Revisiting Home Winemaking

By Weston Eaton

Perhaps I best begin this essay by noting what it is not about. Rather than providing detailed instructions on how to make wine from grapes or from a winemaking ingredient kit, I want to instead tell the story of my own home winemaking experience. For explicit instructions on making wine, visit Siciliano's Market or their website. What follows here is a description of what it takes to make wine at home, which I present as a primer for those interested in taking up the practice of winemaking, as well as to those of you who have wondered what I am up to out in my garage.

Although increasingly popular and visible, home winemaking is nothing new. Like all fermented products, making wine is essentially a means to preserve produce, in this case grapes or other fruit. All wine, of course, was once “made at home.” In particular, up until the industrial and scientific revolutions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, home beer and winemaking in (Europe at least) was the providence of women working at home. However, along with the rise of science and technology came an increased division of labor between men and women, resulting in the masculinization and professionalization of beer brewing and wine making. While farmers and others continued to make wine from their own grapes, these historic processes were largely successful is separating lay people—me and you—from professionals. As a result, wine was something that was bought, rather than made for one’s self or family.

Steve Siciliano (left) and Wes Eaton
crushing grapes behind Siciliano's Market

In North America, the lay/professional divide was challenged by early homebrewing pioneers such as Charlie Papazian, whose “off-the-grid” ethic personified a movement bent on taking fermentation out of the hands of professionals, whose products were getting stale frankly, and redefining what fermented products could and should be. From my perspective, the home beer making movement is key for home winemaking. However, there are distinct histories, which are likely due to necessary ingredients. Unlike beer, which requires malted barley, hops, and brewers yeast—items not normally grown in the yard—wine can be made from anything (although some ingredients, such as grapes or apples, are likely to produce superior wine than others, such as onions). Due to the accessibility of ingredients, home winemaking remained a practice passed down generation to generation, taking place in cellars, garages, and barns.

"I'm crushed," said the little grapes.

The distinction between beer and winemaking first became apparent to me while working at Siciliano’s Market. Whereas homebrewers were often younger folks generally new to fermentation, and were either in search of a new hobby or fascinated by craft beer and looking for a way to create their own, winemakers were often confident in their general understanding of the practice—they had seen their uncle, father, or grandfather make wine in the cellar or barn years before. When they did have questions, the trick was to introduce some of the ‘science‘ of wine-making–sanitization, yeast, sulfites, pH, gravity, and so on—in ways they were comfortable with and that enhanced, rather than intruded upon, their vision for what winemaking was. Others, including myself, were introduced to winemaking as an extension of the repertoire of possible fermentation activities, including cheese and yogurt making, beer, and pickles. Grapes, however, were not alway available. In this way, I came to understand wine making as a seasonal activity, like maple syrup making, in that one makes wine when the grapes are ready.

Seasonality then is my first point in explaining my winemaking practice to inquiring minds. I use fresh grapes, grown near Allegan, Michigan, by Taylor Ridge Vineyards, although there are numerous vineyards one can order winemaking grapes from. Depending on the year, as well as variety, grapes are generally ready for harvest from late September until late October, which means you must be ready for them. Once picked, it's best to process your fruit within 24 hours, lest the fruit flies and elements dampen their quality. Most home winemakers think in terms of 6 gallon batches, which makes thirty 750ml bottles. A batch generally requires one hundred pounds of grapes.

Bryan Taylor of Taylor Ridge Vineyards

Processing your fruit is my second point. Again, the folks at Siciliano's can provide you specifics; my intent instead is to paint a clear picture of what it takes to make wine. First, your grapes need to be crushed and de-stemmed. One can indeed do this by hand, depending on the volume! Or one can use equipment meant for this, such as that offered for rent on site at Siciliano’s Market. [Editor's note: Contact Siciliano's for more information on renting our crushing/destemming equipment.]

Second, red grapes will ferment on the skins, in a large crock, plastic or stainless fermenter, whereas whites will have the juice pressed off immediately. Fermenting on the skins allows for the extraction of tannins and colors into the must, which is the fermenting liquid slurry. Once fermentation is complete, in about a week, the skins are scooped into a wine press and the juice is collected into a glass fermenter. Once sediment collects on the bottom, the wine is then transferred to a final fermenter, where oak is added, and the wine ages 'in bulk.' In fact, I set my wine aside, on oak, until the following year’s grapes are ready, and bottle only when I am getting next year’s vintage started.

With even this brief description, one can see that winemaking, for me at least, is a process that takes place over the course of the year, and that becomes ingrained in the seasons and in this way built up over time as a family tradition. I’m sure there are other ways to do this, ways that are suited to the constraints of other households and families. But this is precisely the point I would like to emphasize: Winemaking is a rich practice that takes place over the course of months, albeit in numerous short spurts of activity. Its rewards are both immediate—the satisfaction of transforming grapes into must, and activating fermentation for instance—as well as long term. This holiday season, for instance, my family will be enjoying my 2010 vintages.

Contesting Common Assumptions: Technological Development and DIY Products

Satisfaction gained from 'primitive' do-it-yourself activities (like homebrewing) challenges the idea that technical innovation always leads to increased social good.

Gathering fuel for maple syrup evaporation.
Propane would be easier; wood is more fun.

By Wes Eaton

Recently I have been considering questions of how new technologies and their related social practices come into being. By “technologies” I am referring to a whole range of technical artifacts, from small, handheld objects like sledgehammers and iPhones to larger technology systems like highways and nuclear power plants, and by “come into being” I mean how technologies are transformed from ideas into material things and social activity around those things. Recent research on technologies tells us that many common understandings of these processes are missing out on what’s really going on. For instance, it's common to hear people make the argument that technological innovation always provides societal benefits, and that technologies are getter better or more efficient all the time.

What are these common claims missing? Essentially, they are glossing over the work it takes to introduce new technologies and champion certain designs and arrangements over others. Some social researchers like to point out that “natural science” scientists are also “social” scientists, meaning that scientists such as engineers not only invent material things, like smart phones, but they need to convince others, in this case consumers, that their product, out of so many other options, is worth uptake. Their job is considered successful when consumers say, “This product, as compared with others, is the most efficient and provides social benefits.” The point then is to recognize that seeing some technologies as beneficial or more efficient than others is itself an accomplishment, the achieving of which requires the imposition of some technological designs—and human preferences—at the expense of others. In other words, there is a power struggle going on that often gets covered up with assumptions that one choice is “naturally” better than the other.

Let’s see how this works in the realm of food-related do-it-yourself (DIY) activities, such as food preserving, preparing, and beer- and wine-making. I have three points to share. First, if we look at our own DIY hobbies, we see that efficiency and “natural” design choices do not hold up. For example, in an earlier article, I discussed my hobby of making maple syrup annually each spring. Compared to larger producers, I use a smallish pan, about 2’ x 4’, and evaporate syrup outdoors over a wood fire and on top of cinder blocks. My sap team and I set out and haul around about sixty 3-gallon buckets and tap as many trees. So while there are many more trees that could be tapped, more “efficient” methods of transporting sap to the syrup pan, and more productive evaporative designs—all of which are within our present capacities—the point of this illustration is to note that certain scales of operation are more conducive to enjoyment, regardless of their efficiency. We could think about home brewing in a similar fashion, asking, how big do we want to get with this practice?

Second, when we do “scale up” and perhaps open a brewery, a bakery or a winery, we get a glimpse at the way technical artifacts—in this case food/beverage products—are transformed from a range of possibilities into claims about “this is naturally best.” A clear example of this is the “default” categories all around us that we see as “natural.” For instance, in written language, authors used and continue to use the words “men” and “man” in reference to all types of people, and white people generally grace the cover of cereal boxes and play the lead roles on television. I find this to be particularly interesting in the realm of beer. The word “beer” for instance is closely associated with cans of, say, Budweiser. Craft beer of course works to challenge these default positions, first by raising awareness of alternatives and then by challenging the construction of the definition of “beer” itself.

