Category: Projects

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Hoard a Cord

Or two!

…which is the most aggravating unit of measure. A cord of stacked firewood, which measures 4’x4’x8′, does not conveniently fit within any structure made of lumber, whose standard dimensions come in 4′ or 8′. Because the internal dimensions necessitate the outer frame to be longer, otherwise the wood cannot be overlapped in order to attach screws. What I needed was 4′,4″ and 8′,6″ boards, but they’re not sold in those lengths. So I had to buy 10′ versions, which was more expensive and generated a lot of waste.

But dammit, I would not be deterred. The accumulating piles of wood from my trees, due to easement reclamation, fungal disease, hurricanes, and general pruning, has left me with quite the back-logs (ha!). I wanted to finally process it all, and I wanted to stack firewood in exacting measurements, as well as be sure that future firewood providers were being truthful. So 10′ boards it would have to be, cut down to give me those exacting lengths.

Taking a cue from my previously-built tomato trellis, which is still firmly standing 5 years later, I opted for 4x4s, stuck 2 feet deep. That’s the maximum depth I can get post diggers down to, and historically that’s been sufficient to stay below the frost line. I doubt that with the weight of the wood that frozen ground pushing my posts out would be a problem anyway, but I’d rather not have to build this again. The rocky soil was certainly a pain, but fortunately I had supplemental manual labor to employ.

A bad design of engineering is to rely upon connecting hardware for load-bearing applications, so the supporting boards, which would hold the firewood off the ground, were rested upon sunken 2x4s, screwed into the outer frame. The goal being, the vertical support would rest directly upon the ground, rather than relying upon the main structure.

But not all firewood is cut to the same length, so in order to prevent smaller pieces from touching the ground, I installed fencing wire to shore up the gaps.

One cord down, I added a second identical section.

There are plans for a roof, using leftover metal sheeting from the house roof. I’m hoping it will match nicely, but the more pressing matter was to get the wood split and stacked for the changing seasons. And with the help of a newly-purchased splitter, it only took several weeks! Damn was that a lot of wood!

I’m glad that’s done. The wood situation needed addressing and I had been planning a storage solution for years. More pics to come once the roof is installed, but I’ll need some more time off for that. Hoping to wrap this up for 2025!

–Simon

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Wine Cap

I got another mushroom spore block last Christmas. The family biologists seem to enjoy them, and have looped me in. And I diligently grow them. Because they are kind of neat.

The first batch I grew were yellow oyster mushrooms, which had a pleasant mushroom-y taste. Then Dad brought me down some foraged Chicken of the Woods, which I recently wrote about, and tasted quite pleasant with indeed a chicken-type flavor and texture.

Chickens Don’t Live in the Woods

But the wine caps, for which I created a dedicated “garden” in a half bourbon barrel with straw, failed to fruit despite clear signs of ongoing inoculation. Finally, after nearly 6 months, they appeared.

So to try them, I applied a light sauté as to not muddle the flavors.

And they were terrible. Sweet and astringent. Yuck. Not recommended. I think I’ll send the rest up with Dad for him to try. What a disappointment for such a long wait. Oh well.

–Simon

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Bacon Perfected

Many moons ago, I began smoking my own bacon. Inspired by a certain blog post, I invested my time yet again into insourcing development so as to create a superior and cheaper (personal time excluded) product. I brought it in house, as MBAs say. Or do they? I’ve never heard one actually talk about doing that. They just send work to India.

I don’t think many Hindus or Buddhists eat bacon though.

As as with most instructions, this formed a foundational starting point, but they can always be improved upon. And thus, after several attempts, I present my enhanced version. Here it is:

Meat
  1. Acquire uncured pork belly.
  2. Mix brine. Use a 2:1 ratio of a standard Kosher salt brine and Morton’s Tender Quick. Here’s the measurements that will provide 3/4 gallon’s worth of brine, which should be sufficient: 1/4 cup Kosher salt, 1/4 cup brown sugar, 1 cup Tender Quick, 12 cups water.
  3. Optional: add herbs/spices (peppercorn, garlic, whatever).
  4. Submerge pork belly in brine (FoodSaver bags are mighty convenient).
  5. 7 days later, on the 7th day itself, remove pork belly from brine and rinse. Air dry (a box fan is helpful here).
  6. Preheat smoker to 200 degrees F with hickory/pecan wood mix.
  7. Smoke pork belly until it reaches an internal temperature of 165 F.

After that, just cool the meat. An hour in a deep freeze will firm it up for slicing. Then it’s just bagging, sealing, and freezing for long term storage.

Where have I deviated? Well, for starters, using a mix of standard salt and curing salt reduces the sodium nitrate content. Ignoring health concerns (because this is bacon, after all), this reduces the perceived saltiness while still retaining that nice pink bacon color. Reducing the curing time by half a day also reduces the saltiness, as does rinsing the meat pre-smoke. Trust me – it’s still salty. But it’s much easier to skip the rinse for a saltier taste if desired than it is to try to soak the salt out when using the longer brining times/higher sodium nitrate amounts for a less salty taste later. And finally, at 160 F, meat will hit its stall point in the smoker where water begins to quickly evaporate out. Going to 165 F will ensure a drier product; which means less cooking time, less splattering while cooking, and crispier edges.

