So, quick post (to get my eye in, sort of thing).
Yesterday I was inspired to revamp this blog, something I've been thinking of doing for a while now. Apart from writing about smoking, I'm expanding this to include observations on science, and occasional livid opinions on What's Wrong With Kids Today.
I hear you, there, in the back, shouting "But, will you still write about cloves? My happiness depends upon it!" And the answer is Yes! In fact, I have done several non-fail experiments since the last kretek post, but what with one thing and another, and life and college and moving and stuff getting in the way, I kinda... forgot to write about them. And, since I was able to get some very cheap cigarettes (not cloves, sadly enough) on a spring road trip, I haven't even been rolling my own in quite a while.
However, that's all about to change!
But don't hold your breath, because it won't be for at least a week or two.
In the meantime, here are a few links that should help, if there's any glaring issues you still need to work out in the deliciously sweet and spicy cancer realm, so read them, enjoy them, and I shall be back to spewing cloves tips at your eager, squishy brains quite soon. Mmmmmm, brains.
- WikiHow
- Not a guide - Helpful photos and tips
- What Not To Do
- Shroomery - Some sort of discussion board, but it's got some good tips hidden here and there
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
I Return, With A Vengeance! (well, a pet peeve...)
I realize I've been neglecting you, my dear moppets, and that you have, like baby birds, been languishing, hopelessly, with beaks open and bellies hungry for clove-flavoured cancer, cheeping piteously for my attention and love.
Well, you'll have to keep cheeping.
I've broken my blogging fast not, as I'm sure you've been praying, to bring you more pearls of kretek wisdom, but rather to discuss a pet peeve of mine that has manifested itself in an unlikely place.
You may have noticed, if you've read ANY of my posts, EVER, that I am thoroughly smitten by flowery language. Hyperbole, metaphor, exaggeration, how those things light a fire in my soul. Humour, sarcasm, venom, and romanticism, who can live without them? Certainly not I!
Well, apparently, quite a lot of people can. As if that wasn't bad enough, those same people insist that everyone else should live without metaphoric language, as well.
Another thing you may not know, is that apart from loving clove cigarettes and anger, I also adore science, and am quite taken with (shame of shames) silly girly things, like makeup. Thus, the new blog title and description. I've decided to branch out! No longer shall I be a one-trick pony! But back to that makeup. I've been following the blog of one Doe Deere, whose line of brightly colored cosmetics I'm currently infatuated with. Her blog is full of color, and happiness, and an obsession with unicorns and fairies and such. As someone who is decidedly not a gleeful, unicorn-oriented person, it seems a bit odd, even to me, who was recently described as 'a cauldron of endless, spewing hatred,' how much I actually enjoy this daily dose of cutesy technicolor cheer.
This Deere is never negative, always pleasant, often giddy with excitement, and is just rainbows and puppies all around. So, when she posted about being creatively inspired by 'madness,' :
On the one side, glorifying mental illness is a bad thing, sure. On the other, lighten up, she didn't mean anything negative by it. On the third hand, maybe using terms like 'mad' can actually help people with mental illness to cope and improve. You can read all the comments to get a full idea of the debate, how it raged, ebbed, and flowed, and how very little was solidly accomplished, being held within the forum of a fashion blog. The fashion industry and its fans are not, after all, particularly known for their prowess at sociology, disputation, or, for that matter, logical thought. (Politically Correct Disclaimer: This is not to say that fashion people are necessarily bad at these things, or incompetent, or daft, so go on and swallow that misplaced indignance. None of that nonsense, please.)
What upset me most, however, was the gall of some people to suggest, self-righteously, that certain words are inherently bad. Compassion for others and understanding people in different situations is all well and good, but it was taken to extremes. Quite stupid and ill-informed extremes. Intolerant and patronizing extremes. Hypocritical and pathetic extremes. You get the picture here.
This blog, linked as a response, in particular struck me as characteristic of an upsetting and ill-informed trend in modern culture.
Come on, now. Humans use language based upon their experience. We are organisms whose environment has out-evolved our bodies, and we are still, though many would deny it, creatures of the flesh, of instincts and glands and sensory input. We are highly visual, almost to the exclusion of other senses such as smell and hearing, and so much of our vocabulary relating to planning, relationships, and other such intangibles leans heavily on perceptions of sight. 'I see what you're saying,' we say to each other. 'I see now what I should do,' we exclaim. 'It all seems clearer in hindsight,' we lament. Vision is so built into our brains, that we can't help but view (there we go again) the world as if it was a series of pictures.
