MamaPeke.

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Tue, 10 Nov 2009 10:07:00 -0500

Biomass, Part I

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 08:55:00 -0500

A koan: Have I stacked and burned thirty woodpiles over the years, or has there only been one woodpile ebbing and flowing?

You would think the day before my husband has surgery to remove an adrenal tumor I’d have more on my mind than the woodpile. Looking out the window at the yellowing crabapples, the shapes of the mountains flattened against the gray sky, the rusty dried leaves, I see winter coming and I’m glad the woodpile is under control. Now if Walter needs extra time to convalesce, there will be no worry.

You can tell a lot about a household by the shape and size of its woodpile. Most of ours is in the cellar now, about three dry cord. We got the last of it moved in about a week ago with the help of our handyman. But I’m ahead of myself. This woodpile (or, this year’s iteration of the Eternal Woodpile) started as three dry cord piled next to the driveway. I also single-handedly piled a green cord next to the driveway about a month ago; it is still there, drying for a future year, not ready to join the pile in the cellar. There’s that old saying about wood warming you twice: bringing it it is the first time, then there’s the cozy fire. Anyone who seriously heats with wood, though, will be quick to tell you it warms you many more times than twice. First you move it from a dumped heap into a stack for drying, then you move the dry wood either into another stack or maybe several (ours in the cellar, for example) then to the stove, then you enjoy the heat it produces. If you’re tidy and organized, you will have a dynamic mix of green, dry, stacked, stored, and stoveside wood ready to go by the middle of November. If you’re lazy and disorganized, you’ll have a heap of green cordwood sitting right where the wood guy dumped it in August; soon it will freeze and you’ll be cussing all winter as you chip each soggy log free.

I smile to remember how terrified I used to be of lighting a match. The idea literally sent me into a cold sweat. Now, thirty years into living with wood heat, I don’t remember how I made the transition from complete fear of fire to an ease with it. I have worked the cycle with wood heat, from helping to fell the eighteen-inch maples to cutting log lengths, splitting them, stacking, moving, and burning the results. Lately, though, we order cut and split cordwood from Palmer Goodrich, anywhere from two to seven or eight cord every summer depending on the status of the woodpile. We stack it, move the stacks two or three times as it dries, and burn it in one of several stoves: the Regal cookstove in the kitchen, the Vermont Castings “Resolute” in the front room, or the potbelly railroad station stove in Walter’s train layout room. We go through about four cord every heating season, trying to use as little of the oil heat backup as we can.

Wood is a pleasant material to handle. It smells good, it has an interesting texture, the heft of each 16-inch split log is just challenging enough. As with so many other chores, I always feel slight dread at the prospect of stacking wood but once I start, it’s not so bad. HOWEVER: I’m ready to offer a meaningful reward to anyone who can design a ONE-STACK SYSTEM for our woodpile. It should be close to the house, but not in the way of the snowplow. It should always keep the driest wood most accessible. It should include a means of keeping the cellar full of dry wood. Meaningful reward, people. Wood is a pleasant material, but there are only so many hours in the day.

I live in the middle of a great forest. Over the years I’ve watched woodlots cleared, covered with scrub, and then crowded with young hardwoods again. I’ve stacked and burned my share of maple, oak, beech, and birch and learned the special characteristics of each: color, grain, weight, and, best of all, smell. Sometimes I treat myself by throwing a big birch log on the fire, then going outside to smell the smoke as it curls out of the chimney. The smell of birch smoke means warmth, comfort, security. Just what a person needs when he’s coming home less one adrenal gland.

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Tue, 10 Nov 2009 08:07:20 -0500

Cinnamon Rolls

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 09:47:34 -0500

My father’s mother, Grandma E., died when I was in first grade so my memories of her are hazy. She had large strong hands; her house smelled like baking. She, as I recall, wasn’t particularly interested in me, in that world-weary way of someone who had raised ten children during the Great Depression. Grandma E. towered as a monolith, though, in one regard. She, according to my mother, made the world’s best cinnamon rolls.