The point I want to emphasize is that upsetting these taken-for-granted realities is a struggle and challenge since, once instilled, these common understandings are difficult to disentangle from what we perceive to be "reality," which is itself comprised of countless default positions. This is not a trivial point, and one that I feel innovative brewers, marketers, and PR agents take to heart. Much like Plato’s “Ideal Forms,” we use default understandings—which we may see as “inherent”—to make sense out of what a thing should be. For example, when people taste a Bell’s Two Hearted Ale for the first time, if the beverage is thought of as a “beer,” the experience will most certainly be shocking. I know it was for me! Why? I learned “beer” was a fizzy yellow corny beverage that made you belch. While this is changing, I am identifying it as a hurdle for artisan producers of multiple products.

I have one final point related to efficiency arguments. Craft producers are in a unique position in that they are using “traditional,” in the sense of less-than-the-most-efficient practices and technologies, to produce their products. For instance, American Imperial Stouts and massive IPAs require excessive amounts of ingredients, ingredients that could likely be used alternatively to produce multiple batches of more typical products. Whether or not this is a “waste” is a matter of one’s perception of (a range of) resources. Ask your local brewer about this. At the same time, breweries, especially Michigan breweries, are rapidly increasing their production, which means more and more of these massive beers need to be produced. Doing so requires both the inefficiencies of traditional practices, but also the capacity to do so on increasingly large scales.

To bring this together, the point that I want to share is that technologies—and in this case I discussed food products—are not driven by efficiency or social benefits alone. Specifically, for food products, the equivalent argument is that product design choices, despite competitive markets, are not only about efficiency and quality, but instead reflect political tensions between competing visions. It is only the (temporary) winner who has people saying, for instance, “now THIS is a beer!”

Boundary-Work & Craft Beer: The Struggles of American Hops

Photo by Scout Seventeen

By Weston Eaton

As citizens of Rene Descartes’ Western society, we often assume our personal preferences have predominately private, as in individual, origins. And while, over time, we may observe some slight changes in our palate, we generally speak in dichotomous terms, pointing out what we ‘like’ and ‘don’t like.’ I want to suggest another way to think about our sensory capacities, one inspired by craft beer and hop guru Stan Hieronymus’ recent visit to and talk given in my hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan, aka “Beer City, USA.” Ultimately what I hope to show is that taste and preference are as much collective accomplishments as they are privately decided upon, and, importantly, our ‘private’ tastes are contingent, as in they are situated in a particular time and place.

To tell this story, I first need to introduce the concept of ‘boundary-work.’ Sociologists of science coined this term to refer to a strategy we are all familiar with: the effort to demarcate ‘sound’ science from ‘arm-chair’ or ‘pseudo-science.’ In other words, boundary-work is the effort to identify the uninitiated and keep them in their proper place in the attempt to create a favorable public image for the establishment. Boundary-work is also important in places outside of science, such as in the world of craft beer. For instance, Jim Koch of Sam Adams and Charlie Papazian, president of the Brewers Association, are constantly tending the fences between craft and non-craft beer. These are not real boundaries, of course, but political and economic constructions, and therefore susceptible to contestation. The boundary-work I am interested takes place between two regions, North American and Europe, and their respective hop traditions. At stake is our preference in beer.

On his visit to Grand Rapids, Hieronymus spoke with a group of West Michigan homebrewers as part of Siciliano’s Market’s homebrewing seminar series. Hieronymus’ discussion was centered on hops. He discussed the latest research on hop flavor, aroma, and bitterness, and the emergent science and innovative technological processes associated with the ever-increasing search for the new hop variant that would meet the complex demands of farmers, distributors, brewers, and consumers. What caught my attention, however, was the subtle underlying story of shifting hop attributes and industry preferences. 

While Hieronymus did not use the term, the history of the hop plant in the world of beer brewing can be assessed in terms of boundary-work. For instance, the Reinheitsgebot, the Bavarian Purity Law of around 1500, designated beer as consisting of three ingredients: malt, water, and hops (yeast had not yet been discovered). In the realm of hops specifically, before the introduction of American varieties beginning in the 1970s, four ‘noble’ hop varieties dominated the world of brewing. These hops had the distinct combination of low levels of bitterness but with strong aromatic properties. These characteristics defined not only these hops, but what was known collective as beer. In other words, by today’s standards, raised significantly by American craft brewers who brought American hops onto the global beer scene, there simply were no “hoppy” beers in the sense of a Two Hearted Ale. 

By following this hop story through up to the 1970s, then through today, and crossing shores to North America, we can begin to see the significance of these constructed boundaries, and their relation to what we often take to be ‘naturally’ occurring or individually selected preferences. While the British Colonies brewed an array of ales, with numerous local ingredients, it was not until the Germans arrived that brewing in the New World drew the attention of the world’s famous beer cities. Armed with the recent technological invention of refrigeration, and the accompanying lagering process now perfected into a style of beer capable of mass production, Germans in Mexico, Texas, and especially Milwaukee, began mobilizing and monopolizing the preferred tastes of millions of Americans. 

The key to American lagers, however, was the smooth hop flavor of noble varieties. American hops, on the other hand, were largely labeled with normative, derogatory terms such as ‘rustic,’ ‘inferior,’ and ‘not suitable’ for what was commonly understood as ‘good beer.’ American hop varieties were indeed wild, with citrus, pine, and resin as opposed to the spicy, earthy, and floral attributes of noble hops. One hundred years ago, the beer geeks of the day had not yet encountered these as flavor possibilities, while the brewing establishment had little interest or incentive to risk experimenting with new varieties. This of course changed with the developing of the Cascade hop variety in 1972, the original American “C” hop, and the innovative and infamous use of this hop to develop the flavor of the first distinctly American beer, the American Pale Ale, epitomized by Anchor Brewing Company’s Liberty IPA and Sierra Nevada’s Pale Ale. With the introduction of an American Ale, and more generally, a growing appreciation for American hops, the boundary between noble hops as ‘good’ and American hops as ‘bad’ has been increasingly transgressed. As a result, we have a new meaning for the term ‘good beer’. 

To pull the treads of this story together, the ‘preferences’ for subtle bitterness have given away to a diversity of beer flavors and styles, including the strong bitter attributes of American Ales. However, as we can now more plainly see, the term preference is itself misleading if applied to individual choice as it fails to take into account the historical shifts in the landscape of beer styles that are driven by technological innovation, migrations of nationals, experimentation, and continental variations in hops. In other words, what we ‘like’ and ‘don’t like’ are as much representative of this particular juncture in the landscape of beer as they are of individual choice.

Craft Beer Culture in Michigan

The craft beer culture is thriving in Michigan. But how exactly is that culture defined? Among other things, with pretzel necklaces.

Pretzel bandolier

By Wes Eaton

We often hear allusions to “beer culture,” but what exactly does this mean and why is this important? We all know what beer is: fermented malt beverage. But of course, to different people in many different ways, beer is so much more. In West Michigan, beer is increasingly important to the broader do-it-yourself as well as economic growth agendas, which contributes to heightened visibility through media coverage as well as everyday discussions. We are often asked, ‘have you been to the new brewery?’ to which we now reply, ‘which one?’

