Make Mead part 2

Mead Rule: 1 tea, 2 oranges per gallon.

In the previous post, we told you everything you need to know to get started making mead. Now we'll fill in some blanks, so you will understand more of what you're doing, and so you can adapt that recipe to your own tastes and style. First, about honey...

Honey is simply amazing, for many reasons. The amount of work and flight miles that bees put into every ounce is staggering. It can't spoil, all that happens is it hardens, and can be warmed to soften again. Local honey is considered by many to provide nearly magical healing and health-supporting benefits, partly because of the sampling of local pollen that is included. For the recipe we gave, we used Tupelo honey, just because we really wanted to try it, but usually we use our own locally harvested unpasteurized wildflower or clover honey. We encourage you to find your nearest apiaries and buy directly from them. You'll be getting local honey which will be a health boost for you, you'll be saving money over supermarket prices, and you'll be supporting an important local farmer.

Add yeast when it's cool enough!

As far as yeast goes, we use RedStar yeast, which is a dry wine yeast, costing pennies per packet, available at many home-brewing shops and health-food stores. RedStar makes several varieties, and we have gotten good results from the Cote des Blancs, or the Montrachet. There are many other options, just make sure not to use beer yeast or baker's yeast. Those will not be vigorous at the higher alcohol levels that you will need them for. We use one packet of dry yeast for up to three gallons, and two for up to six, the most that will fit in any of our carboys or buckets.

Wine yeast is most happy if you feed it grape juice. Since we're feeding it honey instead, we need to round out the nutrition in the must by adding a couple of things. You can buy yeast nutrients, but we like to use all natural ingredients instead. Since the two main nutrients that are missing from the yeast's diet are citric acid and tannic acid, we add citrus fruit juice and strongly steeped black tea. Our Rule of Thumb is this: for each gallon of must, add one teabag and two oranges. It really is as simple as that, and after you feel confident enough, you can certainly experiment. I have used oak bark for the tannic acid (it being locally grown), and strawberries, rose-hips, spruce tips, for the citric acid for the same reason, and you may want to use your own local alternatives.
 
The yeast will be added when you have everything stirred together, at the desired sweetness, and cooler than the mid-nineties fahrenheit. You'll keep it sealed up with a way for the gases to escape. Over several weeks, it will convert sugar and those acids to alcohol and carbon dioxide, which will be your signal about its activity. When no more bubbles occur, it's done. Just don't let the water evaporate from the bubbler. 

Some people use sulfites to stop the yeast activity. We believe that sulfites are unhealthy and prefer to let the yeast takes its natural course. The yeast will die off naturally when the alcohol is somewhere in the upper teens, +/- 17% alcohol. Then you pour it off into jugs to settle out, and bottle it when it's clear.

Reading a hydrometer for mead

You use the hydrometer to measure your mead's alcohol content. To do this you need to take two readings with it, one before you add the yeast, and one when the fermenting is all finished. There are several scales drawn on the paper inside the glass, all running vertically. You only need to read the scale that says "Potential Alcohol." To do this accurately, half-fill your column with mead that has been cooled to sixty degrees, and drop the hydrometer in. Read where the surface level comes to on the scale. That's all there is to it. Save that number, measure again when fermenting is all done, and compare the two numbers; the difference between them is your alcohol content!

Example: at the beginning, our batch measured 18.2. When it is all done, let's say it measures 2.5, that means there's a bit of honey left unused, so it's a little sweet. 18.2 minus 2.5 equals 15.7, which is the alcohol level, a bit stronger than table wine. 

Hydrometer's easy.

I like to start my mead with a potential alcohol of 17 or 18 percent. Before adding the yeast, I adjust the mix by adding water or honey so as to make it heavier or lighter, until it measures at the number that I want. If I put together everything, measure it, and it says it has a potential of 20 percent, then I add water a pint at a time because it's sweeter than I want. When I get it to measure 17 or 18 percent, that's when I stop, write it down for future reference, and get on with add the yeast and getting it into the fermenting container.  After you have some experience, and know better how dry or sweet you like your mead, you will have your own preferred starting point. 

