... chestnuts roasting in a big oil drum...

Chestnut festivities

My last few days in France were mild, comfortable, and relaxing. I was integrated into the farm, I could work in the garden with very little guidance, I'd made friends with each and every rabbit even after they saw me "eliminating" their friends, and Jacqueline and Gerolf had adopted me into their rhythms. So it was a bit tough to leave; I'm particularly attached to routine. But we had a bit of fun before I took my train north to Belgium.

Rotating the chestnut spit

On a particularly glorious autumn weekend Gerolf and I packed some beers into the van and drove a bit south to a pretty little village they call Villefranche-du-Perigord, where a chestnut festival was underway. Chestnuts found their way into everything, from Gerolf's beer to conserves to sausages, and especially into my mouth. Above two open fire pits swiveled mesh metal drums filled with roasting chestnuts. The next booth over was pressing fresh apples for cider. The night before the festival I spent the night some 12 miles out of town and decided I would run to the event in the morning. My knees and calves ached as I stumbled into Villefranche, but life was good as soon as I got my grubby hands on some sweet, steaming chestnuts and a big bottle of tart cider. I spent the rest of the day in a chestnut coma, watching the crowd ebb and flow while we all soaked up the warm sun on such a crisp day. Some hurdy-gurdy and accordian music, traditional French dancers in fluffy garb, and a good-hearted but competitive chestnut-spitting contest wrapped up the weekend. Oh, and of course there was the 6-foot cepe de Bordeaux omelette.

A woodworker turns a top on his lathe

It was time to say goodbye to the farm, though, so I drank one last Laubicherie beer, the one brewed with truffles, and headed up to Belgium, Brussels to be precise, for a week of sightseeing, reuniting, and couchsurfing.

Fresh cider!

BLES Fest and an Epic Lambic Tasting

The hop fields of Poperinge

Frothy open fermentation of Black Albert

Bottling line at Alvinne

Glenn fixes us a special lambic blend

Dear Readers,

I’m back in France now after what seemed to be a heavenly eternity in Belgium. My last few days were spent studying some more of the mundane tasks of brewing – bottling, packing, cleaning, racking, etc. – but perhaps “mundane” is too harsh a word. I’m still at the point where anything is interesting. A brewer’s work would be nothing without the reward, though. To conclude my trip I assisted Glenn and the Alvinne cause at the 16^th annual BLES beer festival in Zottegem (“crazy town”) and was an active witness to an incredible tasting of everyone’s favorite spontaneously-fermented malt beverage, lambic.

On Friday Glenn drove me to Zottegem to prepare the table for Alvinne. Afterwards we had a meal of some damn juicy skewered meats (Belgians make some tender meat, man), washed down with an Orval for each. That night I sawed many logs in the warmth of Glenn and his girlfriend’s home. I woke Saturday morning to a thunderous snore from beside me; Glenn’s friend Uli, from Germany, had arrived late in the night and would be helping us at the festival as well. Well, I’m more than glad I lost a little sleep for the guy. He brought with him a collection of some incredible lambic experiments. Lambic is, to the uninitiated, a most interesting wild-fermented beer that really takes time both to produce and to appreciate. Only a handful of traditional producers still exist in Belgium. Lambics require a moderate portion of raw wheat and historically use aged hops that have lost their aroma compounds. Hops in this case are used solely for their preservative properties, as the beer is set to age for several months or years. Wild yeasts inoculate the wort and fermentation takes off, producing an incredibly dry, slightly tart and acidic, citric, flat beer that is wildly complex. I’m new to lambics, so this kind of blew me away. Uli, Glenn and I tasted sips of several lambic experiments that Uli, a hobby blender, prepared. First was a lambic from the Lindemans brewery that Uli aged in calvados barrels donated by Glenn. It smelled slightly sweet with a touch of green apples and acetic acid. The taste was intense: a puckering citric wave followed by an illusion of sweetness. Oaky vanilla tagged along at the end. Next was Drie Fonteinen lambic on new American oak barrels. The shimmering gold color, contributed by the new oak, was more apparent than the calvados lambic. It was a more suppressed lambic in taste, though, with must and leafiness in the nose and on the tongue, but more rounded and fuller. Third was Lindemans set in the same new oak barrel, but this was the first batch they aged; Drie Fonteinen was second. The oak was much more apparent in the nose, and I thought it had a touch of smokiness. We also played around with them a bit: next was 1/3 calvados Lindemans and 2/3 Drie Fonteinen followed by half and half of each and succeeded by 1/3 of each of the original lambics. Why stop there? Uli then broke out a kitschy plastic mini-keg of three-year-old Hanssens lambic that we later blended with the 1/3-of-each mixture to get a well-rounded, thoughtful concoction. A semblance of this ratio of lambics will be used for a future Alvinne release, set to be ripe in 2011. The initial blend will have an additional… addition of young lambic, still containing some unfermented sugars. The sugars will provide the yeasts of the blend to start fermentation again to produce a wee bit of carbonation. Blending of old and new lambic allows the designation of “gueuze”, and if the sum of the age of the beers is greater than one year, “oude gueuze”.