The Michigan Brewers Guild Winter Beer Fest is big discussion not just for beer geeks but for everyday people who increasingly find craft beer to provide opportunities for community, livelihoods, and a good time. Here is the link to culture that I want to explore. If beer is more than malt beverage, how can the concept of ‘culture’ help us understand its importance and increasing prominence in everyday life? To answer this, I’ll first discuss why culture is important and provide two ways culture has been conceptualized. I’ll then provide some examples from this past winter’s Winter Beer Festival to illustrate the importance and power of culture.

Why is culture important and what does it mean to say culture is “powerful”? Essentially, culture is important as it provides a way for us to make a link between the realms of symbols/meaning-making and social action. In other words, culture is powerful as it is the bridge between ideas and the things we do. How does this bridge work?

Cultural theorist Ann Swidler tells us that there are two dominant ways people think about the concept of culture. The first she calls culture from the “inside out” in reference to what is imagined to be going on inside people’s heads. In this model, people are constrained by the ideas they find out there in the world. Swidler tells us that, from this perspective, “culture shapes action by defining what people want and how they imagine they can get it.” This perspective comes from the famous social theorist Max Weber who tells us world views and ideas are the “switchmen” on train tracks that determine which paths we will take in life. Swidler argues that this perspective is not very helpful as clearly we do not know what is going on in people’s minds.

Swidler labels the second perspective culture from the “outside in,” which argues culture should not be studied as something that is only inside people’s heads. Rather, culture can be thought of as “publicly available symbols—rituals, aesthetic objects,” and other physical manifestations. From this perspective, culture is not useful for explaining individual actions or ideas, values, dogmas, or other meanings, but instead represents the “symbolic vocabularies, expressive symbols, and emotional repertoire” of everyday life. The essential point Swidler tells us is that culture is not the ends that people seek, but the tools people use to seek out anything that they wish. In other words, culture is a “tool kit” of habits, skills, and styles that people use to construct their strategies of action in life. By thinking about culture as a tool kit, we can better investigate shared collective and public meanings and symbols and how these are meaningful to people.

Let’s give this a try by looking at examples from this past winter’s Michigan Brewers Guild Winter Beer Festival held in Grand Rapids. The event is a spectacular menagerie of experimental beers and experimental people. Culture is on display, from the way brewers and breweries present themselves and their beers to the hats, outfits, and especially pretzel and other edible necklaces of the beer culture elites. Short’s brewery, for instance, is consistently a crowd favorite not only for their beer but for their outrageous, inventive, and provocative displays of beer culture. In years past, Short’s crew built their serving booth from blocks of ice cut from a northern Michigan lake and added marshmallows that were toasted with a handheld torch on site to their S’more Stout. Such acts are deemed provocative as they violate the boundaries purists envision for what constitutes “true” beer, much in the same way that the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA) works to “differentiate between the bland processed beers being pushed by the big brewers and the traditional beers whose very existence was under threat.”

For me, the most striking and powerful example of beer culture, however, is the pretzel necklace, or at least what started as a pretzel necklace and has now grown to include snacks not usually strewn around one’s neck. As you can see from the photos, cheese sticks, meats sticks, popcorn, and even chicken legs were not off limits for innovative beer fans. What is important here is the power these necklaces afford their wearers. Much in the same vein as a tribal warrior with a rope of bear or tiger teeth around their neck, the beer fans whose necks are weighted down with meats and sweets are respected and even feared in the sense that they are displaying their experience and intensity. These are fans to be reckoned with. Clearly one who took the time or had the foresight to construct such a badge of courage and tenacity knows why they are there and that they belong. Moreover, seeing such powerful symbolic displays leads one to ask ‘do I belong here? These people are the real thing!’

To pull this all together then, I suggest that we think about beer culture as the collective and symbolic expressions of a group or collective identity. Beer culture is something we display, and the importance of that display is only ever meaningful within this group. Wearing a pretzel necklace in the classroom or the office, for instance, is less likely to imbue one with power as it is to incite suspicion and mild anxiety. Moreover, beer culture does not move us around like pieces on a chess board, it does not determine or even guide the actions of people. Instead, we draw on the shared elements of beer culture—e.g. our knowledge of styles or the history of India Pale Ales, the difference between a stout and a porter, number of batches brewed, the Imperial Stouts or out-of-state beers in our cellar, number of MI beers on tap, being rated as “Beer City USA” and so on—like tools in a tool kit to accomplish what it is we hope to do. And in the realm of craft beer, this often has to do with building a specific collective identity that is opposed to the main mainstream elements of both beer brewing and life in general.

Touring Cantillon: Alternative World for Brewing Beer

The author at Cantillon

By Wes Eaton

Today, brewing processes are guided by the tenets of a modern, positivist science. Like scientists in research laboratories, brewers, cellar-persons, and other producers employ instruments and equipment and utilize human technique and skill to understand and replicate ‘nature.’ While brewing is at its essence a promotion of natural fermentation processes, at the same time, producers want to bracket out the randomness and uncertainties of nature. I'll reiterate my point: Of the upmost importance is the control of nature. The brewery is to become a laboratory in that natural processes are to be disciplined by scientist/producers.

This is the enduring struggle of producing modern beer: warding off naturally occurring organic and inorganic ‘contaminants’ that threaten a target product and production schedule by disciplining natural processes through the tools of technoscience. The struggle is ceaseless as neither opponent, science or nature, will ultimately be victorious. Producers will always need to scrub, sanitize, and otherwise separate their laboratory/brewery from the environment—bacteria, oxygen, and excess heat. Indeed this comprises the work of nearly every stage of the modern brewing process.

The point of presenting modern brewing practices in this way is to demonstrate their embedded cultural values of disciplining and controlling nature. In her 1980 book The Death of Nature, the feminist ecologist Carolyn Merchant argues our contemporary worldview was born during the Scientific Revolution of the 17th century. During this time, Francis Bacon, René Descartes, and other “fathers of science” formulated a new view of nature. Instead of a benevolent, all-providing mother that we are to fear and revere, nature was a mistress that would only reluctantly bear her secrets under the trials of controlled experimentation. Adaptation to uncertainties and unknowns was no longer adequate, instead, we can master and tame the “wicked” randomness of nature.

I thought about this last month in Brussels, Belgium while my wife and I toured and tasted Cantillon, the renowned brewery and “living museum of the traditional Gueuze” and Lambic beer styles. These styles epitomize what American beer enthusiasts now lovingly term “sour” beers. Historically, they largely lost popularity sometime between the World Wars, only to be steadily rediscovered, as the myth goes, by later generations of beer hunters and other actors in the craft beer movement. Cantillon is in tune with this, mandating visitors take an extensive self-guided tour before sampling their sours, the hope being that through this experience, others will spread their story and continue to come back to Gueuze. We began in the back of the stone and wooden barn-like brewery with the century old but still operational Mash Tun, then up wooden stairs to the riveted “cool ship.” Lacking modern temperature control, wort is chilled in this shallow copper ship in the upper rafters, where we noted used malt bags operated as flaps that could be opened and closed, allowing more or less of a cool breeze to enter. Here the beer is left uncovered, inviting wild bacterias and yeasts to inoculate the wort naturally. As cooling is necessary, beer brewing is a seasonal project, only taking place during the colder months of the year.

After a night’s rest, the bacteria laden wort is sent to oak barrels which rest in the adjacent attic wherein the wort is fermented, messily, into ale. Like the breezy attic, the oak barrels allow the beer to “breathe” and evaporate, ultimately reducing the final volume by as much as one fifth. As air increasingly enters the barrels, the active bacterias form oxygen protective skins across the surface of the beer. Workers hand labeling bottles down below later told us the ubiquitous cobwebs found throughout the rafters and in between aging barrels were evidence of the spiders that balance out harmful insects. This is especially important during the warm summer months when brewing is avoided but whole, sticky, sour black cherries are added to selected barrels to make Kriek. This is evidence of one way in which the brewery, as a living organism itself, seeks to adapt rather than dominate nature.

