Aftermath

Oh people, my people.

Ten for dinner last night, nibbles and main course and dessert, cocktails and wines and water: I should probably have taken pictures of the kitchen this morning, for I cannot describe it, for you would never believe me. But I have filled and started the dishwasher, and apart from the noise it makes there is no way to tell that I have done that; visible inroads have not been made, uh-uh.

And there was me thinking I'd be heading off for the library in half an hour or so. Hah. I guess I'll be waiting for the dishwasher, so that I can empty it and fill it again. And again and again and again and again. (I'm making bread, that too, in the one corner I did contrive to clear; and I'll bottle up the kimchi, and find other little things to do here and there. Karen has intimated that the house beyond the kitchen might be less than scrupulously clean...)

[zoom]

Good lord. Can I actually, seriously drink more coffee?

Certain 'tis that I want to. The spirit is willing. The flesh is ... agog.

I may be a genius. And a fool.

Kimchi crudo, people. I cannot yet say with any degree of certainty how well it's going to keep - only time can tell that, and time may not get much of a chance - but after forty-eight hours of sitting at room temp, I am here to tell you that it is fucking gorgeous.

It is distinctly crudo - it lacks the layering and sophistication of even commercial Korean kimchi - but if flavours of salt and garlic, a lovely textural crunch and a fierce biteback are paramount, then I have achieved paramouncy. I have filled a two-pint jar, and eaten the little that was left, and oy. It's not too hot to eat, which was a worry; it is delightfully zingy. And salty, and garlicky, and crunch. Now I really really want a plate of fried rice and a couple of eggs, to see how that-all marries up.

And I really, really wish I had documented the process, because even after just a couple of days it's hard to remember what I did, and I want to do this again.

One Chinese cabbage, chopped into two-inch slices, scattered with a handful of sel gris and set in a colander above a bowl, with a plate atop and two pints of hand-of-buddha vodka (in a jar!) on top of that, to weight it down.

Overnight, that leached out a lot of water. I didn't rinse the cabbage, because I wanted to keep the salt.

I whizzed up a lot of red Thai chillies - and I do mean a lot; perhaps half a pound? I shoulda weighed 'em, but I didn't - with a heap of garlic, some ginger and a little rice vinegar into a crude paste with lots of visible chunks of chilli still remaining. Anything else? I don't think so.

Mixed the cabbage into the paste, and left it to stand forty-eight hours in an airtight container. Stirred it once, halfway.

Now it's in a jar, and I'll probably fridge it.

Thrice the brindled cat hath mewed

If our clubhouse can be known locally as the Debauched Sloth* - and it can, believe me, for it is - then I see no reason why the dishwasher can't be known as the Brindled Cat. Lord knows, there's nothing else around here that we might brindle.

There exists upon the internets a website/tumblr/app called Unfuck Your Habitat. I'm not a devotee or anything, because it's all about maintenance and that's the stuff I'm really no good at, the consistent application of an abiding principle**; but I am rather charmed by the name***, and I really wish they could do me more good than in fact they can; so this afternoon - when I was by no means finished with the kitchen, despite having forgone leaving the house this morning in order to tackle it - I decided to play their game with a twenty-minute timer. And I did two sets of twenty-minute cleaning, and am done with no more than half the countertops & surfaces, hey-ho; but the chopping-board has been oiled, yay, and Karen's pewter tumbler for SCA events has been discovered, and some things have been thrown away and others set in order and I did also empty and fill the dishwasher three times. Three. And there are still dishes.

Now I am going to go to Lucky's, just in order to get myself out of the house once at least today. Besides, we stand in urgent need of dishwasher powder.


*"Sir, you have debauched my sloth." Patrick O'Brian, since you ask.

**Why yes, I am aware of the irony here.

***Not at all ironic: there are a hundred ways they could have said it cleanly, and that they chose to be crude just delights me. It's all about audience awareness.

Baking: it may be something to do with science, as well as art

So a thing just happened, which I thought was two things and both my fault, but actually may be not divided. Still my fault, but hey: I'll take one over two, any day.

When I came to bake my loaf this evening, it was clearly over-risen, though it had only been in the proofing basket for three hours, which is ridiculously quick for my sourdough. I sighed, and cursed myself for not checking it an hour earlier, and baked it anyway because we have need of bread.

And as I took it out of the oven, sighing a little because it was a little flat and spread, insufficiently oven-sprung on account of having been over-risen, I was struck by another horrible thought, which half an hour later I confirmed by taste: I had forgotten to salt the dough. Curse me and my heedlessness! One good loaf doubly ruined, because me!

And yes, two problems with it - but I am suddenly wondering if in fact they are two symptoms of the same problem, because salt is said to retard yeast. So maybe the unsalted dough rose faster and further simply because of its unsaltedness, rather than some other unforeseen vigour...?

Oh, but I do love baking. Even the problem loaves are fascinating. And, blessedly, edible. Even without salt.