Smoke 'em if ya got 'em

One of the outbuildings on our property is what most folks around here call a summer kitchen, though I'm not sure that's entirely accurate for this structure. Inside is a massive, cast-iron wood-burning stove – the sucker is probably 5' wide by 2' high by 4' deep – that was used to cook scrapple, among other things. The stove is essentially a giant box with two doors in the front for loading wood and four burners of varying sizes on the top. Just to the right of the stove is a large pivoting post, sort of like a block and tackle, that has a huge hook hanging from a horizontal crosspiece. This was used to swing the huge vats of pork fat and spices on and off the burners.

In a small addition off the original building, though, is another room, approximately 15' x 8', that's been constructed out of cinderblock. The place smells like burnt wood, with the subtle lingering odor of dog piss, an olfactory clue to the building's insubstantial role over the last several years. Carved out of the back corner is what looks like a closet measuring about 4' x 5', with one door and a small hole notched out of the wall. Open it up, and the interior is charred black. This is the smoker, and it's become a mild obsession of mine.

This winter I bought Michael Ruhlman's book “Charcuterie: The Craft of Salting, Smoking and Curing” and I've been slowly working my way through it – slowly because there are plenty of other things vying for my attention lately. Like Ruhlman's other books (“The Making of a Chef,” “The Soul of a Chef,” etc.) it's a fantastic read that details the process of smoking and curing in terms that a novice can understand. He does it so beautifully, though, that you can't help but want to become a professional boutique charcutier, living amidst salts, pork and smoke as a means of income. I dream of getting some good cuts of pork and smoking my own ham or bacon, or even curing some nice Prosciutto di Parma in the root cellar.

First, though, there's painting to be done.