So, then it was off for some more fun. The three of us packed up and headed for the BLES beer festival. BLES stands for something like Beer Lovers and Enjoyment Society, only in Dutch. It was crowded, with a lot of happy people, and the breweries of the east were represented well. Uli broke out some more lambic, like Drie Fonteinen dry-hopped on East Kent Goldings hops and a blend of all the traditionally-produced lambics of Belgium, and I even saw some celebrities. Jef Van den Steen, a prolific beer writer, was there with his mad-scientist beard, and Jean Blaute, of Belgium’s Canvas television channel was strolling around with a stylish scarf. Before the night was over, though, I had to catch my ride back to France. Luc Smekens, an organizer of the giant ZBF beer festival in March, and his wife kindly drove me to the airport to meet my host, Gerolf. A testament to the kind-heartedness of beer people, Luc even bought me a dripping dinner of frites and mystery meat. It was tasty, but I think it also gave me food poisoning.

So, I’m back en France, but not for long. The fig-pickin’, apple-peelin’, and weed-pullin’ will be no more next week when I return to Belgium for a lengthier stay. I will miss the refreshing farm labor and the picturesque pastures, but I’ll be closer to meddling with my passion. Stay tuned.

Cloudy with a Chance of Beer

Gerolf dresses the rabbit

Perigueux: this dead-end alley fooled me

Finally, I will be posting a few pictures. I've taken so many it's just made the task of choosing which ones to post so much more daunting, hence the stalling.

But first, what have I been doing for the past several days? Well, I've been doing a lot of the usual farmwork: harvesting green beans, planting lettuce and chard, picking apples, getting the knees dirty. I've also helped Gerolf with a couple of very odd property maintenance jobs, like spraying a fields-worth of ferns with some unknown smelly substance, and igniting patches of dead blackberry bushes, creating flames that licked the wispy grey stratus clouds. I've also enjoyed some entertainment. I visited nearby Perigueux, capital of the Dordogne region. It's a beautiful little city, replete with its own rich history that is reflected in some of the beautiful architecture. They even have a few ancient ruins. At the farm, I've been getting in a bunch of solid reading time. My books of choice: Great Beers of Belgium by Michael Jackson (betcha didn't know he was into beer, eh?) and Tim Webb's Good Beer Guide: Belgium.

I'm getting a renewed excitement about my future plans here in Europe. First of all, I should be helping Gerolf brew tomorrow. For a while I was a bit disappointed that he doesn't brew very often. I still would like to brew more, but I'm getting a second wind of enthusiasm for this journey as I plan for the coming months. Gerolf has been extremely helpful in making contacts with brewers and cheesemakers. A friend of his might be able to accommodate me on his sheep's cheese farm in the French Pyrenees, and Gerolf helped me get in contact with one of the owners of Brouwerij De Ranke in Belgium. I plan to meet the owner on a trip to Belgium later this month, and if he likes me (or if I learn French) I might be able to work out an apprenticeship with the brewery. Perhaps a more promising lead is with Brasserie Thiriez in Esquelbecq (northern France). During a visit to Allagash Brewing in Portland, ME, I met the head brewer, Jason Perkins, and heard from him about an American who did a similar trip at Thiriez. I emailed Daniel Thiriez, the owner and brewer, and got a potentially positive reply. Again, he requested that we meet in person, and, again, it would help if I spoke some French. Ah, c'est la vie, non? During this quick trip to Belgium later this month I will also be joining Picobrouwerij Alvinne and Brouwerij Huyghe for their respective brewing days. Huyghe is world-renowned for their head-spinning Delirium Tremens beer. Check it out, it's got a picture of a pink elephant on the bottle. In fact, my head is spinning thinking about this whole experience. I've decided from now on to skirt the easy targets; I'm truly living what I see as the dream of every young brewer. I've been able to speak with and entertain the idea of an apprenticeship with handfuls of the world's absolute best brewers. I'm not even sure what an easy target is, either; nearly every one of these world-class brewers has at least responded to my emails, most of them positively. Of course, I haven't yet set foot into any of their breweries, but patience is a virtue and it's still early. I'm living the dream in theory.