Being bipedal also highly influences our communication patterns. Having only two legs with which to travel, we tend to prize them highly. Losing the function of one or both, even if it's just from wearing ill-fitting shoes, or stubbing a toe, means a serious and frightening reduction in our ability to escape from danger or predators. This is what our brain tells us, whose instincts are stuck several million years ago, when if you couldn't run fast, you were tiger meat. So of course terms like 'crippled' and 'lame' creep into our vocabulary, not necessarily as denigrating terms for people of the locomotively challenged persuasion, but as metaphors for things not being the way they ought to be. 'The economy has been crippled by irresponsible financial practices' does not advocate mocking your neighborhood limbless WWII veteran, but rather uses an ingrained, instinctual, species-wide fear to illustrate that Things Are Not How They Ought To Be.
That being said, yes, it's terrible that people are stuck inside bodies that don't work the way they should do, but either deal with it and transcend your disabilities, suffering pity from no man, or sit in a dark room and cry while insisting (unreasonably) that everyone wait on you hand and stump. YOU CAN"T HAVE BOTH!
If Stephen Hawking can do what he has done, then you have no fucking excuse. Suck it up, princess, and stay the hell away from my right to free speech.
Well, you'll have to keep cheeping.
I've broken my blogging fast not, as I'm sure you've been praying, to bring you more pearls of kretek wisdom, but rather to discuss a pet peeve of mine that has manifested itself in an unlikely place.
You may have noticed, if you've read ANY of my posts, EVER, that I am thoroughly smitten by flowery language. Hyperbole, metaphor, exaggeration, how those things light a fire in my soul. Humour, sarcasm, venom, and romanticism, who can live without them? Certainly not I!
Well, apparently, quite a lot of people can. As if that wasn't bad enough, those same people insist that everyone else should live without metaphoric language, as well.
Another thing you may not know, is that apart from loving clove cigarettes and anger, I also adore science, and am quite taken with (shame of shames) silly girly things, like makeup. Thus, the new blog title and description. I've decided to branch out! No longer shall I be a one-trick pony! But back to that makeup. I've been following the blog of one Doe Deere, whose line of brightly colored cosmetics I'm currently infatuated with. Her blog is full of color, and happiness, and an obsession with unicorns and fairies and such. As someone who is decidedly not a gleeful, unicorn-oriented person, it seems a bit odd, even to me, who was recently described as 'a cauldron of endless, spewing hatred,' how much I actually enjoy this daily dose of cutesy technicolor cheer.
This Deere is never negative, always pleasant, often giddy with excitement, and is just rainbows and puppies all around. So, when she posted about being creatively inspired by 'madness,' :
"I’m inspired by madness. Its special allure lies in the fact that a madman is free. He thinks and does however he likes and never cares what anyone thinks. Sometimes when I’m struggling creatively, I like to imagine that I’m simply crazy — before I know it, all kinds of “outside the box” ideas start popping up in my head." - Doe DeereI never expected a backlash of nerd-rage proportions. Especially not on a makeup and fashion blog. I mean, really, who would? Rainbows and puppies, I tell you! But that is exactly what happened. Several people commented about how it was offensive to use the term 'mad' in a positive light. Several people called her a terrible, insensitive person (although in much simpler, and more offensive terms. Oh, the irony!). Of course, some of Ms. Deere's defenders were just as clod-tongued as her haranguers, but on the whole it was a very interesting debate. There were in fact several impressively cogent arguments (mine among them, if I do say so myself), that did much to raise the caliber of the discussion, on both sides, and turn it into an intellectual debate, rather than a back alley argument.
On the one side, glorifying mental illness is a bad thing, sure. On the other, lighten up, she didn't mean anything negative by it. On the third hand, maybe using terms like 'mad' can actually help people with mental illness to cope and improve. You can read all the comments to get a full idea of the debate, how it raged, ebbed, and flowed, and how very little was solidly accomplished, being held within the forum of a fashion blog. The fashion industry and its fans are not, after all, particularly known for their prowess at sociology, disputation, or, for that matter, logical thought. (Politically Correct Disclaimer: This is not to say that fashion people are necessarily bad at these things, or incompetent, or daft, so go on and swallow that misplaced indignance. None of that nonsense, please.)
What upset me most, however, was the gall of some people to suggest, self-righteously, that certain words are inherently bad. Compassion for others and understanding people in different situations is all well and good, but it was taken to extremes. Quite stupid and ill-informed extremes. Intolerant and patronizing extremes. Hypocritical and pathetic extremes. You get the picture here.
This blog, linked as a response, in particular struck me as characteristic of an upsetting and ill-informed trend in modern culture.
