The Wu of Maker's Mark

For what shall it profit a man 

if he shall gain the whole world, 

 and lose his own soul? 

 ~ Mark 8:36

Never mind whiskey aficionados; tongues on even vodka lovers were wagging earlier this month over a rare public relations stumble in Kentucky. Rob Samuels, COO of Maker's Mark, announced that the alcoholic strength of the company's signature bourbon was to be lowered from 90 proof to 84 proof.

The company had announced, quite literally, that it was watering down the product.

The ensuing uproar was immediate, vocal, and sustained. On Facebook, Twitter, and other social media, indignant fans deplored the decision and excoriated the firm. Bartenders who prefer overproof spirits that can stand up to the dilution of mixers and ice in cocktails bemoaned the new direction. Users howled indignation and pundits prognosticated the future of the brand (opinions ranged from “I’ll never buy Maker's again” to “In a year, who will even remember?”). It became a national story. Up in Vermont, WhistlePig vowed to increase the proof of its rye whiskey. I stayed mostly mum on the topic. Regardless of what others recalled next February, I would remember who did this.

I was struck immediately by the resonance of Samuels' announcement with Philip K. Dick's 1962 novel The Man in the High Castle. The book depicts a world in which Germany and Japan emerge victorious in World War II. Between them, they conquer and divide a disgraced former United States. I must have been ten when I read it first, but Dick's depiction of wu — a slippery concept applied to handcrafted jewelry in the book, but applicable to whiskey here — has stayed with me for more than thirty years.

It wasn’t indignation over the decision to dilute the whiskey or even anger, really, I felt. Rather, it was sadness. Another layer on our ever-thickening patina of loss. True, Americans have experienced great gains in recent decades in fields such as medicine, technology, and publishing. But we have suffered a concomitant erosion of our greatness. Heroes once idolized have been exposed as flawed — sometimes deeply flawed — humans; OJ Simpson, Lance Armstrong, Joe Paterno, John F. Kennedy, Michael Vick. Endless obstructionist caviling among our politicians have led many to despair that we will ever be better off than our parents.

Our entertainment has grown recursive; witness the remakes of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Arthur, The Karate Kid, or Gus Van Sant's scene-by-scene reshoot of Pyscho, movies that did not need to be remade, that arguably should not have been remade, that do not leave the world a better place in their passing. Our homes, by and large, are not built as well as those of a hundred years ago. On it goes. NASA's space program: gutted. New Orleans: flooded and nearly lost to us. The lunacy of creationism taught as fact to defenseless children who will be unable to compete for jobs as adults because they simply will not understand how the natural world works as well as their grandparents did.

Into this morass steps Maker's Mark with another assault on our faith in the goodness of humanity. And why? Why reduce the proof of this iconic whiskey? Profit. Global thirst for American whiskey has grown steadily in recent years and supply has not consistently kept pace with demand. Maker's in particular has experienced shortages, despite a 2012 expansion that increased production capacity by some 45%. Watering the whiskey was seen as a way to increase almost instantaneously the available inventory by 6%.

Deplorable things happen. Every day. Drove my Chevy to the levee and all that. But it's not all odious Kardashians, pedophile priests, and watered down whiskey. Not even close. There are good things as well. Whether it's the residuum of my midwest upbringing or a Catholic education that drives me to be what the Jesuits dubbed a man for others, I choose to spend time making and pursuing things that make the world better. As the California designer Mike Monteiro writes in Design in a Job, "[Y]ou are responsible for what you put into the world...and you can only stand as proud of the work as its benefit to society entitles you to." Amen, brother. Whether it's websites or whiskey, we shoulder a moral responsibility for what we bring into the world.

For the past twenty years or so, there's usually been a bottle of Maker's knocking around the house, but when Samuels made his initial announcement, my thought simply was to abandon the label quietly. No point in making a fuss. I'd never tasted the lower-proof version and the erosion of quality is arguable. We were assured the taste was nearly identical. That was beside the point. For decades, Maker's has presented itself using the language of heritage, tradition, and craftsmanship, a brand — a family — hitched to the yoke of history. Through it all, that squat bottle with its red wax top remained unchanged. The trope of Maker's as custodian to an unbroken legacy of quality suffuses marketing materials, bottle design, and even the grounds of the distillery itself which in 1980 was declared a National Historic Landmark. Your haircut, your president, and your wife may change, but Maker's would always be Maker's.