And, speaking of beer, here's what I've been able to try, given that I'm in the middle of nowhere. First, before I stepped onto a plane to leave the country, I took a road trip up to Canada and on the way stopped at an awesome beer bar in Portland, Maine, called Novare Res. There I found it: a beer from De Struise Brouwers. My first from the glorious brewery I might be working at in January. It was a luscious, opaque, creamy black brew called Pannepot. Lightly spiced with a chewy mouthfeel, it made me think for an instant I was rolling tropical fruits (papaya), figs, licorice, and dark chocolate around in my mouth. At the strength of wine, it warmed the soul without being too offensively alcoholic in taste. Wow. What a beer! In France I've tried to sample some local beers. La Nonnette from Brasserie Du Canardou was a lighter (in alcohol) dark beer, with spelt and buckwheat. It reminded me of a robust porter and was very well balanced with pleasant roasty notes and some grainy, spicy flavors from the alternative cereals. Belzebuth from Brasserie Grain D'Orge was a whopper of a beer; its 13% alcohol by volume was certainly apparent - a little too harsh for my tastes. It glowed a deep honey brass and possessed a firm light malt backbone, but it was just too strong and too sweet. Oh, I enjoyed it, don't get me wrong, but I would have brewed it a little differently. If I could brew.

Pannepot, from Struise

With my Couchsurfing buddies

Watership Down

Today (Tuesday) I received a quick, brutal introduction to the cycle of life on a farm. It was fascinating and absorbing at first, with a tinge of queasiness, but by the end of the morning I had already adapted to the process and the shock had worn off. This morning we slaughtered eight rabbits. Well, Gerolf slaughtered them. I took pictures, held open the trash bag for the skins and guts, and cleaned out the cages.

This post is certainly not for the faint of heart, for lovers of rabbits, or for vegans. So go read People Magazine, Pamela Anderson.

Soon after breakfast, my stomach still churning about a bolus of bread, Nutella, and coffee, Gerolf lead me to the rabbit cages and explained the process of slaughtering the rabbits. He said he used to hit them on the nose first, then the head with his hands; after years of this it became too difficult for him, I suspect both physically and emotionally. Today he used a wooden broomstick to knock the rabbit on the head several times. After the first hit the rabbit is stunned; the second probably kills it; the third is to be sure. Gerolf then grasped the feet and head firmly and pulled to separate the skull from the spine - this makes absolute certain the rabbit is dead and also makes cleaving the head from the body during butchering much easier and cleaner. It was tough to watch all this. The worst were the initial hits on the head, as the rabbits would pump their legs and twitch uncontrollably. Though this was undoubtedly an automatic response from the brain, it was certainly not pleasant to observe. What made me watch was an overpowering curiosity, both of the traditional method of preparing a home-raised meal and of the biological phenomenon of death and the construction of the body of a rabbit.

The next step was to skin and dress the body. Gerolf hung each rabbit by feeding rope through its heels and tying it to a tree limb. the fur and skin was cut at this point and peeled away, very cleanly, down the length of its body; I was told this process was easier when the body was warm. the skin was cut at the head and thrown away (he used to save the pelts and sell them for the price of a beer), along with the eyes. The stomach was then cut open to remove the innards, which were thrown away with the exception of the liver, pancreas, kidneys, lungs, and heart, which were saved for the production of paté. The hands and feet were then cut and the body was bare, pink, and ready for butchering.

In the kitchen Gerolf used a cleaver to separate the two sides of the abdominals (a specialty, he says), the two front legs (his favorite meat), the two hind legs, and the dorsal and ventral halves of the abdomen, or torso. I was on sink duty, using cold water to wash off excess blood and remove the few strands of fur left on the muscles.

And that was half my day. I have to say that, despite the morbidity of the whole thing, I was more fascinated and interested than anything. They are, unfortunately or not (depending on the situation), some very beautiful creatures with sleek, dark coats, long, soft ears, and gentile, handsome faces. The variety is native to the region, Aquitaine, in the department of Dordogne, also known as the Perigord region. The rabbit is known as lapin chèvre in French, "goat rabbit" in English.

I suppose that is life on the farm. It does make a good meal, especially when simmered in Laubicherie Ambrée beer.

