The first round of pizzas cooked up in about 4 minutes. I was pleased with the results and my sister and I horked down the first round of personal sized pies in about ten minutes. Noticing I still had homebrew left, and that the oven was still hot as be'jeebus, I thought I should take the opportunity to learn a bit more. I went back in, threw together two more pies and continued testing the bounds of my little brick and cob fire chamber.

Was I happy I continued baking pies. The next few took around 5 or 6 minutes to cook and baked up more evenly. They were crispy on the bottom, with fluffy crust and crisped toppings. I was so pleased with myself that I brought them inside, and despite feeling stuffed already, ate half of each, washing it down with that delicious and morally supportive homebrew.....

sourdough blonde

(Note: Since we are in the month of Fermentuary, I thought I would keep blabbing on about some fermented drink experiments I've been up to. Now, you may be thinking: what about the bread? Well, read on.)

If I could write the sound of the most diabolical laugh you can imagine, it would go right here: ______

Then I would tell you that I made a beer with my sourdough starter. Yup, beer. Sourdough beer. Mind you, it doesn't taste sour, and there was no flour involved, but the yeast came from the starter. Sourdough can do anything.

A few months back I brewed a 1 and 1/2 gallon batch of beer and put about 1/3 of it into a sterilized glass milk bottle. (The rest of the beer went into the fruity dregs of the wild mead and became something else entirely, but I'll get there another day.) I added a few tablespoons of the clear hooch from the top of my starter. I'd read there should be plenty of yeast in this. I went for the clearest stuff, hoping to minimize adding any flour component and making it too cloudy. I shook everything rather crazily for a few minutes to aerate it, then put an airlock on the bottle and kept it in a warmish place. It bubbled gently for near a month or so, and when I finally saw no more activity, I bottled it, adding a pinch of sugar for carbonation. It was only 4 - 12 ounce bottles when all was done, of a beer that must be somewhere around 5% alcohol. It looked real promising and smelled even better.

The other day, I cracked one open. (Again, please, insert diabolical laugh here.) Oh my lord, this came from sourdough? It made me wonder. Why does this remind me of Anchor Steam? I took another sip. Not nearly as hoppy. In fact, definitely a different kind of hop. But still. I had used a pilsner base malt, in extract form, with no caramelized grains to give it that malty backbone. Basically, my recipe should not give me anything like Anchor. But still.

A few more sips later, it hit me. It was the yeast. In beer, yeast is king. Use a bad one, and it will taste like crap. (Okay, so this is a hugely subjective statement, but you get my drift.) Yeast imparts enormous flavor to a beer, and this one tastes a lot like a Cal Common should. Huh. Then I wondered. Is there a yeasty lineage between bay area sourdough and this local brewing yeast? Well, my beer tells me so. I know, not a huge stretch of the imagination there if you have ever heard about the relationship between breweries and bakeries that have existed for umpteen thousand years. But still. Could Anchor have a unique taste just like bay area sourdoughs do, and for the same reason?

Would you ever have guessed that you could brew a beer with the yeast from a sourdough starter? How about that it might actually taste good? Well, then help me out here. Got any friends with the means to start looking at individual strains of yeast? Let's talk.

Well, after I finish my beer.

preserve-a-holic

Ever gone and picked your own fruit at the farm? It can be an immensely rewarding experience. You see where the food comes from, get a discount per pound, and pick fruit riper than you will find anywhere.

Our first u-pick of the year was cherries. For me, cherries are one of those fruits that I just can't help myself with. Heaven with a pit. I can easily eat a pound a day without too much intestinal distress. Luckily the season is short or someday I'd go bankrupt because of this behavior, that I am sure of. However, this shortness of availability got us thinking about doing some preservation this year. So we started by hitting a farm in Brentwood where you go pick-'em yourself. There were 5 pickers and we hit 13 pounds in no time.

Our allotment was gorged on during the ride home and what was left we washed, pitted and began drying. Beginning with at least 1/400th of a ton, the resulting bag was puny and a bit depressing to behold. Hmmm, maybe next time we'll buy the dried cherries. Don't get me wrong, these are the tastiest dried cherries I think I've ever had, but the time involved in producing them is maddening. How much you ask? Go ahead and give it a try!

