Hot Knives

The way we remember our first misadventures with amateur homebrewing back in college - it was fun but lacking in results. Steering Alex's Saturn toward rural Riverside on a weekday morning after loading up on black coffee and death rock CDs, we pulled in to the parking lot of "Beer Beer and More Beer," a sort of general store for homebrewers. Where slim abdomens go to die.

We returned with a 5-gallon plastic drum and some tubing, a couple standard recipes, and plastic baggies of hop pellets, and canisters of malt extract. The first batch we made wasn't half bad, a simple pale ale. The second batch, well, let's just say we should have set rules about impulse brewing decisions - like adding grapefruit rind and weed straight into the fermenter. That month, we lugged clinking half-rotten beers to parties. After that, we pretty much only used the plastic tank as a drum at anti-war protests, beating on it with a metal spoon or crowbar.

That was 8 or so years ago. Since then we've penned hundreds of blog posts, spent thousands of dollars on beer, walked the factory line of breweries, written a beer-zine, interviewed plenty of brewers and homebrew fanatics, and racked up immeasurable research time on bar stools. And yet, we've never once made a move to get back on the proverbial horse, and try our hand at homebrewing again. Until this summer!

Thanks to our friend Alex Macy, an inimitable beer guide in his own right, we have thrown down the gauntlet. A couple months ago, as Macy was gearing up to lead a series of homebrew classes here in L.A., our discussion strayed to the topic of tonka beans, an exotic, nearly impossible-to-acquire ingredient that we figure no one has ever brewed with. Macy was intrigued and suggested brewing a strong beer of some sort flavored with tonka beans. We agreed it might be the best chance of brewing a beer that no one else has ever made before...

Tonka beans are tear-shaped South American seeds that look like a cross between almonds and black cockroaches. Like something that crawled out of the jungle and expired before killing you, only the things smell -- and taste -- rather delicious. (Think vanilla, cinnamon and that plastic-y Toys R' Us scent.) The catch is that tonka beans can actually kill you. Because they contain a chemical called coumarin, which thins the blood, consuming more than you should can lead to liver failure. Or kidney failure. We can't remember which exactly. But the Food and Drug Administration seems to think it's a really bad idea. Anyway, we decided to give it a shot.

Besides cheesemongering, Alex imports nuts and spices. So he was able to get his hands on some tonka -- its legal for Wiccans to use as power amulets in rituals -- and we met up in Macy's backyard to spend a recent afternoon doing a ritual not so unlike that of Wiccan priestesses: we watched a cauldron boil, added illicit substances to it, and talked about using yeasts as a natural lubricant. The result? Hot Knives' very own porter. "Fuck the FDA Porter." Available only for your video pleasure, for now.

Come back next week for a full report on the finished product, along with a Hot Knives review of our very own beer!

Our birthdays are usually witnessed by either a house party or camping. This year it was a little bit of both thanks to an opportunistic, long-ago-made reservation for a desert rental property in Joshua Tree built almost entirely out of mirrors, glass and gold bricks, called Acido Dorado.

We drove out last week, lugging the usual stockpile of iced booze, aged vinegars, citrus fruits, a 15-pound watermelon, sharpened knives, French cheese, BB gun, not one but two tortilla presses, and batches of still-proofing bread doughs. The rental contract helpfully reminds patrons to "bring your own drugs and alcohol," so that wasn't a problem. (Although the instructions do include a corollary rule: don't climb the ornate gold fence proclaiming yourself a "golden god...even if you are in fact a golden god.")

We forgot only one thing: hot sauce.

Given that our taste buds no longer register food that doesn't contain capsicum, this was a major oversight made worse by the fact that our planned meals involved pizza and tacos, fried eggs and beans. So we did what we do and whipped up a hot sauce on the spot. Rather than just vinegar punch, we wanted something sweet: We started with freshly pulsed and strained watermelon juice, and whisked it with pure habanero powder. (Looking nearly identical to cayenne, but significantly hotter, we found habanero chili powder in the bulk section of our health food store. But cayenne will work just fine.) From there it was a quick squeeze of lime, a hearty dash of good red wine vinegar, and a quick boil with a flick of flour to give it body.