When finished, the raw, still, unblended golden colored ale is deemed Lambic, which tastes acidic, tepid, and much thinner than, for instance, an American style ale. Gueuze is born when minimum three year old Lambic is blended with younger, still fermenting ales, corked and capped in champagne bottles, and left to finish fermenting and therefore ‘naturally’ carbonate on its side along the dank stone walls and amongst hundreds of others. Rather than instruments, cultivated human taste determines when the bottles are ready for labeling and enjoying. After the tour we were offered pours of unblended lambic, Gueuze, and other styles. While sipping I thought about dark corners of the brewery we were not only allowed but encouraged to crawl through, and the times we had to squeeze around producers as they tended to their labor intensive tasks. This simply does not happen in modern breweries.

At first blush the lessons from this experience are rather simple. Here we have a brewery, a production process, and really a culture that has learned how best not only to adapt to its natural environment, but to flourish in a way that enhances it. Like homemade maple syrup, each drop is not only the intended ingredients but the larger local material world captured in liquid form. We could smell the rafters, cellars, barrels, and atmosphere in our glasses precisely because they were intentionally incorporated into the beer, not bracketed out by disciplining nature.

But this is only a first step in a broader evaluation. The next is to note the existence of at least two of what Merchant calls “worldviews” for approaching beer production. On the one hand there is what we might term the “science” model premised on disciplining nature, as observed above. On the other, we have a view that lets nature in by learning to adapt to its incongruence. Spiders, porous oak, seasonal variances, bacterias, and other naturally, locally occurring elements are enlisted to bring about a final product that itself embodies the tensions between the will and imaginations of the brewers and the agendas within the local environment.

So yes, we can tease out possibly two contending world views. But please don’t mistake my mission here. My argument is not that one or the other is better or worse and should be pursued or abandoned. There are multiple points that could be argued on behalf of each “world view.” For instance, to take just one example, in regards to distributive justice, how could inefficient production systems such as Cantillon meet the demands of the burgeoning craft beer culture masses? Instead I want to make two points that will hopefully spur new ways of thinking about craft beer production.

The first is the notion that, even in the most technologically and scientifically sophisticated production facilities, beer is co-produced by both scientific technique and nature. Like a river that is both actively guided by and shaping its respective banks, particular beer products are always the culmination of the enduring struggle between controlling and letting nature in. Secondly, in regards to the two “world views” I promote in this article, no single brewery is entirely on one or another of these paths. Instead, to varying degrees, particular brewery production cultures, standards, and norms, simultaneously draw from the wells of each. This process itself leads to tensions that are constantly negotiated through interactions not only within individual breweries, but between the cadres of investors, distributors, retailers, other brewers, and of course beer fans that make up participants in the craft beer field. My point then is that teasing out these discordant “worlds” can provide a greater appreciation for the many aspects of brewery and beer culture with which we can choose to emphasize, challenge, and ultimately identify.

Is Craft Beer a Social Movement?

By Weston Eaton

Social movements are collective actions organized by institutional outsiders that challenge existing power structures. The civil rights battles of the 1960s and the ongoing struggles of American Indians or the LGBT community are iconic examples. These groups demand recognition not only from the state for their legitimate rights to be treated as equals under the law; more than this, these groups form new collective identities, or a sense of “we-ness,” to challenge dominant cultural mores. There are transferrable lessens here for the craft beer community. In the world of craft beer, home-, micro-, and craft breweries challenge giants like Anheuser-Busch InBev and MillerCoors. These challenges are more than battles over market shares. These are challenges over cultural acceptance, distinction, and legitimacy more broadly.

In his 2009 book Market Rebels: How Activists Make or Break Radical Innovations, the young social scientist Hayagreeva Rao uses a social movements lens to understand how it was possible for a craft brewing movement to gain traction in a market so heavily dominated (98% in 2003) by well known brands with well established distribution networks and centralized planning. To understand this question, folks like us who are immersed in beer culture need to take a few steps back. Industrial economics theory points out that, over time, industries concentrate, and in doing so, move from specialists to generalists. This is helpful as it sheds some light on things like the taste of Little Caesars versus the pies at Harmony Brewing, or Coors Light compared to Founders Solid Gold or Bell’s Amber. Furthermore, according to theory, as generalists move more to the center, room opens up at the peripheries. This is the space Rao wants to explore in the world of craft beer.

The craft beer movement is clearly a success, however one might define success. This is important because not all movements, of course, are successful. Understanding how craft beer, as a culture, a market, a lifestyle, became successful sheds light on the way cultures develop and are themselves responded to. Unpacking this requires that we look at the people involved, the contexts they shape and operate within, and the way they work with others to achieve their aims. Rao’s argument is close to arguments I have been making for some time in this column: from home to micro and craft segments, craft beer is by definition less about market share and more an expression of a new identity, one premised on small-scale, authentic, and traditional methods of production. Recently I wrote about the “Local Trap,” the tendency to confuse scale, which is a means, with taste, an end. The point then is that taste, as in both the cultivated tastes of enthusiasts and the way a product tastes, is a significant component of identity.

Now we are nearing the “creation story” of craft beer. WWII vets returned home from Germany, Belgium, and France—where beers were as diverse as dog breeds—only to find what Michael Jackson termed “chicken-feedy” lagers, as in tasting too much like corn. Within this myth, however, is a wedge of pertinence that can give insight into social movements applicability: consumers might be open to alternative tastes. Adding to this was the modern homebrewing movement, championed and popularized by folks like Charlie Papazian who did for home brewing what Carl Sagan did for science. From these ranks were born folks like Sam Calagione, who, like his counterparts, is voracious about creating and defending the standards that separate craft beer from, say, Miller Lite. As Calgione might say, no matter that MillerCoors brands unequivocally outsell 90 Minute IPA, they lack terroir, the sense of place associated with products made within certain locales. In the emerging craft beer identity, generalist victories are not the point.

As I have warned in previous essays, however, this presents a slippery slope. How exclusive ought craft beer culture be? Where do we draw the line, and who draws it? Rao points out that contract breweries like Boston Beer Company (Sam Adams) make substantially different claims about what is at the root of craft beer cultural identities. For Boston Beer, fresh ingredients equal craft beer. For others, like those who drafted the American Craft Brewer Definition for the Brewer’s Association, craft brewers must be small (less than 6 million barrels a year), independent (less than 25% of the brewery is owned by non craft breweries), and traditional (meaning adjuncts are used to enhance, not simplify the product).

These tensions demonstrate a few nuances I would like to add to Rao’s argument. While the craft beer movement is a success, by no means is it homogenous. People who identify with this cultural movement harbor a range of perspectives and interests that are not always harmonious. Moreover, although successful, the cultural, market, and identity battles are clearly ongoing. There is no clear distinction between craft and non craft. Instead, differences are socially constructed by interested groups. For example, as brewing consultant John Haggerty pointed out to me years ago, Budweiser, like Boston Beer, and so many others, indeed uses some of the finest malts and hops and well cared for water in the world of beer.

But it is the intangibility of identity that ultimately can help us make sense of such technical incongruences. Overall Rao’s point is that without the network of “evang-ale-ists,” home brewers and enthusiasts, craft beer would hardly be the market and cultural success it is today. Of course successful retailers, breweries, and brewpubs know this well. My argument is that in thinking of craft beer as a social movement, one that so many of us have been affected by, we can see that this is an ongoing movement, whose boundaries are porous, aims are fluid, champions are varied and contested, and that we ourselves, as home- or professional brewers or industry folk, or especially as beer drinkers, can have a hand in steering.