Until the day it wasn't, the day we were told it was to be cheapened for the masses. And that brings us back to Dick's novel. In The Man in the High Castle, Robert Childan, a dealer in historic Americana — Colt revolvers, Buffalo Bill's head in a jar, Civil War recruitment posters and the like — has presented a piece of modern American jewelry to Paul Kasoura, a wealthy young Japanese civilian newly stationed in occupied San Francisco. Kasoura secretly laughs at Childan for presuming to present such a piece, but soon develops an unexpected attraction to it.

"Here is a piece of metal which has been melted until it has become shapeless. It represents nothing. Nor does it have design, of any intentional sort. It is merely amorphous. One might say, it is mere content, deprived of form.”

 He goes on.

“Yet,” Paul said, “I have for several days now inspected it, and for no logical reason I feel a certain emotional fondness. Why is that? I may ask. I do not even now project into this blob, as in psychological German tests, my own psyche. I still see no shapes or forms. But it somehow partakes of Tao. You see?” He motioned Childan over. “It is balanced. The forces within this piece are stabilized. At rest. So to speak, this object has made its peace with the universe. It has separated from it and hence has managed to come to homeostasis.”

“It does not have wabi,” Paul said, “nor could it ever. But—” He touched the pin with his nail. “Robert, this object has wu.”

Wu, Dick tells us though Kasoura, is a quality that allows us to experience a tranquility associated with holy things. It is not necessarily apparent, even to its maker who may recognize only that the object satisfies, that it is complete. By contemplating such things, we gain wu ourselves. Kasoura is profoundly moved by it. With subtle discomfort, he informs Childan that an associate wishes to replicate the piece in plastic or base metal — tens of thousands of units — for sale to the poor and superstitious in Latin America and Asia. The deal, he confirms, would be worth a great deal of money. “What about wu?” Childan asks. “Will that remain in the pieces?”

Kasoura is silent, but we know the answer. It will not.

Childan could take one of two paths. One could make him immensely wealthy. The other is less clear. He seizes the decision to meet the exporter. Then, in a moment of clarity, he realizes the trap.

Whole affair a cruel dismissal of American efforts, taking place before his eyes. Cynicism, but God forbid, he had swallowed hook, line and sinker. Got me to agree, step by step, led me along the garden path to this conclusion: products of American hands good for nothing but to be models for junky good-luck charms.

Which path does Childan take? Read the book.

Maker's Mark, however, made the honorable choice. Chairman emeritus Bill Samuels, Jr. joined Rob Samuels in a conference call to confirm that fans' protestations were heard loud and clear. Geoffrey Kleinman relates their conversation here at DrinkSpirits.com and confirms that, after just a few days of online furore, the whisky will return at 90 proof.

Well, I'll be damned. Turns out there's room on my shelf for Maker's after all. And if, from time to time, it's not available, that's ok.

Goes well with:

• Mike Monteiro's 2012 Design is a Job is ostensibly selling design for web designers, but it's a practical little manual for creative types of all stripes — and those of us who work with them.
• We also disdain watered down bacon. Maynard Davies aims to show how bacon was done the old way. 
• Don't know Dick? You may know more than you think. His stories have been made into movies such as Minority Report, Blade Runner, Total Recall, and A Scanner Darkly. Pick up a copy of The Man in the High Castle at your neighborhood bookstore or online here. 
• Got a thing for Dick? You may also enjoy these Charles Bukowski postal stamps. 
• David Toczko's 2012 book, The Ambassador of Bourbon: Maker's Mark and the Rebirth of America's Native Spirit, presents over 250 photos of the Maker's Mark distillery, including fermenting mash, barrels in the rickhouse, hand-dipping of the those red wax seals, and some archival material. Introduction by Bill Samuels, Jr. and foreword by Rob Samuels. Pick up a copy here. 

An Old Distiller's Trick Revived in Oregon

In Hillsboro, Oregon, west of Portland, the Imbrie family erected a granary barn around 1855, a few years before Charles Darwin published The Origin of Species. With a handful of repairs here and there and a new concrete floor, it remains standing today. Inside, distiller Bart Hance makes whiskey and brandy on a still that's almost as old as the building itself.

Look closely: that's a metal can dangling in the middle.