But there is a bright side. One of those hair-brained ideas hit me and it worked out for the better. You see, last year I ran a few brewing experiments with fruit in a porter. Blackberry and peach it was. Both turned out nice, but the blackberry was the winner. This year I thought hey, I can do a porter with cherries! Only, because I wasn't sure whether to do it with dried or wet cherries, I just had to get scientific about it, and do both. Mmmmm, beer and science. No wait, cherries, beer and science. Now we're talking! Man, I love experimenting with brewing alcohol! So when a batch of high gravity porter that was already under experimentation finished fermenting, I pulled some out of the big carboy and put a few gallons on fresh pitted cherries, and another gallon on dried pitted cherries. After a few weeks with the fruit re-fermenting, the whole lot was bottled and ready for conditioning.

When we finally sampled the porter it was a hit. Nice and roasty, malty indeed, belgian yeasty, and really dark. Then we tried the cherry versions........
Wow!
Kazam!
Why the hell aren't more people doing Belgian style cherry porters?
Beats me. I guess I'll be pondering that one as I empty each bottle.

The cherries added a nice red hue to an already almost black beer. It made me think trappist. The flavor is subtle, but there. It helps knowing what it is though. I think the dried version has a touch more fruit in the nose. This picture sucks, so please trust me, this was one pretty beer. And I tell you (h)what: this beer is good!

Oh, and did I ever mention I used to want to be a monk?

With all the cherry success, we moved onto blueberries. We didn't pick any though. Wanted to but didn't research a place. We didn't dry any, but many fresh handfuls and loads of jam came from the bounty. Then a friend, intuiting our need to pick berries told us about a place to pick your own olallieberries. Or as I like to spell them Ol'-la-la-berries.

We ventured down the San Mateo County coast to a farm on top of a bluff next to the beach. Acres and acres of berries awaited us. Like the cherries, if you picked ten pounds or more, the bulk rate was 2 bucks a pound. Good thing, because we brought willing fingers and hungry mouths. We even managed to not get eaten alive by all the spiders that were protecting the vines. Perhaps the froggy boots scared the helpful vine dwellers away. (I need to get me a pair of those.) The sun broke, we filled our box nearly half way and then made our way back to the scales. We hit near 12 pounds and called it a day.

Back at the monkey ranch we enlisted the help of the big momma jam queen. She busted out two batches, a pie, and had some left over to give a few away. In the name of science I had to try an olallieberry next to a blackberry. We have some blackberries out back so I went and collected a few from the rampant growth on our shed. Side by side, the raspberry component of the ol' la-la berry was very noticeable. I smiled thinking of how the jamming and baking occurred within twelve hours of the berries being picked, so to say we preserved our fruit at the peak of ripeness would be rather accurate. It was, however, bedtime when the pie was coming out of the oven. Since ol' la-la berry flavored napalm inside an all butter crust, right before hitting the sheets ain't our idea of a night cap, the pie sat out on the counter for a long cooling rest.

The next morning the pie stared up at me, looking all delicious. I got out a few bowls and started to savor the moment, thinking that this will be a highlight to remember, one representing a moment that will likely never be forgotten. One that you truly love being a parent for.
"Hey kids, guess what?"
"Are we going to the zoo daddy?"
"Well, no, uh......even better. I hope." (I murmur)
"We're going to Disneyland?"
"No, we're not going anywhere sweetie. I'm talking about breakfast. You see, this morning we are going to have pie for breakfast!"
"Pie?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because Mommy made one last night, and it's not gonna get any better. That, and it's filled with fresh fruit that is good for you. In fact, it has berries that you picked in it!"
I look down at the monkeys and see dual looks of bewilderment. The older, her face a bit contorted with trying to think exactly what she is doing this very moment to deserve this occasion and therefore how she can possibly duplicate it in the future, while the younger is more primal, thinking with his belly and pointing to his chair, saying "ha-da, ha-da!" in anticipation of a bite of the pie on the counter that he can surely smell a thousand times better than I can.
I serve up and we scarf down.
This pie was killer.
Thank you honey. (Big momma jam queen.)
Did I say I wanted to be a monk once? Because, I have the best wife ever, so like, no way.

Preservation aside, this was at least inspired by it in a round about way. The day after the picked and purchased berry rush, I just had to make something with the remaining quark I had. Thinking of the blackberries in the yard I got down to work. The recipe was identical to a previous effort, except for the fruit. These were no farm berries, but with regard to ripe fruit and freshness preserved, I didn't have to drive anywhere, which is always good. At most, within 10 minutes these berries were mixed in the pan and being slid into an oven. Ol' la-la berries may be simply divine and preserved in jam to enjoy later, but blackberries are growing wild nearly everywhere and are free.