Like other popular movements, such as environmental movements, one could argue that what’s really going on here is the coinciding of several movements. Steve Siciliano of Siciliano’s Market pointed this out when he discussed the symbiotic relationships that emerge between various players in regional markets. I think this is accurate and, in West Michigan, we certainly seem to be situated at the front lines of this convergence.

Beware the "Local" Trap

By Wes Eaton

The buzzword “local” has grown in popularity in recent years. But more than this, notions of “being local” have accompanied an increasing number of projects and enterprises, and this is certainly true for West Michigan. But has “local” lost its bite? Is “local” at risk of being co-opted? If so, where do we draw the line, and who ought to draw it?

For me at least, notions of “local” are symbolically charged with concepts like authenticity, originality, limited availability, craftsmanship, integrity, and honesty. In other words, local products and local practices carry with them the normative assumption that they are better than such goods and services that are not local. What this seems to imply is that local goods are worthy of our trust. We have built up the notion of local to quite a high standard, and if this is indeed the case, my argument is that we need to listen to those who would caution against “the local trap.”

In 2006, two planners, Brandon Born and Mark Purcell, published a provocative paper titled Avoiding the Local Trap: Scale and Food Systems in Planning Research that made some points I’d like to share with my fellow West Michiganers. Before I go on, I want to point out that their agenda is not aligned with global corporations—entities we assume are threatened by our turn toward local economies. Rather, the authors are concerned that all the fanfare about being local has obscured many of the socially positive things “local” is actually taken to mean. In other words, the definition, use, and value of the concept of local is itself at the center of conflicting ideas of social betterment, and those who see local in the way I romanticized above had better take a closer look at how this powerful and meaningful concept is being put into play.

Like good planners, Born and Purcell unpack the notion of locality by pointing out that what this essentially implies is “scale.” They are anxious to point out the ways that scale, in this case, local versus global, has been misconstrued with socially positive concepts such as justice, sustainability, and democratization. In making this conceptual and emotive slip, we fall into the “local trap,” a pitfall that can blind us “to the most effective strategy for achieving desired ends.”

Thinking about this requires us to ask a couple key historical questions. How did we turn toward the local in the first place? And what were we turning from? Globalized food systems have been increasingly decried in the media and well as in everyday culture. If global food system players, such as, say, Anheuser-Busch InBev are the problem, then locally produced beer is the solution. Indeed this has been a rallying cry in our community for years now, especially from folks like me. But the “local trap” points out that there are limitations with this simplistic, black and white way of understanding the world, and understanding food systems in particular.

The point Born and Purcell stress is that we need to distinguish between issues of scale and issues of socially desirable practices and outcomes, whatever they may be in particular contexts. In other words, scale can creep in and supplant these other “desired ends.” Take beer for example: what are our collective “desired ends” for craft beer? Their paper has three specific things to say about distinguishing between “scale” and “desired ends.” First, scales (such as “local food”) are socially constructed, meaning they are contingent on political struggles. Second, scales are never stagnant, but are always in flux. They are a project that people work to achieve, but are continuously contested by other interests. Finally, scales are relational, meaning they only make sense in relation to other scales. Rather than taking scales such as “local” or “global” at face value, they argue, we ought to interrogate how the relationships between scales are fixed and unfixed by people pursuing specific political, social, economic, and ecological goals. We should ask why a particular scale is better than others for achieving specific goals, “and these goals should be distinguished from the scale used to pursue these ends.”

What can we learn from and how can we use these insights? While our answers are likely contingent on our own personal or professional interests, the first advice I might offer is that the ends we are all looking to pursue need to be made more clear, and following Born and Purcell, distinguished from “scale.” We need to ask, is “being local” an end in itself, or is it a means to an end? While Born and Purcell might argue the latter, I would think that others would agree with my pointing out that this does not tell the whole story. In some cases being local is clearly concomitant with socially, ecologically, and economically positive ends. Take the case of restaurants and chefs who seek out locally grown and produced food and beer so as to reduce pollution from transportation, resist the concentration of capital in the hands of the few, and support an up and coming generation of small farmers. This story and others like it certainly resonates in West Michigan. But does local automatically mean these things? Many of you, I’m sure, can think of examples where the notion of “local” has been exploited by people both powerful and less so, instances where the product and service fell far short of the promise that came—and we knowingly or unwittingly attributed—with the glowing badge of “being local.” After all, all places are in effect “local” if we are near them. In this sense then, local is a pretty low standard. My argument, then, is this: we take a lot of pride and have a lot at stake in our local goods and services. Beyond “scale,” let’s emphasize exactly why what we have to contribute is authentic, integral, unique, and substantially important for our economies, communities, and cultures.

Don't Take Stock, Make It

The method and importance of reintroducing homemade stock into everyday kitchen practices.

By Wes Eaton

Stock is a simple, yet too often overlooked part of kitchen practices. Meaty bones, carcasses, grizzle, and trimmings are not only left out of much of the packaged products now available across America, but when they are brought home, they are often neglected and ultimately wasted. Why is this so? The decline of stock-making practices results from both structural changes, as in changing retail and meat packing practices that prioritize individual, boneless/skinless fillets, as well as from a shrinking understanding and appreciation for both the practice and purpose for making stock in the home.

What I want to do here is begin to point us toward ways of addressing the latter of these issues, the knowledge gap in stock-making practice and purpose. To do so, I want to emphasize the simplicity of making stock, and arranging a stock making practice that allows us to truly make this an “everyday” (or, more likely “every-week”) kitchen practice. I also want to draw upon two of may favorite sources of kitchen lore and science, Sally Fallon’s Nourishing Traditions, and Harold McGee’s On Food and Cooking, and share a bit about the ways stock nourishes, protects, and heals our bodies.

Falling somewhere between myth and science, homemade stock, concocted from fish, poultry, and ruminant bones, grew infamous for its nourishing, health benefits well before the scientific, industrial, and accompanying medical revolutions. Today, however, retail stock, and its sisters restaurant broth and soup in general, are demonized as MSG- and salt-laden health risks. Yet in reality, stock is nourishing in at least three important ways, as pointed out by Fallon. First, meat stock contain the minerals, such as calcium and potassium, from bone, cartilage, marrow, as well as vegetables. The slow process of simmering, and the addition of a small amount of acidic vinegar, help draw this out. Second, the gelatin which the simmer isomerizes into solution, has the special property of attracting liquids, making foods easier to digest. Moreover, the gelatin, in combination with the other ingredients in stock, heals the mucus lining of the small intestine, which is regularly inflamed and damaged by other things in our modern diets.

Finally we come to taste and cooking qualities. Stock, which is best stewed slowly on stove top throughout a blustery day, adds exquisite depth to soups, stews, and other dishes like risotto and quinoa. Stocks can be clear or cloudy, depending on cooking processes, but all stocks carry their concentrated ingredients in a full bodied, gelatinous, and rich form, perfect for thickening sauces.

To make stock, McGee instructs us to begin with cold water, which allows the proteins of the meat to heat slowly, and therefore fall out of solution, allowing the cook to skim off extra foam and particulates, leaving a generally clear liquid if the boil is not too vigorous. My stock, however, is often cloudy. What should be added to stock? Remember, the idea is to dissolve, through simmering, base components of vegetables, meats, and bones, into a homogenous liquid. There are generally four categories of stock: beef, chicken, fish, and vegetable. McGee points out that the meat itself contributes the depths of flavor, while the bones and skin provide the gelatin; so a bit of both seems prudent.