The still is a French model, known in Cognac as an alambic Chartentais, typically used to make brandy and popular on the American west coast. This one was found in an old barn in France and shipped to Oregon where it stayed boxed for years before being installed in the granary. Other than a few brass fittings, the pot still is entirely copper and has a graceful, curving neck through which alcohol-rich vapor rises on its way to the condenser. At 160 gallons, it's not the biggest still one will find in the United States, but it is one of the more venerable. Unlike some modern stills, it has no sight glasses, no thermometers, no computerized reports indicating what's happening inside. On an old still like this, to know what's happening on the other side of the copper at any given moment, one must relies on sight, smell...and sound.

Sure, there's the sound of the gas fire. The intensity of that sound will indicate broadly how much heat is directed at the bottom of the pot. If the sound of the fire dies away unexpectedly, trouble — dangerous trouble — may be brewing. But attendees of a brandy distilling workshop sponsored by the American Distilling Institute learned from Hance to listen for another sound: the jarring clang of falling metal.

See, it takes a long time for wine or beer to heat up in the boiler of a pot still, especially if it's at the frosty room temperature of an old wooden barn. A distiller can't just sit there like a plate of biscuits waiting for the wash inside the pot to warm. There are forms to be completed, barrels to move, and a dozen other tasks involved in running a distillery. So, lacking readouts and internal thermometers common in some modern stills, Hance deploys an old French trick well-known to Cognac makers that allows him to do those other jobs while the still heats. He attaches a large, empty metal can to a string, then loosely wraps the string around the still's neck. With a dab of wax, the string stays in place.

And then the distiller walks away.

As the wash heats and vapor begins to rise, the copper (an excellent heat conductor) grows warm. Eventually, the neck grows warm enough to melt that dab of wax and — CLANG — the can drops and clatters onto the bricks below, sounds loud enough to be heard anywhere in the barn. That's the signal that Hance has perhaps ten minutes before liquids start trickling from the condenser and to wrap up whatever he's doing; there are cuts to be made.

Hats off, Hance; that right there is some old school merde.

Goes well with:

• A visit to Cornelius Pass Roadhouse and Imbrie Hall. The former Imbrie homestead is now owned by McMenimins who were instrumental in getting the property listed on the National Register of Historical Places. The whiskeys, brandies, and other spirits made at Cornelius Pass and at the company's Edgefield distillery are not for sale in liquor stores, but are entirely for internal use at the various bars, hotels, and restaurants under the McMenamins banner. Imbrie Hall, however, offers a selection of bottles for take out.

Distill America: All the Tastings You Can Handle

Tickets are on sale for the Madison Malt Society's annual Distill America. The shindig (MMS's fifth) is February 23, 2013. A note from Kristine at Koval came over the transom this this morning promising that the Chicago distillery will be on hand to pour spirits. She writes:

Relish the chance to experience over 45 distilleries and over 150 unique spirits at a more intimate tasting event, where each table is backed by a direct representative of the distillery. Craft highlights include Clear Creek, Kentucky Bourbon Distillers, Mississippi River, New Holland, Ransom, Rogue Spirits, and St. George. Chicagoland is well represented by Koval and fellow locals North Shore, FEW Spirits, Quincy Street, and Tailwinds. Our Michigan friends from Journeyman will also be in attendance.

Attendees are promised "all the tastings you can handle, complimentary hors d'oeuvres, and unbeatable intimacy with each distillery." Unbeatable intimacy? Woof ~ I might have trouble explaining that one at home.

Additional distilleries scheduled to be on hand include Heaven Hill, Death's Door, Quince and Apple, Four Roses, Square One, Yahara Bay, and more. General admission tickets are $55. For an extra $10, the VIP pass will get you in an hour earlier than general admission. Tickets, events, and more information are available at Distill America.

Goes well with:

• Carl Corey's Tavern League: Portraits of Wisconsin Bars published by the Wisconsin Historical Society. 
• Any trip to Madison is an excuse to drop by Zingerman's Deli for a bite. Can't make it to the event or Madison? Grab a copy of Zingerman's Guide to Better Bacon. A spoonful of bacon will soothe any pain. 

2013 American Artisan Spirits Judges Announced

Hubert Germain-Robin nosing brandy at Huber's Starlight Distillery

The American Distilling Institute has announced its panels of judges for the 7th annual judging of American artisan spirits next month. The lineup includes active and retired distillers, bartenders, authors, industry consultants, and a few journalist types such as yours truly who may (or may not) fit into one or more of the above categories.

The judges will analyze and critique hundreds of spirits over two days at Huber's Starlight Distillery where we'll break out into separate panels: one for brandy, one for rum, and one (or possibly more) for whiskey.

