Recently, I taught a class on the history of Spain. Early in the semester, the class covered the
Roman period, and among the topics we discussed were the food and drink of the
Romans. One student, a little more
adventurous than most, decided to make garum.
For the Carthaginians among you, garum was a sauce that the Romans used
on their food. As a Texan uses Tabasco
sauce, the Romans used garum. The sauce
is made chiefly of fermented anchovies, and is probably the great-grandfather
of Worcestershire sauce.
If the class had been in Italy, my student could have
purchased the sauce ready-made. In New
Mexico, she probably could find fifty different kinds of hot sauce, but garum
is just not for sale. She found all the
ingredients, followed the recipe….and it didn’t turn out well. It may be hard to get something to ferment in
an environment with no more than ten percent humidity. I had pretty much the same problem in reverse
while I lived in Galveston. If you are
trying to make beef jerky while living a block from the beach, you may have to
wait a few decades for the meat to dry.
In any case, my student did not produce a two thousand year
old condiment. She did produce something
that was halfway between a mobile hazmat super-fund site and a substance that
the United Nations would send people in blue helmets to inspect. That bottle was sealed, wrapped in aluminum
foil, and inside multiple plastic bags--and the odor could still gag a maggot
off a meat wagon. This was a stench that
made you see dark colors and made you think of creatures that live under rocks.
As my student gave me the sample she was just about in
tears. From her story, the damage to her
house bordered on permanent. Supposedly,
the only good thing about the experiment was that the house no longer had an
ant problem.
My whole family could sympathize—but at my house we refer to
it as the root beer episode. I am still
surprised that you can make root beer without a license.
Actually, to make root beer all you need to do is go to the
grocery store. You need root beer
extract, sugar, yeast, and a hell of a lot of empty bottles. It also helps to have an indulgent wife. Making the root beer is simple: mix it all
up, bottle it, cap it securely, and wait a few weeks for the yeast to
ferment. I made several batches and the
boys really enjoyed them.
The last batch…well, I’m still not sure what when
wrong. The bottles had been stored in an
empty kitchen cabinet for weeks when one of the bottles started leaking. I took all the bottles out of the cabinet,
washed them off, and left them stacked on their side in the double kitchen
sink. Then the whole family left for a
movie. The house wasn’t the same when we
came back.
The first clue was the absence of cats. My wife has two—otherwise known as the crazy
cat lady starter kit. The cats always
meet us at the door in the hopes that we are bringing more cat food. That day, no cats—either at the front door or
anywhere near the front of the house. We
didn’t find the furry cowards for hours.
As best as we could recreate the events of the disaster, one
of the bottles on the bottom of the pile exploded from the pressure. This detonation took out all the other
bottles in an uncontrolled chain reaction the likes of which had not seen in
New Mexico since 1945. The destruction at
ground zero was impressive. Besides
bathing the entire kitchen in a fine and sticky mist of root beer, it took out
the ceiling light, and scattered glass all the way across both the dining and living
rooms. Scattered might not be the
correct word—blasted is more to the point.
Some shards could not be pulled out of the walls or ceiling even with
pliers. In several places I plastered
over the glass and covered it with paint.
If you know where to look, the wooden paneling in the living
room still has a piece embedded next to the window.
There must be some lecture where I can work in a discussion
of root beer—I’m just dying for one of my students recreate this experiment. It has to be a student--my wife and cats won’t
let me.
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