I also estimated some savings. Compared to premium market bacon, which is what this is, it’s about half the cost per slice. But I can also control the salt level and flavor. It’s an aggravating endeavor, but also one that can be significantly weighed against the convenience of store-bought bacon uncertainty!

–Simon

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Your Beast of Burden

You can take away a man’s dignity but you can’t work his fields and cows.

Family legend has it that the old family farm, which my grandparents ultimately sold (yet another example of the ongoing death of all small family farms), was an original land grant plot parceled out as government payment to a veteran of the Continental Army.

My grandparents didn’t inherit this property. They acquired it sometime in the late 1950s, after my father had been born. I haven’t dug that deeply into the Moorheads’ lineage, so I don’t know offhand the level of our involvement in the American Revolutionary War. “Moorhead” – head of the moors – is Scottish by origin, hailing from the lowlands – Glasgow region. (That might explain something about my family’s temperament.) And the Lowland Scots immigrated in the 1700s, so it’s possible. And that group supposedly immigrated voluntarily to New England cities, and were supposedly of the more professional and merchant classes. Dunno why my family ended up farming. I assume it was more lucrative back then.

But it checks out with my own genetics test, which pinpoints a high percentage of my bloodline coming through Pennsylvania. And Philadelphia is a specific city called out in the Lowland Scots’ immigration paths. So this all aligns roughly: At some point when the country was young, the Moorheads came to Pennsylvania and migrated west to Ohio.

Anyway, back to the farm.

When the farm was acquired, it included some items with the property. The specific item of note for the purpose of this post is an ox yoke. It’s very old, naturally. Remember, the plot of land was very old, and always used for agriculture, and presumably it dated back to the original owners. That part’s oral history. Like so much of family history, it can’t definitively be verified. But if it’s true, it’s a cool story.

The yoke always hung in the farmhouse, then my grandparents’ retirement house, then it passed to dad. And just recently, he granted me stewardship. As the last blood-born male heir to the Moorhead line, it needed to be honored appropriately. And I had just the spot for it.

Thanks to the AirBnB movement, there are a lot of rustic-themed mounting options. For this application, I chose an iron pipe with applicable fittings. The idea was to compensate for the ceiling joists not being centered over the archway.

Ta-daa!

Since my grandfather refinished it, any monetary value it might have is strictly personal. But that’s all right with me, since it fits the nostalgia bill properly, like the old farmhouse shotgun.

May it survive to pass to the next generation.

–Simon

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Here There Be Zombies

The cultural zombie phase was fun, for a time. Then I started to notice that a segment of people actually believed they were real, or could be. And I’m not talking about that creepy part of Voodoo and their supposed zombifying drugs. I mean, some people actually thought that the majority of the population turning into violent flesh-eating monsters was a possible apocalyptic outcome for humanity. Zombies became less fun, knowing that not everyone was going along with the gag.

Personally, I thought the fantasy had gained so much traction because it scratched a certain violent desire in all of us to be morally permitted to kill other people…because they’re not people per se, but still the physical form of people, and that lets us justify it. I can’t shoot a neighbor I don’t like, but if that neighbor became a zombie well, that would be okay. Because not only am I now allowed to kill this neighbor, but I’m obligated to. For the future of humanity.

Yeah, that’s totally normal to find in one’s crawlspace.

Moving on, I have a crawlspace. Not just any crawlspace, but a dungeon of a crawlspace. Like the kind from those Evil Dead movies. But instead of a trapdoor, it has a full size vertical home interior door. Because the prior owner had dug out a portion of the crawlspace (supposedly to breed worm colonies for fishing bait – sure, whatever). Admittedly, it does make access to the bathroom plumbing much easier, but damn is it creepy. Compounded by the bizarre assortment of objects remaining within, like a work table above which hangs a single lightbulb. And discarded women’s undergarments. And rusty blades. You get the idea.

The door is also shabbily hung, with no backstop trimming to close it properly. I’ve been meaning to fix that so it seals tight and keeps the mice out.

But rather than tackle a practical project, I decided instead that this doorway to hell needed decorating. I thought about the classic Divine Comedy quote, but that didn’t quite seem to fit. No, it needed something more embedded within Americana. Like zombies, for instance!

It’s fun what you can find on Amazon these days!

Then combined with some hardware hanging around the garage and food coloring, and…

No, that wasn’t enough. More creep factor needed. After some contemplation, I hooked up an electronic actuator to tap the door and wired it into a motion-activated plug. Now, when someone approaches the door to investigate: “tap” “thunk” “tap” “thunk”…teehee.

I might not be a zombie myself, but I think this project will at least make others consider I’ve lost my mind regardless.

–Simon