It is fun? Hell, yes. Is it all fun? No. The days start early and end late. No perfume, no cologne. No scented hand soap. No coffee (at least, not at the table and not if you don't want a big Rowley stinkeye). Though invariably some spirits are excellent and some are flawed, we remain stoic and sit almost entirely in silence. No grunts, no groans, and — as Gene Wilder's young Frankenstein would have it — no yummy sounds.

The judges are:

• Dennis Barnett - Third Wave Brands, Orange County, CA
• Ian Burrell - Rum Ambassador, London, UK
• Christian Butzke - Purdue University, Purdue. IN
• Martin Cate - Smuggler's Cove, San Francisco, CA
• Brendan Coyle - High West Distillery, Park City, UT
• Flavien Desoblin - The Brandy Library, New York, NY
• Hubert Germain-Robin - Master Distiller, CA
• Mark Gillespie - Whiskycast
• Tracy Howard - Imbibe Magazine, Portland, OR
• Monique Huston - Stoller Wholesale, Franklin Park, IL
• Aaron Knoll - The Gin is In, NY
• Guillaume Lamy - Cognac Ferrand, France
• David Pickerell - Oakview Consulting, former Master Distiller at Maker's Mark
• Brett Pontoni - Binny's Beverage Depot, Chicago, IL
• David Smith - Summer Fruit Cup, UK
• Matthew Rowley - Rowley's Whiskey Forge, San Diego, CA
• Peggy Noe Stevens - The Bourbon Women, KY
• Amanda Stewart - Purdue University, Purdue, IN
• Eric Watson - AllBevCon
• Brendan Wheatley - Belmont Farms Distillery, VA
• Richard Wolf - Wolf Consulting, KY

Will I tell you the results on my return to sunny Southern California? No, I will not. For that, you'll have to wait until they are announced at ADI's annual meeting in Denver (April 1-4, 2013). And then I'll pass it on.

Now, about that yummy sound...

The Price of (Citrus) Perfection

Georgia O'Keeffe lemons show up with surprising frequency

In a major grocery store, whether it's Safeway, Ralph's, Tesco, or Albert Heijn, you're apt to find beautiful fruit on offer. Oranges so immaculate and perfectly spherical they could be ornaments. Eureka and Lisbon lemons so hefty, so perfect, that they each could stand as the very definition of "lemon." Down the line: perfect fruits and vegetables. Well, perfect to the eye, anyway. Relatively high prices reflect  culling of the oddballs, the defects, the grotesque, the undersized, and the unevenly ripened. Limes for 69¢ each, individual lemons for 89¢.

In a pinch, sure, I'll buy just enough at those prices to eek through whatever citrus shortage drove me to that particular store. But at the rate we burn through fruit — especially citrus for cocktails — I'd be a damn fool paying retail prices for perfectly formed specimens.

Enter the second-tier grocer. You may not know about them in your community, but even many small towns (and I've lived in a few) have markets that serve immigrant communities. I'm not talking about high-end specialty stores that cater to well-heeled world travelers (though those are nice, too). Rather I mean the small stores with ingredients imported from "back home"or made locally in a familiar style that less affluent shoppers nonetheless crave; curry blends, certain cheeses, particular breads, teas, syrups, sugars, sweets, pickles, etc. In Philadelphia, there's the 9th Street Italian market. In San Diego, my go-to place for such things is North Park Produce. The store clearly buys a lot of seconds — those fruit and vegetables that aren't quite up to snuff for display at the major chains, the ones that were culled. These are the fruits I tend to buy for cocktail and cooking.

Limes with a bit of wind blemish, oranges with a blush of green on one side, and lemons that can be, frankly, bizarre are what I'm after. Most of them are actually fine, just undersized. And the prices? Well, they fluctuate, but a single dollar will typically get me 4-5 pounds of oranges (pounds, mind you, not single oranges), 7-10 lemons, or anywhere from 8 to 20 limes. At those prices, we're almost never without the ingredients to crank out any one of hundreds of cocktails.

Of course, if drinkers or eaters will see the fruit as part of serving or prearing it, more seemly specimens may be in order. A big bowl of defects and seconds on the bar is not going to get you top dollar for your cocktails. But a hybrid approach is fine. Serving fresh lemonade from a huge see-though dispenser? Juice the cheap ones, but buy a bag of big perfect beauties to cut in half, ream, and float in the mix.

Customers, after all, do pay a premium for pretty food.