"Look, using disability as a metaphor tends to come from one basic problem: linguistic laziness. There are SO many other words that can be used! Foolish, ridiculous, thoughtless, senseless, hampered, troubled, restrained, naive. Just to name a few. When you use disability metaphors, you hurt those of us who actually have disabilities. I am NOT your metaphor. Find a new one." - brilliantmindbrokenbodyThese comments show political correctness at its worst. Apparently, we're not allowed to use terms like 'blind' or 'lame' or 'crippled' as metaphors, but nor are we allowed to use them to describe people with disabilities! Handicapped? No, they cry, We are Handi-Capable! Disabled? How Dare You, they exclaim, We are Differently Abled! Dare to use colorful language, like 'the politician is blinded by greed,' and all the visually impaired people are supposed to rise up in arms, shrieking that this is offensive to them, and that blindness should not be used as a metaphor for an inability to plan, or as a way of describing someone who is obsessed with something to the exclusion of everything else.
Come on, now. Humans use language based upon their experience. We are organisms whose environment has out-evolved our bodies, and we are still, though many would deny it, creatures of the flesh, of instincts and glands and sensory input. We are highly visual, almost to the exclusion of other senses such as smell and hearing, and so much of our vocabulary relating to planning, relationships, and other such intangibles leans heavily on perceptions of sight. 'I see what you're saying,' we say to each other. 'I see now what I should do,' we exclaim. 'It all seems clearer in hindsight,' we lament. Vision is so built into our brains, that we can't help but view (there we go again) the world as if it was a series of pictures.
Being bipedal also highly influences our communication patterns. Having only two legs with which to travel, we tend to prize them highly. Losing the function of one or both, even if it's just from wearing ill-fitting shoes, or stubbing a toe, means a serious and frightening reduction in our ability to escape from danger or predators. This is what our brain tells us, whose instincts are stuck several million years ago, when if you couldn't run fast, you were tiger meat. So of course terms like 'crippled' and 'lame' creep into our vocabulary, not necessarily as denigrating terms for people of the locomotively challenged persuasion, but as metaphors for things not being the way they ought to be. 'The economy has been crippled by irresponsible financial practices' does not advocate mocking your neighborhood limbless WWII veteran, but rather uses an ingrained, instinctual, species-wide fear to illustrate that Things Are Not How They Ought To Be.
That being said, yes, it's terrible that people are stuck inside bodies that don't work the way they should do, but either deal with it and transcend your disabilities, suffering pity from no man, or sit in a dark room and cry while insisting (unreasonably) that everyone wait on you hand and stump. YOU CAN"T HAVE BOTH!
If Stephen Hawking can do what he has done, then you have no fucking excuse. Suck it up, princess, and stay the hell away from my right to free speech.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Future! The second attempt!
So, iPhone app so I can write and post wherever I go? Sounds sweet, right? WRONG! because it didn't work the first time I tried it. Let's hope this isn't a repeat of the iClove fiasco. May that story never see the light of day...
Look! A pretty cigarette dispenser! Neat!
- posted from the future!
Look! A pretty cigarette dispenser! Neat!
- posted from the future!
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The (half) Truth Shall Make Ye Fret!
And so, my darling larvae, we return once more to contemplating the true nature of clove cigarettes, which go also by the kenning of 'kreteks.' What I am to impart to you is both boon and burden. For, if you will allow me to take a quick detour into philosophical fancy, isn't all knowledge a boon, really? And are we not all as sentient beings burdened by our consciences, also, to be ever vigilant and responsible with its wielding?
Alright, I'm through fucking with you now, let's get down to Serious Business.
A few weeks ago, Avid Reader Dave posted some very interesting information on a subject I have been curious about for a long time. Namely, Djarum's mysterious kretek flavouring sauce. A certain Malachi de Aelfweald, quite an interesting and entertaining blogger, has posted on his own site the Djarum company's own internet-published recipe for the sauce:
Where he found it on Djarum's website is a mystery to me. I went there to see for myself what else was written about their manufacturing process, and I could find nothing after several minutes of clicking around. Sir Malachi, you possess more patience than I am capable of. Or, a better intrinsic knowledge of the working of corporate websites. Your pick.
But back to the point. This seems, at first glance, to be quite helpful, but it's not. Thanks, Dave, for trying, and thanks to Malachi, but as far as rolling our own kreteks goes, this is almost completely useless.
Let's look at the categories in order. 'Casing Flavour Compounds.' What's the casing flavour refer to? The paper, or the tobacco? In that case, what the hell is the 'Top Flavour Compound (Top Dressing)? Then there's the 'top-secret sauce' of which only a few ingredients are listed. There could be a hundred others, for all we know.