It's summer and the fruit is popping! Get out there and preserve something!

shark food

This past Wednesday evening, elder monkey and I attended a San Jose Sharks hockey game. She'd been to two before, but was on our laps at the time. This was her first time that she remembered. The two of us drove on down to San Jose in good time with no traffic and parked way out in the free zone. She's a little hiker and we hoofed it quickly, pretending we would "chase" various groups of people. Before we knew it we were at the gates with our tickets, pack full of treats, but most importantly "Sharkie" in hand.
She takes a look at the hundreds of folks milling about.
"What are all these people here for daddy?"
"To see the Sharks hockey game honey, just like us."
"Wow, this must be one big shark tank!"
"Well, that's just what they call it hon, but really the only sharks in it are the hockey players."
"Yeah, and my Sharkie!"
"Yup, and your Sharkie honey. And lots of others. In fact, look around and you tonight and you will see other people with their little sharks swimming around when the right music plays."
"I don't want my sharkie to swim around!"
"It's up to you sweetie, you'll see."
We arrive at the front of the building and que up.

Whew!
Magic Fae Fae and the baguette wrapped in a kitchen towel did their job at concealing the hooch, just as planned, allowing us safe maneuvering past the rugged security, consisting of the ticket scanner guy asking sheepishly: "oooh, hey, can I check your bag there?" I wondered if Canadian hockey arena workers made it into the american leagues as this case sounded to be.

We secured our tickets in a pocket and made our way up the stairs. It is a stroll all the way around the arena to get to our section and we pass all the concessions. Her eyes were aglow with the possibilities. She stops at the fresh popcorn.
"I think that later, I want the sweet popcorn, if we happen to find some."
Happen to find some!
My heart melts.

We find our seats and sit down for the last 5 minutes of the pre-game stuff. The monkey looks around, mouth agape at the multimedia presentation that is the NHL. When the puck hits the ice, I break out the baguette and fixin's and start constructing sammiches. Monkey wants one with cheese. I think to myself, we did it, we did! a kid who eats stinky cheese on home-made bread!

Five minutes into the game a fight breaks out that seems to last forever. Figures.
"Why are those men hitting each other?" she wonders aloud, in a voice that everyone in the section can hear I'm sure.
"Well sweetie, sometimes in hockey, when someone is angry at someone and wants to fight them, they take off their gloves and the referees lets them duke it out!"
"Oh." I can see her imagining that all she needs to do is wear gloves the next time she's around her brother and angry.
"He sweetie, don't get any ideas, you don't play hockey yet."

After finishing the first round of food and making it through the first round of high-fives with strangers during the first goal, she requests one with salmon next. Yeah, that's my kid, right there. I tear her off another hunk of bread and put some nice slices of smoked salmon in there for her. Her eyebrows nod up and down with approval and I hear a few sounds of contentment.

To celebrate the occasion, I do what hockey fans do. I have a beer. Only I remain seated and pop open the pink water bottle to drink some fine homebrew. That's right, you heard me. Snuck in homebrew. Shit, I figure, at $7.75 a pint for a beer on tap at the tank, I'll open one at home and transfer it into an unbreakable container for safe transport and "suffer" through the effects it has on the beer. Ahhhh, the tough moral decisions that one must face in this life. Good thing they go rather nicely with an IPA.

We nosh away for the rest of the period. After seeing everyone else get up and go somewhere we decide to try it ourselves, buying a bag of "confetti popcorn." She takes her first taste and makes a face.
"That one tasted like banana!"
We make it back to our seats and I make myself another sammich and polish off the beer. We witness a horrific crash behind the goalie into the boards that results in a player leaving on a stretcher with a broken leg. One of those kind of games, just filled with brawls and injuries. We get through two periods before losing all steam.
I ask her if she wants something else like a hot dog or maybe some fries.
"No."
Time to go.
"Well, let's pack up and head out sweetie."
"Wait.......daddy?"
"Yeah honey?"
"Can we wait until we see the ice cleaners one more time?"
"Sure sweetie, sure............"

After the Zambonis did their work and "everything is smooth again" we let ourselves out and began the trek back to the car. She makes it all but two of the blocks on her own. During those we look for jets landing at the airport nearby while she tells me how excited she is to be up so late to see the "golfey players." At the car we get her into jammies and start listening to the radio broadcast. In the final minute, the lead changes twice. We pull away and it's sudden death. She's talking non-stop. "Sweetie, it's after 10 o'clock, can we be quiet for just one minute and then we'll talk?"
"Okay" she manages to exhale.
10 seconds later she's out.
It's a real nail-biter.
In a shoot-out the Sharks win. I'm ten minutes from home, the monkey is asleep, jammied and smiling in her sleep. I'm one happy dad.