Goes well with:

• Bitter oranges. The season is drawing to a close, but I scored a bunch at North Park Produce (3551 El Cajon Blvd, San Diego, CA) for $1.39/lb and used most of the batch for making vin d'orange. The rest is going into a cake later today.

Making Vin d'Orange with the Last of the Seville Oranges

Now that winter has hit full stride, the citrus offerings could hardly be better. We’ve been making marmalades, lemon curds, desserts, and cocktails with the aromatic bounty. In the kitchen now, I’ve got 5 kilos of navel oranges, a box of Meyer lemons, a bowl of blood oranges, several dozens each of limes and Eureka lemons, a bowl of bergamots — and three Seville oranges.

Those last three bitter oranges may end up as the base for ice cream or a cake. Maybe syrup. Perhaps a tincture. Not entirely sure. I’ll have it figured out by dinner. The rest of them are soaking in wine.

Unlike relatively sweet Washington or Valencia oranges typical of American supermarkets, the rough-skinned Seville oranges are an older bitter/sour variety with limited availability in the US. Centuries ago, when members of the English and French aristocracies grew trees in their glass-enclosed orangeries, these were the fruits they grew. In Florida today, grocery stores and fruit stands may sell them as sour oranges or naranjas agrias — a core component of Cuban mojo, a ubiquitous (and delicious) marinade. In Spain, most of the bitter orange crop is exported to the UK where it is turned to classic orange marmalade. The dried peels of Caribbean harvests remain the building blocks of numerous famous orange liqueurs.

Lumpy-ass bitter oranges, freshly washed

But it is France, where bitter oranges are known as bigarades, that inspired me this weekend to convert a batch into a simple orange-infused aperitif called vin d’orange. The instructions below may seem proscriptive, but in truth, it’s a flexible recipe with room for adjustments. Do you prefer a drier result? Use less sugar and a drier wine. Like something more full-bodied? Try it with red wine rather than the rosé I used. If white wine is your thing, who’s to stop you from using white? Precedents exist for each. You could even ditch the bitter oranges entirely and make vin de pamplemousse with grapefruit.

By early summer, the wine will have taken on the ethereal taste of vanilla and bitter orange. Balanced with the sweetness of cane sugar, it will be just the thing for our pre-meal drinks outdoors. And, of course, if you want to play with it as an alternate to sweet vermouth or Lillet, you’d be on solid ground.

Vin d’Orange

8-10 Seville oranges (about 1 kilo or 2-2.5lbs) quartered lengthwise and sliced in smallish chunks — peel, pith, seeds, and all
2 entire lemons, sliced similarly
6 (750ml each for a total of 4.5 liters) bottles of cheap but decent rosé wine (see below)
1 liter vodka 80 proof/40% abv
2 vanilla beans, split lengthwise and cut into thirds
700g-1 kilo sugar (1.5-2.2 lbs)

If you have a container large enough to hold 2 gallons, put everything in it. If, like me, you use two smaller jugs, split the ingredients evenly between them.

I'll get to you when I return from Kentucky.

Put all the ingredients into one (or two) jars. Seal, shake. The sugar won't all dissolve at first. Patience; it will over time. Put the jars in a dark spot such as a cabinet, closet, or basement. Give it a shake or two every day for two weeks. Just to show it who's boss. Then every week or so do the same. So it doesn't forget.

After a rest of 30-60 days (I find better extraction at 60 days, but even an hour shows marked improvement on taste and some impatient souls simply can't wait two months), strain the mixture into a large clean bucket, carboy, fermentation tub or what have you. Cover it and let it settle a day, then line a funnel with several layers of cheesecloth and rack the heady wine into the clean bottles you saved, leaving any sediment behind in the bucket.

Done. Label it, date it, store it in a cool, dark place. One bottle should go into that cool, dark place known as the fridge.

Equipment note: You’ll need one or two large glass jars or stainless steel containers for the long infusion. Make sure they are airtight. I used 5-liter glass jugs with swing tops and gasket closures. When the time comes to bottle, you’ll also need clean glass wine bottles. My suggestion: wash and save the ones you emptied into the jugs.

Goes well with:

• The wine I used here was a 2010 Côtes du Rhône, Cuvée Abel Clément, about $5/750ml at the San Diego Wine Company. Use a wine you like and that doesn't break the bank. 
• We really do put citrus though the paces here. Try a blood orange marmalade sour with a dose of Brazilian cane spirits.
• My take on a solid preserves recipe book, The Blue Chair Jam Cookbook. It's especially useful for inspiration of what to do with the more unusual fruits cropping up in farmers' markets over the last few years. 
• A few notes on The River Cottage Preserves Book, including a recipe for an unusual homemade noyau (though not, it should be noted, my recipe for noyau).
• We like jam a lot around here. Try the hot pepper version and straight up bacon jam with apple cider.