There are countless arrangements of recipes, so here I want to share my particular practice of making chicken stock. I use the word practice to emphasize that this is more than a recipe, and more than simply a procedure, but rather, as a household practice, chicken stock is part of our family’s routine. First you need a bird, or more specifically, a carcass. Being the holidays, there ought be plenty of turkeys, for instance, to go around. Once or twice a month we purchase a broiler from Rakowski Farms and use this meat and stock throughout many of the weeks’ meals.

Once the bird is cooked, and we roast a whole chicken, and the meat largely removed, situate the carcass on the bottom of a stock pot—arguably the most important tool in the kitchen, next to fire. Per McGee, add cold water. How much depends on the size of the bird, but at least halfway. Heat the mixture to a boil and skim off coagulated proteins before adding additional ingredients. These ought to include, at the least, a couple tablespoons of vinegar or wine to help break things down (this will cook off), carrots, celery, and onions. For spices, leave out the salt. This way you can always salt your ensuing recipes to taste. Instead, add a few bay leaves, black peppercorns, fresh parsley, fresh or dried sage, and a spring of fresh thyme. Continue to simmer, uncovered, all day. Use your discretion, but the longer the better. If you reduce the volume too much, you are producing fumet or demi-glaze that can later, however, be reconstituted with water. 

When you are satisfied with your stock, it's time to prepare it for storage (if you are not using immediately for the split pea soup recipe I give below). To do this, pour the contents of the stock pot through a colander into a large mixing bowl or other storage container to cool. I recommend utilizing the back porch so as not to warm your fridge. Once chilled, you will notice two things. First, the fat will have risen and hardened on top. You can scrape this off and discard, or cook with it if you are using duck. Second, in this cooled state, the stock will resemble straw-colored jello, thickened from the gelatin. To store, I recommend scooping into gallon freezer bags and flattening these on their sides for easy stacking, or keeping in the fridge if you plan to cook within the week. Frozen stock keeps for months, so mark your containers with dates and rotate. Keeping stock on hand will help you make this into a part of your own cooking and eating routine.

Chicken Stock 

• One or more chicken, turkey, or game bird carcasses, trimmed of fat but heavy on skin and trimmings
• Celery, carrots, onions, scrubbed and coarsely chopped
• Bay leaves, peppercorns, fresh or dried sage, fresh thyme, fresh parsley
• Cold water at least half way up the pot 

Split Pea Soup 

• 2 tablespoons butter
• Large finely chopped onion
• 2 minced garlic cloves
• 7 cups chicken stock
• Large smoked ham hock
• 1 slice of smoked pork/ham
• 1 pound split green peas
• Fresh thyme sprigs
• Bay leaves
• 2 carrots, peel and cubed
• 1 celery rib, cubed
• Black pepper 

In a dutch oven (preferably cast iron), warm the butter, saute the onions and then add garlic and cook for no more than an additional minute while stirring. Next, add remaining ingredients, but leave out the carrots and celery. Raise to a boil, then simmer 45 minutes until peas are tender, but not mush. Next, remove the pork steak, and using a fork, shred and store this in a tupperware to keep from drying out. Add the celery and carrots. Cook for additional 30 minutes then remove the bone, bay leaves, and sprigs, and add back in the shredded meat. Season with salt and pepper if need be.

Canning Fall's Tomatoes

By Weston Eaton

As the harvest continues to unfold, I want to share with you one of my favorite rites of seasonal passage: canning tomatoes. The point I want to stress overall is the simplicity of canning. Not only is canning an inexpensive practice, but the actual process takes minimal time, effort, energy and resources. In essence, I am making an argument against the way you likely have come to understand or form an opinion of canning—as a technical and painstaking practice that demands specialized knowledge in order to avoid the pitfalls of contamination, spoilage, poisoning, or, moreover, as a time-consuming and ultimately nostalgic and unnecessary “hobby” that went out of fashion with electric stove tops. While canning certainly could be (and has been) looked at from those perspectives, I offer something different: canning, tomatoes especially, is a simple activity—or better, practice—that ultimately nourishes not only your body, but your spirit. Furthermore, I point this out because I feel many people choose not to can because they assume they are not up to the challenge of learning a new craft, or investing the time or resources into the equipment. I will spend the rest of this short article explaining my canning practice in order to demonstrate an alternative possibility.

First, to can, one needs canning equipment. The essential list consists of a canning pot (most hold up to 7 quarts jars at a time), canning jars, lids and bands, a jar funnel for packing jars and keeping the rim clean, and a tong style jar lifter. I also really like my serrated tomato knife. You can certainly buy all this new—it is not expensive. Or you can simply ask family members or seek out supplies at garage sales. Remember, the popularity of canning right now is at a cross-over: while many folks have canned in the past and now discontinue the practice, a new generation, interested in preserving and making food at home—possibly for very different sets of reasons—is picking up and extending the practice. For instance, at last Fall’s “TomatoFest” in Little Rock California, their survey found a surge in folks seeking canning tomatoes, indicating that more first time canners are getting into canning. My point then is lots of canning equipment—especially jars—are out there, possibly right under your nose.

Second, I take up the issue of tomatoes. I am certainly no expert here. In fact, during nearly every trip to the farm market I discover something new I had previously overlooked or ignored. For instance, for years I have been canning traditional “paste” varieties of tomatoes, like Roma and Rome. Recently, however, the guys at Turtle Creek turned me on to Super Fantastic, Mountain Spring and Mountain Fresh. While there are volumes that could be written about these (new to me) varieties, in general they are medium to large, globe shaped, red with yellow hues, and delicious, meaty tomatoes. If you are a Celebrity, Early Girl, or Brandywine fan, I highly recommend trying something new from the market or in your garden. Most importantly, these are great tomatoes for canning as they are firm enough to retain their shape when transporting and when slipping into canning jars. Timing is also important in regards to selecting tomatoes. Right now, for instance, we have a glut of tomatoes, meaning farmers are looking to sell at good prices. I always check or ask to pick through seconds, as when canning, it’s simple enough to remove bruised or blemished sections. This will greatly reduce already nominal costs.

Now I want to get to the root of this article, which is about the process, and the philosophy that underlies my particular canning process. Notice that I am not going to talk in detail about the chemical transformation that takes place when one cans. It is enough to know that canning sanitizes food in such a way that the food is preserved for years. Let me start then with Charlie Papazian, the father of modern home brewing. Throughout his influential book The Joy of Home Brewing, Papazian tells us, “relax, have a home brew.” As an once avid home brewer, I can tell you this is good advice. Making beer indeed can be a complex process, but it can also be a relaxing and simple practice. With his motto, Papazian reminds us that we have a hand in constructing the experience, as in the experience is not alone determined by the technical, material nature of the process. The exciting news is that canning tomatoes is far simpler, by all accounts, than brewing beer. While I of course recommend looking into more detailed sources before putting your Fantastics under the lid, here’s the exact way I approach the process.

First, don’t make canning such a big deal. Don’t, for instance, buy four bushels and twenty boxes of new jars for your first go around. Instead, try a dozen heirlooms and a couple quarts of some paste tomatoes—just enough to fill the canner for one go around. Start by getting your gear in place. Wash your quart jars in soapy water and have them clean and ready. Fill your canner no more than a third of the way to the top, bring the water to a boil, and, if you like, heat more water in your stock pot in case you need to bring the water up higher once the jars are in place. In a small sauce pan, heat your lids. Have your jar tongs and rims in place.