The next morning I reached in the pack and took out what was left of the bread. A dorsal fin it appeared. I reflected on how yummy the rye and wheat combo worked with the alder smoked salmon and ultra tasty chevre. I sliced up the remains and put it in the toaster, then got out the remainder of last night's fixin's from the fridge. I figured we could revisit our menu from the shark tank (minus the beer) and eat shark food for breakfast.





Two of my favorites on home-made sourdough baguette slices.
The SGS combo. Salmon, Goat, Sourdough.
Mmmmmmmm........shark food.

beer

Ahhhh.
My first homebrew.
At my home that is.
I cracked one open and poured myself a bit in honor of the new addition to our family. I figured he was a few days early, so why not try the beer a little early too?

You see, beer takes a certain amount of time to "condition" in the bottle, and at just under two weeks this one needed a bit more time. It was good and all, but even just a week later it's already better.

I wrote about making ginger ale a while back, but in retrospect, that was really just a dry run. No, make that wet. Whatever. What I mean is that this was my first attempt in the comfort of my own home at making an ale style beer that was from a recipe, had a more or less known alcohol content, and a preconceived notion of what it should taste like. All done with a few friends a family, under the supervision of myself. I like it that way.

With a borrowed 15 gallon pot on the stove and ingredients assembled, we got to boiling and mixing. The pot was muy enormo and nearly covered all four burners of my ancient stove. It appeared more efficient to just go with the front two, so away we went. We cracked grains, and sterilized stuff while enjoying a few rounds of......what else? Beer. You need inspiration while delving into such tasks.

The actual brewing part is much like making a gigantic cauldron of soup. Straightforward and pretty easy, with plenty of room for interpretation and lots of regional variations. Sounds to me like even a little kid could do that.

Well, really she's stirring it after the brew when it is crucial to cool the "wort" down quickly and get it bottled. Since monkey wanted to help, and there really isn't any alcohol involved yet (just boiling water, but she's pretty good around that) I figured why not. Tiny little idle hands cause trouble right?

With the wort cooled and the yeast "pitched" I transferred it to a few sterile glass carboys and brought it upstairs to place in the warmest part of the house. After a few brief hours, fermentation was going strong creating very active convection and causing copious amounts of foam to burble out. After getting the initial foamy burst on my bedroom floor, I decided it was time for the beer to sleep in the bath for the night.

The next morning it was still foaming, but not nearly as vigorously, so I cleaned out the air-lock valves and put them back on. It looked like around a gallon of beer had pumped itself out of each bottle. Note to self, plan accordingly next time and make even more.

Fast forward to two weeks later and many bottles collected, cleaned and sterilized. Now was the time to transfer the beer to bottles, adding a pinch of "priming" sugar to each and using a nifty capper.

It's the first moment of truth for the brew. You quiver and maybe even wince while cracking the seal on the carboy. You think: this for damn sure better be good and not skunky cause we cleaned everything like crazy good.

The first whif and........oh, that's good. You take a big swig while getting the siphon started for transferring to the bottles and halfway through the first, you realize that the growing warmth in your completely empty stomach is from alcohol that you made. Hell yeah!

You do a little happy dance, until you realize that it's gonna take well over an hour to let gravity do it's work. With any luck, the siphoning will have to be restarted, resulting in another gulp or two. Ah what am I talking about? I put some in a glass and we passed it around the bottling crew and agreed. It's gonna be a long few weeks until it's done.

Thank the goddess for early births, because we needed an excuse to fire up the grill, char some flesh, and crack open a bottle. Besides, Paul was having a burger thingy and I really wanted to participate, but my timing wasn't exactly great.

Wait! This just in.....maybe, maybe........oh hell, I guess not with that whole time difference and all. Damn!

Well, rest assured Paul, on the birthday of my son, while enjoying my first homebrew, I thought about you guys. I thought that you just might agree that what you need to ring in a new family member is a nice burger and a beer.

And for the record, that burger is grass fed local beef with tons of chopped onions, a few cloves of garlic and a dash of red pepper flakes, grilled up good over mesquite and served on a homemade english mufin. Served with a few Italian sausage and a salad made entirely from ingredients in my yard.

So, I might not have made the burger deadline, but I have a healthy beautiful newborn to take care of and a few more beers laying around to keep me busy. Wish me luck.