XXX: St. George's 30th Anniversary Single Malt Whiskey

Just as 2012 was heaving its last gasp, I plunked a bottle of St. George Spirits' 30th anniversary single malt whiskey on my desk with every intention to crack it open on my return. See, at the time, I was due to be away for much of January. And so I was. But I picked up a wicked cold on the road. Sense of smell and taste completely rubbished, I avoided tasting new spirits and stuck with those I already knew (often in the form of hot, chest-warming drinks liberally dosed with rum or brandy).

I'm back at work now, but it's a pity I didn't get to the whiskey sooner. It's exquisite.

Like many American distilleries, St. George has been presenting spirits that push, pull, and tug at traditional categories. Take its dry rye gin, an unaged, pot-stilled 90-proof rye whiskey finished with juniper and other botanicals typical of gin.

Likewise, the 30th anniversary single malt brings in an unexpected dimension. Finishing whiskey in casks once used for Port or Madeira, for instance, is not unheard of but the distillery here has taken advantage of its inventory of barrels that previously held its pear eau de vie. The result is a lush, heady, distillate; once I pulled the cork, its aroma filled the office. The pear is there as well as the malt, but roasted orchard fruits come through with an overall spiciness that suggests ginger and toasted nuts. Sweet, but not cloying. Despite the high proof (47.3% abv), it's balanced, almost — but not quite — as much a joy to inhale as to drink. Brendan Gleeson's line from 28 Days Later rises to the surface of my mind; Takes out the fire but leaves in the warmth.

A long finish lingers, lulling me into a contemplative, almost glassy-eyed mood, making me wish I'd started a fire in the hearth before I'd poured some into the tumbler. There will be no mixing cocktails with this one. Instead, I pull my sweater a little closer in a big, comfortable chair, bury my nose in the glass, and stretch out the moment as long as I can.

The release is limited to 715 bottles, so it may take some sleuthing to track down one for yourself. And it's not cheap: retail will run you around $400 for a 750ml. How to get a bottle? St. George's website advises: "Because of the extraordinarily limited nature of this release, we have had to allocate bottles to select retailers in the markets we currently have distribution. Please contact your favorite local retailers to see if they have a bottle or two. Many bottles have already been snapped up, but we know where to find the ones that remain…If you need assistance scoring a bottle of your own, please contact our office at 510-769-1601."

Goes well with:

• A Fistful of Pears, Bread & Gin's spaghetti Western-inspired take on a bittersweet cocktail using St. George's pear eux de vie and pear liqueur.
• Ernie Button's Vanishing Single Malt Scotch, in which photographer Button turns an eye to his dirty tumblers for an unexpected discovery. 
• A persistent rumor holds that when a Scotch distillery replaces an old still, a new one — completely reproduced down to every last ding and dent — takes its place so the new spirit is unchanged from the old. The chairman of the company that has made most of the stills in Scotland takes issue with that and sets the record straight.  

Haggis Recipes

A 2003 survey suggested 

that a third of US visitors to Scotland 

believed the haggis 

was an animal. 

Nearly a quarter thought 

they could 
catch 
one.

 ~ Jon Kelly

BBC News Magazine

“Of all offal,” writes Anissa Helou, “lungs are perhaps the least interesting gastronomically.” Helou’s Offal: The Fifth Quarter, is devoted to preparations of those “variety” meats such as lamb’s tongue, pig trotters, oxtail, and, yes, sheep and pig lungs now coming back to vogue, as they do in times of economic turmoil. Well. Lungs may take a bit more getting used to than some other cuts.

Not, however, for legions of Scots and Scottish Americans who mark Burns Night — January 25th — as one of the primary occasions for dishing forth haggis, the lead into any proper Burns Supper celebrating the life and poetry of the 18th century poet Robert Burns. Haggis is an unusual bit of Scots charcuterie that is both a bit of a joke among outsiders and a point of national pride. Traditionally, sheep’s lungs provide the bulk of protein, though heart and liver are also in the mix. Mixed with onions, oatmeal, and spices, the ground meats are stuffed into a stomach and simmered for hours.