I now believe this consistent effusive praise on the part of my mother was just an example of the Minnesota ”try to say something nice even if you don’t really like somebody” mentality. Though she wouldn’t have admitted it when I was a child, the truth is that my mother and her mother-in-law had a ”strained” relationship. I guess my grandmother doubted my mother’s ability to “take care” of my father and my mother, naturally, resented her attitude. Nonetheless, I took the cinnamon roll standard as a personal challenge and knew my womanhood would never be proved until I met it. I wanted to establish my honor on the basis of baking prowess, just like Grandma. Maybe I thought I could impress my mother in the bargain…

My first attempt involved an unauthorized batch of sweet roll dough ruined when my parents were away for a day. Since my mother wouldn’t allow me to bake in her kitchen (“too messy”), I had waited until she was gone to try my first yeast dough. And since I had no idea what I was doing, and was operating with the fear of her imminent return, I threw the whole business in the garbage long before the first rise was complete. Later, when the time came to take the garbage can to the curb, my mother calmly reported it contained a lovely, light dough. Though she wasn’t actually angry, I gave up the project, unable to deal with the anxieties my maiden attempt had touched off.

Working with yeast dough is intimidating at first, especially if you’re making your way with the help of written instructions and not an actual live grandmother to walk you through. It takes a long time to understand what “add flour until you have a sticky dough,” “knead until smooth and elastic,” and “risen until double in bulk” mean. Bread dough is a living thing. As such, each batch is a little different, each batch defies the precise paramenters of the recipe in a new way.

I’m happy to say I’ve made friends with yeast doughs over the year. I’ve moved from those first whole-wheat loves that looked (and tasted) like bricks to a consistent repertoire of delicious doughs, from brioche to perfect pizza crust. My pride and joy, of course, are my cinnamon rolls.

Yesterday I prepared a batch of these rolls to sell at the Baptist rummage and bake sale. As always, I took the rolls fresh from the oven to the church in open pans. People followed me from the parking lot to the vestry where the rolls were sold almost before I could set the pans down. I’m proud of myself.

Maybe my grandmother would be puzzled by my single-minded pursuit of cinnamon roll perfection. Honestly, I don’t remember ever eating any of her cinnamon rolls. But just in case my mother was right, I believe mine could stand the comparison.

Here is my recipe (note that the dough starts in the food processor):

CINNAMON ROLLS

6 cups flour

1/3 c. sugar

1 Tb. salt

3 tsp. instant yeast (SAF instant yeast, not the Fleishman’s packets)

2 large eggs

1/2 c. heavy cream

Place all the above ingredients in the bowl of a food processor fitted with the plastic dough blade. Start the machine as you slowly pour 2-3 cups of warm water through the chute until the dough pulls away from the sides and forms a ball. At this point, remove the dough and knead it. Try to have the stickiest dough you can handle. A very sticky dough will cling to the palm of your hand when you gently pat it—that’s too wet. The proper consistency is when you tap the dough with the palm of your hand and then lift your hand, the dough will come up in stringy sheets. If the dough is drier—and doesn’t come up at all—it will be OK, but not as fluffy. Knead the dough until you feel it start to “push back” a bit and the surface blisters. After you have made yeast doughs a few times, you will recognize this stage. Be patient and someday the “aha” will come. Cover the dough and let it rise in a cool place overnight (or at least for several hours).

After the first rise the dough will be light and bubbly. Punch it down and knead it again. If you have time, let it rise again for about an hour and punch it down once more. If not, you can still make the rolls but they won’t be as tall and the texture won’t be the same. Then roll the dough into a rectangle approximately eight inches wide, eighteen inches long, and one inch high.

Butter the rectangle with soft butter. Sprinkle it with cinnamon sugar. Roll up starting at the edge of the long side of the rectangle. Cut into approximately 16-18 rolls about an inch wide and place them 1-1 1/2” apart in two greased cake pans. Let the rolls rise again for about twenty minutes. Bake at 375 for 20-25 minutes until brown. Glaze when cool.

Glaze:

3 cups powdered sugar, sifted

1/4 tsp. salt

1 tsp. vanilla

Add heavy cream until of glaze consistency.

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Mon, 09 Nov 2009 09:46:54 -0500

"Another day, another dollar; fourteen hours on snowshoes and wish I had pie."

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 08:26:22 -0500

““Another day, another dollar; fourteen hours on snowshoes and wish I had pie.””

- from a Maine trapper’s diary