What can we add to mead? Take chances!

What can you add to mead for flavoring? Basically, fruits, berries, and spices, all just depending on your taste. Some of my favorites have been apple (with apple pie spices), raspberry, chinese-5-spice, licorice, spiced date, pear, and blueberry. Thinking further outside the box, I've made very nice spruce tip mead, young oak leaf mead, sumac mead, maple sap mead, and then there are the braggots, which are mead that include malted barley or malt extract. Don't be shy about this, just be careful to avoid ingredients with preservatives (yeast is alive, remember), and to be aware of how much sugar is in what you're adding. Good luck, and happy meading! I'll post a part three about racking, jugging, bottling, corking, labeling, at least the way we do it here.

Make Mead, Part 1

Honey is an amazing food, and is what makes mead special

Making mead for over 25 years has been one of my greatest ongoing pleasures, and I want to show you how you can find the same satisfaction. Right away you can steep yourself in an ancient tradition, and start having your very own for the table, the fireside, gifts, or for your cellar to bring up as golden treasure years from now! Mead is a wonderful, ancient, magical beverage, essentially wine made from honey. Most people who have heard of it know it from the saga of Beowulf, and imagine mead-halls with vikings surviving winters with the comfort of vats of mead and roasting wild game. Varieties of mead have been made throughout history all over the world though. Africa, Australia, Asia...the Greeks even had a mead culture before wine caught on.

There are so many possibilities for flavors and styles that you could make a new kind of mead every year for life, and still have unexplored options. We'll show you how to begin, using the example of the Tupelo Honey Vanilla Mead that we just started. I'm very happy about this batch in particular, since it's the first time my Honey and I have made mead together! The kids were asleep, we both were coming off a long day, but we persevered, whispering instructions, trying not to bang the pots too hard, making magic by moonlight on a beautiful autumn evening in our little hollow...

Mead in the bucket, soon to be treasure in the cellar

First, let's talk about your equipment. What you need is simple and easy to find. If you have a big pot, like a canning kettle, that's perfect. A thermometer that measures from room temperature up toward boiling is helpful even though I don't recommend boiling your mead. A carboy (big glass bottle, often five gallons) or brewing bucket, with a bubbler (simple vaporlock), and a wine hydrometer, all available online and from brew-shops and health food stores all over, are the only specialty items you should have.

The bubbler is a simple tool that allows carbon monoxide to leave the fermenting container without letting air back in, by bubbling through water, either through an s-curve or out from under a little inverted plastic cup. The hydrometer is a tool that measures the specific gravity of your must (mixture that will become mead). You want to start the must at a certain level of sweetness, which means it is dense because there is honey dissolved into the water, and the hydrometer measures this accurately, at 60 degrees fahrenheit. Then, as the yeast converts the honey to alcohol, the must gets less sweet, more alcoholic, and less dense. Your hydrometer helps you know how close to finished it is, and how much alcohol you have. More on this later.

This plus water and patience makes mead!

Let's just start with the basic recipe. I can explain some of it as we go along. Here's what we used:
One gallon of Tupelo Honey, about 12 pounds.
About two and a half gallons of hot water (tap-water hot)
The juice of 7 clementines.
Three basic black teabags.
Two vanilla bean-pods.
One packet Cote des Blancs dry wine yeast.

Pour all of the honey into your pot. Then fill the honey container with hot tap-water, emptying it into the pot, twice. Next, put the three teabags into two or three cups of boiling water to steep. Squeeze the juice of the clementines (or oranges, but use five or six because they are bigger) into the pot. Cut the vanilla bean pods in half lengthwise, and scrape out all of the stuff inside with a knife, then add all of it to the pot, even the pods. (Keep out the yeast for now!) Stir until all of the honey is dissolved.

Getting the intense seeds from the vanilla pods for mead

If your water isn't hot enough, or if your honey is too solid to dissolve, you may need to heat it carefully on a stove, but don't do it if you don't need to.