Armed with hot sauce, we blissed out the rest of the weekend... pulsed a kimche Bloody Mary to slurp while shooting cans; climbed boulders in the Joshua Tree National Monument during a surreal sunset; baked a tasting flight of insane pizzas; and shared the golden hot tub with a desert roadrunner. This sauce is sweet, zingy and hot, so you will need cold beer and a watering hole if you attempt eating it in the desert, and please remember you are no god, but mere mortal before squirting too much of this into your mouth.

Watermelon Hot Sauce
(Makes about 1/2 cup)

1/4 cup fresh watermelon juice
1/8 cup red wine vinegar (distilled white is ok)
1 Tbs. Habanero powder
1 tsp. paprika
1 tsp. flour
1 tsp. salt
half a lime

1. If you are juicing your own watermelon start by slicing off chunks, adding to a blender or food processor and blending until pureed. Then strain, to remove seeds and flesh, and repeat. This recipe calls for so little, it behooves you to either be making a pitcher of agua fresca or a shit ton of cocktails.

2. Put watermelon juice in a mixing bowl. Add to it 1 tablespoon habanero powder and paprika. Whisk well for 20 seconds, until thoroughly dissolved. Then add your vinegar, salt and lime. Whisk again.

3. Pour the mixture into a small skillet on high heat. Just before it hits a boil, add the teaspoon of flour and stir. When it boils, lower to simmer and let go for 1 minute, just enough to slightly thicken and bind. Remove from heat.

4. Once cool, refrigerate in a small squeeze bottle or eye dropper. Dose often.

Soundtrack: Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime"
Beverage: Alesmith's Decadence 2008

Drafted to come up with a summery, picnic-friendly kale salad, Hot Knives undertook a brutally fibrous campaign of taste tests. With its texture somewhere between a dishwasher scrubby and a garden plant, kale often gets gussied up with winter veg (caramelized squash...) and/or harsh dressings (balsamic reduction...) - the salad equivalent of a scratchy sweater. We were going more for bikini thong.

Our first thought was raw "collard greens," a sort of imitation of the Southern classic with citrus-rubbed kale, which would wilt as if it was long-braised without losing its color or nutrition, masquerading as collards. This idea morphed into an infinitely cooler format: a kale coleslaw. Softened by a lemon-water massage and sat overnight in a lemon oil, the kale becomes nearly slurpable while staying light and crisp.

The real key is the lemon, not just to soften the kale but to zest the dressing. It feels clean and bright, not harsh and heavy. In truth, we realize now, kale may be the only thing in which we prefer the former to the latter.

1 head of kale
2 large lemons
1 quart filtered water
1 Tbs. olive oil
2 carrots
1 cup Veganaise
2 tsp. fresh black pepper
1 tsp. sugar
1 tsp. kosher salt
quarter of a red cabbage (garnish)

1. Prepare the kale for its rub-down: take each leaf and remove the stem by either slicing a "V" shape and separating the two green sides from its spine, or simply pulling off the leafy green in chunks. Discard the stem. Throw the large kale leaves into a strainer. Rinse and let sit.

2. Zest both your lemons into a large mixing bowl, making sure to get every last inch of yellow goodness. Save zest for the dressing. When complete, slice and juice lemons into a separate container. Fill a large bowl with water, and add only half the fresh lemon juice to the water.

3. Submerge kale in lemon-water and let sit for 1-2 minutes. Take a small bunch at a time and massage the kale by scrunching as hard as you can, releasing and taking a new handful of kale. Repeat for several minutes

4. Remove kale and let dry in a colander, or spin dry. On a cutting board, slice each large chunk or leaf like you might chiffonade basil. If the leaves are not big enough to get long, coleslaw like slices don't fret. Place kale in a container with a lid to store overnight. Combine the rest of the lemon juice (should be close to 2 Tbs., if not juice another lemon) with a Tbs. of olive oil. Let sit in fridge overnight, but before you clean up make dressing for tomorrow.

5. Combine Veganaise with black pepper, sugar, salt and lemon zest and whisk to make dressing. Add a half-teaspoon of lemon juice if needed to whisk, but no more. Save for service.

6. After kale has sat all night, drain liquid and spin dry. Grate carrot and shred cabbage. Toss together with dressing and serve cold.

Beverage: Craftsman Brewing's Heavenly Hefe
Soundtrack: Talking Heads' "This Must be the Place"