Now that the gear is all set, we can turn to the fruit and canning process. I prefer to blanch, core, and halve my tomatoes before packing into jars. This is a simple process involving a pot of boiling water and a bowl of ice water. The idea is that by dunking your fruit into boiling water for 15 seconds and then removing them to the ice bath, their skin will simply fall off. To do this I first make a small, cone shaped incision at the stem to remove the top of the core (not the middle of the core like an apple). At the bottom, blossom end of the fruit, I make a small “X” with my tomato knife to help the skin come free in the bath. After a few seconds in the ice bath, remove the skin with your hands, halve the fruit, and pack into your jar using the jar funnel. Continue until your jar is filled to within 1/2 inch of the top, pressing down to remove excess air. No need to add anything else. Wipe the jar lip clean to ensure a good seal, place on the lid and loosely seal with the band, and set aside until the rest of your jars are filled. When all jars are ready, use the tongs to lower each jar and secure in the canner. Bring the water back to a gentle boil, and be sure to adjust the water level to just below the bands. Boil for ten minutes, and, using your tongs, remove to a towel covered counter clear of cool fall breezes. As you turn off the kitchen light and retreat to your study, take delight in each “pop” indicating a properly sealed jar and preserved future meal.

Me, Myself, and Pie: A Lesson in Baking

Good enough to eat!

By Weston Eaton

Baking a pie from scratch is not as easy, nor as difficult, as it sounds. What I want to do here is entice you to do so, especially if you have never done so before. Like baking a loaf of bread, or fermenting a jar of pickles or a few gallons of wine, the result is a product now richly embedded with your own energies, efforts, expectations, and desires. My argument is that in baking a pie from scratch, these attributes come through all the more in the final product.

But what does “from scratch” really mean? With the growing farm-to-table craze, this is a useful question. One does not have to grow their own wheat and mill their own flour to bake a pie from scratch. Nor does one need to grow their own fruit. While I cherish such ideals, they are not practical for most people. Instead, I crudely define baking from scratch as the practice of sourcing and preparing ingredients that have undergone only the minimally required levels of processing. In the case of pie, this means starting with fresh fruit or vegetables and, for the crust, basic baking ingredients like flour, salt, lard and water. Doing so results in a fundamentally different kind of pie than one baked with store bought pie crusts or canned/frozen fillings. This is not to say that the latter cannot be used to make great pie. My point, instead, is that making a pie from scratch produces a product that is in essence far more the physical representation of your efforts and your care.

Below is my recipe for one peach pie, handed down and altered, but essentially a very basic rendition of what I feel to be the quintessential dessert pie. Why peaches? Beyond their glorious taste, peaches are in season. I’ll first give the recipe and process for pie crust, and then for the pie filling. After this, I’ll give some detailed directions and some additional tips for baking. Quick note: I advocate using lard in lieu of vegetable shortening, especially if you can find some from a local farmer. Like margarine and butter, shortening is not a healthy substitute for animal fat.

Pie Crust:

• 2-1/4 Cups flour (all purpose)
• 1/2 Teaspoon salt
• 1 cup minus 2 Tablespoons Lard
• about 1/3 Cup very cold water

Pie crust, like other pastry, is a little intimidating. Unlike cookie dough, we cannot simply put these ingredients together with a Kitchen Aid mixer. Instead, the process calls for “cutting” lard into the salted flour and then adding cold water to achieve a ball of dough cohesive enough for rolling out with a pin.

Here’s what you want to do: First, preheat your over to 425F. Next, mix the flour and salt together in a large bowl. Then, using a pastry knife, or two butter knives, cut the lard into the flour until the texture looks like coarse meal. Next, sprinkle the cold water (I put mine on ice) a little at a time into the mix, while continuing to cut things together. Form the mixture into a ball. The pastry dough should be smooth and malleable. The tricky part of the whole thing is getting the ratio of water right. Too much water and you’ll have sticky and eventually tough crust. Not enough water and you’re rolling crumbly dough. Add flour or more water if necessary either way. Wrap the dough in wax paper or saran wrap and place in the fridge for at least a half hour. You can you use this time to prepare your fruit. Additionally, you can now freeze this pastry dough for future use, making your next pie just that much simpler. Here’s the simple mix I use to make peach pie filling:

Pie Filling

• 5 Cups skinned and sliced fruit, mostly peaches, some nectarines.
• 1 Cup sugar
• 1/2 Cup flour
• 1/2 Teaspoon cinnamon
• 2 Tablespoons butter (for on top the filling)

To prepare your fruit, the best thing to do is buy peaches and nectarines a few days ahead of time and set them out on the counter in a brown paper bag to ripen. You can either blanch your peaches or simply peel by hand. When peeled and sliced, mix all ingredients together except butter. You can add this once the crust is in place.

When the dough is chilled, remove from the fridge, slice in half, and prepare to roll out the dough. To do this, you’ll need a rolling pin and some flour-dusted counter space. The goal here is to roll out your dough without it sticking permanently to the counter. Doing so requires flour—but not too much or, again, the dough will become tough. Start by forming your half ball into a squat disc. Flour your pin, then roll center to edge forming a circle. If tears, cracks, or irregular shapes occur, simply overlay the separations and continue to roll. As I begin rolling, I fold back the dough and add a bit more flour. At any time you can turn the pastry to make sure it is not sticking. Next, to get the crust in your 9-inch pie pan, fold the dough in half and then in half a gain, then unfold in the pan. Press down gently and trim excess with butter knife.

With your bottom crust in the pan, pour in your filling and top with butter. Roll out your top crust the same way, unfolding over the filling. Trim and seal, using your thumb to form a scallop or fork. Cut a few slices for ventilation and, finally, brush with whipped egg white and sprinkle on a palmful of sugar.

Baking essentially requires 45 minutes—or until the crust is golden brown. I suggest covering the crust with foil to prevent burning, but to do so in a way that prevent the egg whites from sticking, try adding the foil after 15 minutes of baking. When the pie is done, let it cool on a rack. This pie should be frozen if not eaten within a few days. Serve with vanilla ice cream and a hot cup of coffee. Share with someone you respect. As they stand agape, tell them they, too, ought to bake their own pie from scratch.

Recipes Revisited: Four for the Summer Bounty

Here again is former staffer, current contributor Wes Eaton with a batch of great recipes (originally published last year). These are designed to coincide with the late summer bounty hitting gardens and farmers markets just about now.

By Wes Eaton

August begins to reveal the full possibility of fresh Michigan produce. Early summer’s kale, swiss chard, lettuce and collard greens are making way for tomatoes, carrots, beets, cucumbers, garlic and squash—a welcome transition, especially for seasonal eaters. Here I’ve put together four of my favorite summer recipes, complete with beverage partners. These recipes are simple and delicious, and most (if not all) of the ingredients can be found at your favorite farmers market. When seeking out these seasonal items, don't be shy, ask the farmer when they were harvested. We’re in the midst of the bounty here—if the veggies were picked over two days ago head to the next booth.

Pico

Homemade salsa recipes are often complex, but when you start with Romas ripened on the vine and cilantro clipped from the planter, little else is needed. Try this recipe as-is before doctoring it up.

Ingredients:

• 8 Roma tomatoes
• two medium white or candy onions
• one bunch cilantro
• one lime
• kosher salt to taste. 

Core and cube tomatoes in a large bowl. Chop cilantro, stem and all, leaving only the ends of the stems out of the bowl. Add along with chopped onion and juice from one lime, add salt to taste, chill and serve with lime-garnished Vienna Lagers—Great Lakes Elliot Ness, for example.

Pesto

Like salsa, pesto too can be made complex, but start here. Complements to Stephen Gasteyer for this easy yet rich and decadent recipe. Use as a sauce for pastured chicken or make a summer lunch by serving over chilled angel hair with a simple lettuce, balsamic, oil, sea salt and black pepper salad. You’ll plant an entire row of basil next year.

Basil, and lots of it

Ingredients:

• 1 cup fresh basil leaves
• 1 garlic clove
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• 1/4 cup pine nuts
• 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt. 