First Day in Sarlande

J’ai arrivé! I tumbled into Paris a few moons ago (counting time by nights and days is useless, given the time difference), and the trip was uneventful and full of packaged sandwiches and bad coffee. I will save you most of the details except for the flight from Dublin to Paris during which I met two young, pleasant Parisians who were patient with me as I practiced my French with them; they also suggested I visit downtown Paris (specifically, Luxembourg park) during my five hours of down-time at the airport. My first non-airport meal was a Big Mac. Isn’t it ironic. I had to use the bathroom but the French McDonald’s dude said I had to buy something first.

Anyway, fast-forward to my arrival to Limoges. I had a very good time surfing on a couch at Kris’ apartment in the city. As soon as I lugged my suitcase through the door I was greeted by Kris and two of his friends, who served me some food, too much wine, and a lovely cheese platter. I forgot to take a picture, but the Camembert and an abbey-style cheese were especially luxurious. The next morning I tossed around a football (the American type) with Kris and a friend, and they then drove me directly to La Ferme de Laubicherie. It really is in the middle of nowhere, and I’m not even sure if Kris found his way back. Somehow I doubt it.

Merde, did I eat well that night. The farm is also an inn of sorts, and a Belgian couple was staying for a night. Gerolf, who is Belgian himself, is the man in charge, my boss, and he is also the brewer (and I former cheesemaker, he tells me). His partner in business, Jacqueline, keeps us big boys in check and is a phenomenal (and humble) cook. That night we were served a zucchini pie, baked carrots, potatoes with bacon, chicken, the most tender and flavorful rabbit meat, a cheese plate with Tomme and Coulommiers, among others, apple cake for dessert, and some top-notch Bergerac wine from a wine-making friend of Gerolf’s. Of course, all the vegetables are from the garden here at the farm, which always makes a meal plus spécial. I polished off the night with a sample of one of Gerolf’s beers, one that I wouldn’t have thought would be my first of his selection. I tried the peach blonde ale, and it was quite full of character. Not my favorite type of beer, but certainly tasty nonetheless.

Today I helped Gerolf in the garden, cutting pumpkins, feeding the rabbits some tough zucchini, picking green beans, and clearing the retired patch of pumpkins for winter. We again hosted a (different) Belgian couple tonight and ate just as well: salad with a hard-boiled egg, scalloped potatoes, a tart zucchini dish (almost like ratatoullie), some mouth-watering lamb, another cheese platter, more Bergerac, and leftover apple cake. I love leftovers.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to. Some work and a lot of eating. I will post pictures and more details about the farm soon. Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. Like Garrison Keillor.

Vive La France

As I write this, I’m gently swaying forward and back in a complimentary rocking chair at Logan airport with a bright, clear view of a Boston ‘burb. A cute little marina juts into a marshy mix of blue sea and green grass. When this is published, I will have reached Europe, since I’m writing this in Word because I’m too cheap to buy any internet time. I’m starting to feel the gravity of the situation now: that I’ll be in a strange land, listening to sounds I never thought humans could articulate with their mouths, drinking and eating concoctions my virgin palate couldn’t imagine in its dreams (if palates dream). I’m feeling good, probably because I’m pretty blazed off a giant energy drink I had to guzzle before passing through security. But I’m uncharacteristically relaxed about the trip, and that’s, paradoxically, a little unsettling. Ah well, I’m sure everything will go smoothly.

Most of you already know, but just to reiterate: I’m at the point of no return here on a trip to Europe to both explore a new continent and learn the art and science of brewing beer. I hope to spend some time on a cheese farm or two as well, hence the title of my blog (washed rind cheeses are often bathed in beer). I’ll be starting in France, at La Ferme de Laubicherie, and will possibly find a brewery or cheese farm in Italy or Denmark after that. In January I have a tentative plan to work with De Struise Brouwers in Belgium, a growing brewery with plenty of hype and the tastiest of beers to back it up. After this stay I’m hoping to jig on over to Scotland and Ireland for the spring and summer, where a couple brewery farms accept volunteers. Nearly all of this plan is tentative, and I’m expecting changes of plans. I’ll take what I can get but I’m shooting for the moon.

For my friends, I’m sorry if I didn’t get to see you, but I’ll be back soon enough. Last night I was lucky enough to get a fresh meal from my mom’s garden and some well-wishes from two of the most gorgeous girls around; my sister, Linnet, and my niece, Katya, gave me some Skype time and Katya made my jaw turn to rubber with her cuteness. I’m a lucky uncle. I tucked myself into bed under what seemed to be a full moon, white and glowing with its lunar confidence. Sleep was short but deep.