While it enjoys a degree of popularity in Scotland (and, increasingly, England and Wales), authentic Scottish haggis is banned in the United States. It’s the lungs, you see. According to a recent piece in BBC News Magazine, US food safety officials regard lungs as “inedible.” Americans craving a bit of haggis can either try smuggling some in (not advised), opt for a domestic lung-free version (see below), or take a DIY approach and make it at home.

For those who want to tackle this "great chieftain o' the pudding-race" themselves, here are two haggis recipes. The first is from Anissa Helou who lifts it from F. Marian McNeill’s The Scots Kitchen. Helou reports that one could use bone marrow rather than suet but advises that doing so requires the cooking time to be doubled.

Haggis #1

 1 sheep's pluck (heart, lungs and liver)
250g minced beef suet
2 medium onions, finely chopped
250g coarse oatmeal, toasted in a moderate oven for about 30 minutes
Good pinch cayenne pepper
¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg
2 teaspoons dried herbs
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 large sheep's stomach, cleaned very well
300ml milk 

Prepare the lungs (see below) and discard the windpipe. Place in a large saucepan, together with the heart and liver. Cover with water and place over medium heat. As the water comes to the boil, skim it clean and boil gently for 1½ hours, or until completely tender. Remove the pluck from the pan. Trim away all gristle and nerves and chop them very fine. Strain and reserve the cooking liquid. 

Put the chopped pluck in a large mixing bowl. Add the suet (or chopped bone marrow, if you are using it, chopped onions and toasted oatmeal. Add the cayenne pepper, nutmeg and dried herbs. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Mix well, adding enough of the pluck's cooking liquid to have a smooth mixture. The mixture should be highly seasoned.  

Spoon the mixture into the sheep's stomach until it is three-quarters full. Sew the opening and place in a large pot. Cover with water. Add the milk. Place over a medium heat. As soon as the stomach swells up, prick it in several places, then reduce the hear and simmer for 3 hours, adding boiling water to cover if the water level goes below the stomach.
Serve very hot.

Helou’s method for preparing lungs: Rinse the lungs well under cold water. Put in a saucepan and cover with water. Add a 4" cinnamon stick and salt to taste and place over a medium-high heat. As the water comes to the boil, skim it clean. Then cover and cook for 40-45 minutes, or until the meat is done.

The second haggis version is one of two offered by British bacon curer Maynard Davies in his essential Manual of a Traditional BaconCurer. Although Davies’ recipe also calls for a sheep’s pluck (its combined heart, lungs, and liver), he suggests preparing it without the lungs. “Some manufacturers,” he reports, “put lights [lungs] and rinds into haggis but I am not a big believer in that. I say, put the best in and get the best price.” Lungs, no lungs: your call. 

Haggis #2 

Ingredients 

5 lb sheep's liver, hearts and tongues
1 lb beef suet
3 lb oatmeal
2 Spanish onions 

Seasoning 

3oz fine salt
1 oz white pepper
1½ pints of stock
Juice of one lemon 

Method

Put a sheep's or lamb's stomach in a strong solution of salt water to cleanse. Turn inside out and make sure it is very clean. After 30 minutes throw the water away and repeat the process — cleanliness must be paramount in these preparations. Clean the liver by placing it in a strong solution of salt water; this will remove any blood clots and debris. When clean, take out the liver and remove all the sinews; repeat this process with the tongue. 

Boil the liver, tongues and other oddments. Keep the water from the boiler for your stock. When cooked, mince all the meat ingredients on a medium grid. Mince the suet on a fine grid: add a small amount of flour so that the suet does not stick to the grid. 

Now put the oatmeal into a large container. Mix the oatmeal with the stock left from the cooked meat; mix into a fine paste and place in your bowl chopper. 

Add the minced meats and finely minced onions. Add the suet and spread this evenly in the bowl chopper. Lastly, add the seasoning, spreading this evenly over the surface. Turn in the bowl chopper until the mix is of a fine consistency; add more seasoning if necessary until the desired taste is reached. 

Check the stomach before stuffing to make sure it is well cleaned. Do not over-fill — fill three-quarters full to take into account expansion. Make sure the top is tied with a good knot; sometimes it is necessary to sew the stomach to close it. 

Now place the haggis in the boiler and cook gently for 21/2-3 hours, at no hotter than 180°F. Any hotter and the haggis will burst. To check that they are adequately cooked, use a needle and prick one of them — the needle should come out clean if the haggis is well cooked.