If raw, toast the pine nuts ever so gently in a cast iron skillet. Layer ingredients into a food processor or blender and blend to desired consistency. Amazing how the individual parts become an entirely new whole. Freeze in baggies with air removed and amaze yourself in late March. This sauce pairs well with European-style pilsner, which cuts the richness of the pesto. Try Victory Prima Pils, Lagunitas Pils, or Pinkus Organic Ur Pils.

Tomato Salad

The simplest recipe here, inspired by my pal the Perch, this dish is the perfect way to feature the wealth of tomatoes and cukes on farm stands everywhere this month.

Ingredients: Roma tomatoes cut into large cubes, same portion of fresh picked cucumbers, halved and sliced, half as much coarse chopped basil, olive oil, sea salt, fresh cracked black pepper. Mix in a large bowl and serve with a draft cider, homebrewed if possible, but Magners Irish Cider or Michigan-made J.K.'s Scrumpy Cider will both do in a pinch.

Perch's note: for an acidic kick, try adding balsamic or red wine vinegar to taste; also, if you can't find Romas, any tomato will do, even heirloom tomatoes (pictured below).

Fermented Dill Pickles

Why fermented and not canned? Pickling cucumbers are at their peak in high summer, but through the process of fermentation--in this case with lactobacillus bacteria--you can inhibit spoilage and enjoy them all year. Once a staple farm food, fermented dills were usually a messy affair cellared in frothy crocks and barrels. Much easier is to simply ferment pickles in the quart jars you would later store them in anyway, which is how I recommend you make these delicacies.

Taste is another reason to go the fermentation route--these are the best pickles I’ve ever had. I admit, it's taken me more than a couple seasons to perfect this process. But like all forms of fermentation, producing these pickles yourself is as much an art as it is a science. What this means is that practice and patience play key roles in achieving success, much like in making beer and wine.

To introduce yourself to the science, first read up on fermentation here. (The art part you’ll have to find on your own.) Next, decide how many pickles you want to eat and hand out later this fall and over the holidays. Keep in mind that you can fit 3-4 large and 5-8 smaller pickling cukes in a one-quart jar.

For each quart of pickles you’ll need approximately two cups of brine. Here’s a good formula for about one quart of brine: 3 cups water, boiled and cooled, 3/4 cups white vinegar, 1/4 cup canning salt.

The other ingredients you need include fresh-picked and washed pickling cucumbers, fresh heads of dill, sliced hot peppers, fresh garlic cloves and pickling spice. The key to a good pickle is buying or picking them fresh and using them the same day. If you’re reading this in Grand Rapids, you’ve got about two weeks left of pickle season. I suggest getting over to the Fuller St. Farmers Market and talking with the folks at Visser Farms. A good pickle is firm and boxy. Avoid bloated pickles—they were picked too late. Pickling spice is widely available; however, Global Infusion in the East Hills neighborhood sells organic pickling spice in bulk for $0.95 an ounce, which is a great deal.

To get your pickles going, start by mixing the brine. Stuff everything else into the clean jar and top up with brine. For each jar, use at least three heads of dill, some dill greens, two cloves of sliced garlic and one tablespoon of pickling spice. Loosely seal the lid and store out of the light around 70F. In a few days the clear brine will turn cloudy as the fermentation process begins. In a couple weeks CO2 bubbles will cease. A finished pickle has a slight translucent color when sliced. The white sediment is the healthy bacteria. If the brine is still clear or the pickles turn to mush, compost them and try again next year. Either refrigerate or process in a gentle boiling bath for 15 minutes. Share with special people and serve with French- and Belgian-style farmhouse ales, like Vivant Farmhand, New Holland Golden Cap, or the classic Sasion Dupont.

Former Siciliano's staffer Weston Eaton is currently pursuing a PhD in Sociology at Michigan State University. He lives with his wife and dogs in Grand Rapids, MI, where pickling season is as much a state of mind as it is a time of year.

Tasting with multiple bodies

When it comes to tasting craft beer, context is king.

By Weston Easton, Professor-in-Training

In this short tale, I’d like to explore the way one thinker has changed the way I experience taste on an everyday basis. In a yet-unpublished book chapter, Annamarie Mol writes about taste as being a lynchpin between the physical world of nature and the intangible world of human society. She roots this suggestion in the physical act of tasting, which, she argues, is a bodily act as much as it is a human social and psychological experience. Moreover, Mol uses this act of tasting to make an argument about the body: the idea that the body is multiple. 

Here’s how this works. The argument is actually quite simple. Yes, our bodies are whole things. But if we trace the way we taste (keeping in mind the definition above) from one situation to the next, this changes. The body becomes multiple as it too varies situation to situation. Her example is that we mobilize taste differently in different contexts. She gives the cases of tasting for poison, as undertaken by tasters screening the dishes of ancient emperors, of tasting to acquire specialized knowledge about food and drink, or tasting to eat less food, or to eat enough. So then our bodies, as represented here by taste, change in different contexts and situations.

I think this idea is interesting and useful for people who think deeply about the food they eat and the beer they drink. Or better yet, for recognizing that people who do think deeply about things such as craft beer probably do not always taste in the same way in every context. Let me give an example. Think about some of your favorite beers. Do they always taste the same? My bet is that you, like, me, experience variability from beer to beer, even if its the same brand or label. When the taste is different, do you ever wonder whether this is do to a chemical difference as much as a difference in place, company, or mood? These questions deal with expectations.

Another set of questions might get at intentions. Do we always drink or eat for the same reasons? I think this is especially important for craft beer drinkers. Our kind are known for seeking out new tastes and getting excited about new horizons. But we’re also known for being painstakingly nuanced and distinguishing tasters. When we are tasting a craft beer, we are deliberate in our intentions: we evaluate the beer based on a certain set of standards or criteria. The point here is to recognize that in craft beer culture, taste has been mobilized as a highly specified (think style), codified (IBU’s), and standardized (see BJCP.org) practice, the aim of which is to objectify taste—an act Mol shows to be a highly subjective and contextual thing. At the same time, taste (in beer) has also been transformed into a symbol of who we are as people, what our food values and ethics are.

Why point this out? For one, I think its important to recognize that the way we interact with craft beer is a specific thing. We do not mobilize taste the same with craft beer as we do, say, with water. We use personal discretion, but this discretion is not entirely of our own devising. Moreover, in different contexts, we taste differently. As others have recently pointed out, even craft brewers themselves do not always drink craft beer. PBR, for instance, is popular with West Michigan brewers as a “good corn beer.”

A brewer is an especially good example of the way taste operates differently in different contexts and of how the body is multiple. Brewers' professional identities depend on creating distinguishable tastes consistently, yet they themselves drink outside of their own brand’s portfolio. Tasting sweet wort, a brewer uses all her skills to adjudicate and determine if the specimen meets established standards. Yet out in the tap room, he/she may drink a pint for either “quality control” or for simple relaxation. These shifts are bodily shifts. Using the example of a latte or other coffee drink, Mol points out that treats like these provide our bodies “a break from working” where instead of trying to “master the world” we can “just live” and “be appreciative.” The latter could certainly involve corn beer.

So, for me at least, thinking about Mol’s point—that we mobilize taste differently in different contexts, and that our bodies are therefore multiple and contextually located—has led to a new personal mantra: be aware of the different ways I mobilize taste. I like to think of this as a first step. A successive step is to reflect back on how the way I (consciously or unconsciously) mobilize taste steers my preferences and intentions and therefore my body/mind’s experience of taste. Said differently, we get what we’re looking for with taste, and are therefore capable of fooling ourselves even before we do any actually tasting.