If you want to keep things really basic, you are almost finished. Simply add the tea, let it cool to ninety degrees or less, and put in your carboy with the yeast, add on the bubbler, and wait. You'll make fine mead that way! If you want to fine-tune it a bit more, and have more predictable results, here's where the hydrometer comes in.

It helps to understand what's going on with the yeast. It's multiplying, living off of the honey and the nutrients provided by the citrus fruit and the tea. It's making alcohol and carbon monoxide, and the must is getting less dense (that's what the hydrometer measures), as it becomes more alcoholic. When it gets to something in the area of sixteen percent alcohol, the yeast will really be struggling. By then there will be a lot less sugar to live on, and the alcohol starts to make it hard for the yeast to live at all. It will reach a point where the yeast all dies, leaving behind a bit of unused honey and a lot of alcohol. Most wine yeast is vigorous only up to about that sixteen percent level. Bread yeast will not survive that long, which is why you won't use it to make mead.

Add oranges to mead for the citric acid, and flavor!

If you like a sweet mead, then you will want to start with something like 18-20 % "potential alcohol" on your hydrometer reading. There will be enough honey left when the yeast dies off to leave some sweetness in your mead. If you like a dry (not-sweet) mead, then you will want to start with something like 14-16 % "potential alcohol" on your hydrometer reading, or even less. To do this, you need to cool a small sample of the must to about sixty degrees, measure it in the tube that the hydrometer comes in, and add water if needed.

Harper and Honey's first batch of mead!!! <3

For example, when we made this batch, my first reading came to about 20% potential alcohol after we had cooled a quarter cup to sixty degrees and measured it. We added three cups of cold water, stirred, and measured again. We got just over 19%. Added two more cups of cold water, stirred, cooled a sample, and measured it at 18.2%. That sounded about right to us, so we stopped there. As soon as the pot had cooled to about ninety degrees, we poured it into the brew-bucket, added the yeast, and fitted the lid with a bubbler.

We'll comment on this batch as it progresses, and will follow up soon with a Part 2, some notes and observations that will fill in a lot of blanks for you, but this post should definitely get you started. Contact us with any questions, and happy meading!

Living with Your Mistakes

When I started my house, I was a rank beginner in construction. Truth be told, I had never built anything more involved than bookshelves at that point in my life. I had the great gift of an acre of land to work with, and it was a hilly acre. I read as much as I could about what I was about to undertake, and then I simply dove in. One of the first things I did, after cutting trees and pulling brush away, was to lay out the foundation of the house. This was an ark-shaped perimeter, on a hillside, with irregular bedrock just a foot or two below the surface. I worked out how to use a water level, which is made from a length of garden hose, duct tape, and a couple of two-liter soda bottles with the bottoms cut off of them, filled with water. It sounds like something that should need two people to work properly, and it is, but I did what I could with it. Alone in the woods, I laid out my best approximation of a symmetrical three-cornered foundation with two curved walls and a rise of about eleven feet from end to end.

Pouring the footing...

Later, after I had done my best with the footing, with a lot of help from friends and family, then done my best with the double-width, curved, uphill, cement block foundation, I learned that my curves, as laid out, were not exactly symmetrical. Actually I had several inches of irregularity, and I told myself that if I just built the floor, then built the cordwood walls as best I could, I would figure out what to do with the roof when I got to that point. Nobody would know the difference. 

I expect that an engineer would have done a better job of cleaning up after such a start, but I'm not an engineer. Three years later, when I was closing in on roofing over the curved end of the house, I spent many an hour sitting up there on top of the cordwood, cussin' and figurin', trying my best to make the roof look good on top of the structure that I had made. Ultimately, I would have to say that it turned out okay, but not anywhere near perfect. My placement of the piers for the floor structure brought me similar difficulties. My cabinets in the bathroom and kitchen are enough off-square that I can't possibly buy off-the-rack parts, and must fabricate every last little piece to fit.

Today I find myself reviewing past mistakes, of course wishing I hadn't made them, for sure wanting to find a good outcome anyway. The echoes of those mistakes resonate through so much of what followed, and I have to find my way through my present, all the while adjusting to the course set by what I did back in the day. 