It is best to remove the haggis from the boiler using a sieve. Place the haggis on trays, leaving a space between them to cool. Place in the fridge when cooled.

Goes well with:

• The offal truth about American haggis, Jon Kelly’s piece for BBC News Magazine
• Craving a bit of haggis for Burns Night or the next hogmanay? W.A. Beans of Bangor, Maine makes a domestic, lung-free, version for the American market in 1-, 2-, and 5-pound doses. 
• A revised, expanded edition of Offal: The Fifth Quarter is available here. 
• How about some Scotch whisky to go with that?

Replacing that Worn Out Still — Every Ding and Dent?

Since the nineteenth century, the Forsyth family has made stills. By some estimates, they have fabricated nearly half of Scotland’s whisky stills. Their firm, Forsyths, specializes in larger distillery systems, but builds each model to order and has made some as small as 50 liters. I recently spoke with Richard Forsyth Sr., chairman of the company, about Forsyths’ presence in the North American market. Although their footprint in the US is modest, it covers some noteworthy distilleries, including Balcones Distilling, Distillery 209, Kings County Distillery, Philadelphia Distilling, and Woodford Reserve. Building stills, however, is not the firm’s bread and butter. Repairing them is.

Old copper stills wear out. Or is that a Dalek?

Most American distilleries were founded in the last decade and are simply too new to have to contend with worn-out stills. In Scotland, however, aging equipment is an ongoing concern. “Our main business,” reports Forsyth, “is replacement of worn stills. Distilleries can run 24/7 and run down pot stills quite quickly. We check the copper’s thicknesses on an annual basis in Scotland and home in on wear areas. We write reports and then sit down with each client to agree on a replacement program.” The traditional two-still process in Scotland is particularly hard on the equipment. A preliminary run on the first still produces low wines, a relatively low-alcohol liquid. These low wines are then run through a second still, often called a spirit still, which concentrates ethanol further yielding white dog or new make which, when aged, cut, and blended (or not), becomes the Scotch whisky we know.

The wear patterns on those stills are exactly opposite. Harsh low wines, explains Forsyth, corrode the upper parts of a still within 10-12 years, while the pot may last 30-40. On the second distillation, it’s the other way around. Low wines and feints corrode the boiler, but the spirits rising through the upper parts are much more refined, so upper parts like such as the Lyne arm and swan’s neck may last 30-40 years, but the pot only 10-12 years.

Rather than replacing the entire still — an expensive proposition — Forsyths craftsman cut away worn areas and replace them with new materials. Those apocryphal stories about Scotch distillers replacing old stills with brand new ones that exactly replicate every dump and dent so that distillers can faithfully reproduce whisky that is exactly the same every single time? Turns out that’s just a good story for gullible drinkers.

 “Replacing old stills down to the last ding, bump, and patch?” chuckled the chairman. “That’s not quite true; those old stills may have a dent or two. Rather than replace the entire still, we only replace the parts that require it. If we cut out a patch or replace a part, we will replicate angles and shapes religiously, so that the contours of the boiler or Lyne arm, for example, are exact duplicates. After all, if we built it, we still have the original plans. But every ding and bump? No, we don’t do that.”

So pour that in your glass and drink it.

Goes well with:

• The Purpose of Good Liquor, a tale of old Scotch whisky put to good use. 
• Ernie Button's Vanishing Single Malt Scotch, in which Mr. Button turns his eye (and camera) on unwashed whiskey tumblers.

Auf Wiedersehen

As we wind down 2012 at the Whiskey Forge, the usual New Year chores take on a tinge of urgency. I'm spending much of the next month in the air and on the road, so this week I'm starting early on the quiet tasks I usually reserve for the beginning of every year — donating old clothes to charity, packing up Christmas ornaments, purging the fridge of faded syrups and questionable tinctures, cleaning out the larder, weeding the library, sharpening every knife and blade, and all the dozens of little things that keep this place humming.

And then I'll leave.

House sitters will feed the animals and mind the booze, but this is my last post for a while. I'm not saying goodbye; simply "until we see each other again." The next stretch of travel will take me far from the comforts of my own bed, but I'll return with tales of Scottish still-building, liquors and liqueurs, an old French distillers' trick, a bunch of books you should track down, and recipes to see you through the rest of Winter's harsh embrace.

  

Waes hael, auf Wiedersehen, tot ziens, tschüss, ciao, adieu, adios, and — in the words of the immortal Ice King — peace out.