Roofing was so complicated because of mistakes in the foundation!

By now I'm sure you have realized that I'm prone to metaphor and allegory. How does all of this apply to life in general? Well, for one, I have to accept that I laid out my house, and also my life, in a way that would cause me trouble later, and I have to deal with it as best I can. For another, if I can look at that wavy roof, and realize that it works okay, that it reflects the best that I knew how to do at the time, and believe that I truly tried to make it good in spite of a bad start, I should be able to look at other aspects of my life the same way. Sure, I should have done things differently, and I would go back and change things if I could. I can't, though, and can only do better going forward, while doing my damnedest to make better anything that I messed up on my way here.

A difference between the house and the rest of my life is that I had the best intentions when I laid out my foundation. With the rest of my life, I have to admit that selfishness and lack of consideration were a big part of where I went wrong. What can I do about this? Time will tell, but the same answer is there. I can't change the past, but I can damned well avoid making the same mistakes. I can adjust my course, and simply do everything I can to make the rest of my work, of my life, much better, not just for myself, but for those I love.

One lesson I can take from the way my foundation echoes into my roof and everything else in my house is that when you can't undo things, you can at least do everything you can to make the eventual outcome better. The first step (of many) is to realize where you went wrong, and why.

Skillet Scallops with Mead Sauce

Skillet Scallops with Mead Sauce, a side salad, and a glass of mead.

Large Scallops are one of the ocean's tastiest gifts. The rich tender meat melts in your mouth, bursting with a big but delicate seafood flavor. They are one of those foods that can be spoiled by over-treating them, so I keep the recipe to its barest essentials. With a cast-iron skillet, five minutes of burner time, and almost nothing else, you can present knock-your-socks-off scallops, easy as that!

Sometimes when my Honey is working evenings, I make these, tent the plates in tin-foil, and break speed limits bringing her scallops, a nice salad, and some iced herbal tea for her dinner break. It makes a wonderfully romantic meal for two, even in the front seat of a car! ...or maybe it's just her that makes it seem so romantic. In any case, at home I serve it with a glass of the same mead that goes into the sauce, and a pretty side salad as shown.

The only challenging ingredient is mead. If you really can't find any of this fine honey wine, then you can use white wine instead, but really scour your local markets, and even ask around among home-brewers for some before you give up. If that all fails, watch this space, because soon I'll post the basics of mead-brewing, so you can start making your own. 

The Recipe: Skillet Scallops with Mead Sauce

Whattya need?
6 large scallops
olive oil
2 tbsp butter
salt, pepper
Splash of mead
A cast iron skillet and a couple of paper towels
(Serves 2)

Whattya do?

Heat up your skillet over high heat, meanwhile drying the scallops and laying them out. 
Scatter a pinch of salt and a pinch of pepper on them, both sides.
Pour a generous splash of olive oil, two or three tbsps, on the pan, and spread the scallops out on it with some distance between them, each on an end, not the round sides.
After about two minutes, flip them over quickly, still with space between them.
After another minute and a half, take them off and arrange them quickly on two small plates. The ends should be a golden brown, and don't worry if they don't seem to be done through; the heat from the ends will finish the cooking before they get to the table.

Nothing can replace a good skillet!

Add the butter to the pan, and as soon as it has melted, add the mead, enough to just briefly cover the bottom of the pan. It will start to boil and reduce immediately, so working quickly, scrape the scallop footprints up with the edge of a fork and stir the scrapings into the mead. When it has reduced to a few tbsns of sauce, usually less than a minute all together, pour it quickly over the scallops and serve.

Winter in a Cordwood Masonry House

Winter is even more magical from inside cordwood masonry!

The debate about the R-value of cordwood masonry has gone on for some time, and as far as I know has not been settled yet. R-value is the rate at which heat travels through the walls, and different building materials have different R-values. That's the reason for part of the question; cordwood masonry has three different materials in a standard wall. First there is the mortar, which isn't usually plain mortar. We include sawdust, which is not used in mortar for any other purposes that I know of. Then there is the insulation layer between the outer and inner layers of mortar. Often that is a mix of sawdust and anydrous lime. Finally there is the cedar (or other softwood), which is laid up with the grain running through the wall, not parallel to the wall, the way it would be if we used boards or logs. I recently learned that the R-value calculated for wood is usually figured on the assumption that heat passes through the grain, not along the grain. This means that calculating the insulating qualities of cordwood masonry is even more of a mystery than previously thought.
I have been in my house for over ten years now, and would add yet another factor. As the walls age, and the wood seasons, you get little cracks in the wood, called checking. Also, the wood often shrinks a bit, which is most noticeable with the larger pieces. The resulting gaps have an effect on air flow. To be honest, they allow the free flow of air through the building, because there is no good way to fill in all of those tiny spaces, inside and out. In the summer, we appreciate the effect, and say the house "breathes well." In the winter, especially on cold, windy days, we run the wood-stove extra hot!
Still, I wouldn't have it any other way, and you only need to spend an evening watching the snow fall through the castle-like deep window, framed by native cedar, with the fire crackling, to learn to appreciate the coziness of life in a cordwood masonry house. Blankets, sweaters, good socks, and lots of snuggling are the magic formula for making it all good.
Back to the R-value, my contribution to the debate is that whatever the R-value is, you need to also consider actual air-flow as the building ages. I don't bring it up to be discouraging, though; that flow-through is refreshing and healthy, the opposite of modern houses that are so tight you need to pump in fresh air sometimes.

Coppice Thoughts

I have been mulling over a particular aspect of tree lore for the last few days, trying to find the best way to express it, to find its real place in my world-view. In the middle of this process, we've had a family health crisis that brought my thoughts into focus very quickly. I've always thought of trees and forests as a fine source of meaningful symbolism and metaphor, and today I can't think of a better way to say what I feel.

The roots of a coppiced tree feed the new shoots.

Coppicing is the practice of cutting a tree once, then waiting for numerous shoots to grow from the stump as new trees for various purposes. Trees that are harvested in this way include hazel, oak, willow, and one of my favorites, ironwood. What happens is the root system, unharmed by the cutting, feeds the living tissue in the outer rings and bark of the stump, and new trees grow in a ring from the already-established roots. Eventually the stump disappears under the new growth and becomes just a memory, but the old roots, and the new shoots, live on. 

Some of the shoots thrive, and some don't, but they all get a good start from that parental tree, nourished because of all the years it put in, reaching deep into the soil, finding nutrients, water, strength. I can still remember the day, probably twenty-five years ago, when my father, on one of our many fire-wood cutting days, explained this to me, pointing out a ring of maples, growing closely together, all the same size. He taught me that you can tell the size of the original tree by imagining a circle drawn by the centers of all of the new trees.

Men teach boys a lot by saying little, in my experience, and I'm not claiming that's all for the good. But it's true, and this is a good example. I have no doubt that Dad felt the symbolic weight of coppicing, that image of an adult tree passing on its strength to the new generation, of the shape of the parent tree echoing through the years in the pattern of new growth. He didn't say any of that, though. He just pointed out the plain facts, looking me in the eye, while I, a boy learning to be a man, listened carefully for levels of meaning. 

Coppiced trees show the size of the parent stump.

The depth of the understanding clicks into place later, as life provides more events, more experience, more joys, trials, beauties, loves. Seeing the way that my life, my sister's life, our children's lives, all echo his presence in many ways, no matter how far we may travel, and despite many other influences, I am rocked by the depth of meaning in so much of what he has given us. The tree lore is one thing, the unabashed love for the world around us is another, the wish to appreciate nature in quiet reflection. The humor and affection that he has always spread freely is still more of it. 


When you see a close ring of trees, take a moment to think about the gifts that carry through generations like the shape of that coppice. When you look at your parents, your siblings, your children, imagine them as a coppice, and appreciate the ways that we have been gifted by our elders. Think how we can gift our young with the strength of our roots too.