Then, the numbers next to each ingredient are well-nigh meaningless without more information. The numbers are sort-of identified as referring to 'per 100 parts tobacco.' It seems to imply that for 100 grams (g) of tobacco, one would use, for example, 0.2 g. of maple sweet, with 0.2 g of chocolate, et cetera, et cetera. But wait! This falls flat if the 'casing' or the 'top dressing' refer to the cigarette's paper, because then a whole hell of a lot of ambiguity is thrown into the mix. These arbitrary 'parts,' are they then mixed up in amounts proportionate to the amount of tobacco being rolled, or are they per cigarette paper? For that matter, how much tobacco per cigarette? How big or small are these cigarettes?
Now for the ingredients. Maple sweet? I assume they mean maple sugar, or a preparation of maple syrup, but really, it could be anything. Chocolate, licorice, yeah, sure. Powdered, boiled, stirred, not shaken? Plum casing. The casing of a plum? The skin? Coffee, sure, who doesn't love coffee, but brewed, or just ground up and crammed in there? Dried nangka I had to look up, and it's either jackfruit, the largest of all tree-bourne fruits, or some kind of curry. No clue. Dried fruit, but which kind(s)? Then, these are all mixed up and suspended in water, invert sugar and humectants. Water's easy, as is invert sugar (sucrose hydrolysed into glucose and fructose, two monosaccharides). Humectants are just moisturizing agents. Could mean anything, really. Hand-cream? Vegetable oil? You get it. Havana and milana I can only assume are types of fruit, because I doubt Djarum would use a Cuban city and an Italian porn-star for ingredients. Pisang ambon is a Dutch liqeur, clove enhancer could mean either cloves or something that makes cloves taste better, pruimen is the dutch word for prunes, aniseed oil is oil made from the anis seed (quite tasty as tea -- the seeds, not the oil), Cassia is Chinese cinnamon, and salak is snake-fruit. Thene there's a whole shitload of secret ingredients.
All in all, good to know about, but useless to try to emulate. The recipe is fiddly, badly written and/or translated, and contains many ingredients that not even I, who lives in New York fuckin' City, can easily aquire. Not to mention the lack of directions, no hint as to how any of these things are prepared, or even where they're supposed to be applied, tobacco or paper?
So use this as a springboard for your imagination, and use it as a reference, but don't bother trying to follow these directions. You'll end up flossing with your bootlaces, and that's just gross.
Alright, I'm through fucking with you now, let's get down to Serious Business.
A few weeks ago, Avid Reader Dave posted some very interesting information on a subject I have been curious about for a long time. Namely, Djarum's mysterious kretek flavouring sauce. A certain Malachi de Aelfweald, quite an interesting and entertaining blogger, has posted on his own site the Djarum company's own internet-published recipe for the sauce:
Djarum Kretek recipe
Casing Flavour compound:
(per 100 parts tobacco)
maple sweet: 0.2
chocolate: 0.2
licorice: 0.4
plum casing: 0.3
coffee: 0.35
dried nangka: 0.35
dried fruit: 0.15
total casing flavours: 1.95
the casing flavours are water-soluble and suspended in:
humectants: 0.7
invert sugar: 0.5
water: 5
Top Flavour Compound (Top Dressing):
Havana: 0.8
Manila: 0.4
Strawberry: 0.3
Pineapple: 0.35
Pisang ambon: 0.25
Clove enhancer: 0.25
Pruimen: 0.05
Aniseed oil: 0.3
Cassia extract: 0.3
Salak cider: 0.1
Vanilla: 0.2
Orange: 0.25
Total top flavours: 3.55
A top-secret sauce containing, among other things:
cinnamon
jackfruit
banana
vanilla
Where he found it on Djarum's website is a mystery to me. I went there to see for myself what else was written about their manufacturing process, and I could find nothing after several minutes of clicking around. Sir Malachi, you possess more patience than I am capable of. Or, a better intrinsic knowledge of the working of corporate websites. Your pick.
But back to the point. This seems, at first glance, to be quite helpful, but it's not. Thanks, Dave, for trying, and thanks to Malachi, but as far as rolling our own kreteks goes, this is almost completely useless.
Let's look at the categories in order. 'Casing Flavour Compounds.' What's the casing flavour refer to? The paper, or the tobacco? In that case, what the hell is the 'Top Flavour Compound (Top Dressing)? Then there's the 'top-secret sauce' of which only a few ingredients are listed. There could be a hundred others, for all we know.
Then, the numbers next to each ingredient are well-nigh meaningless without more information. The numbers are sort-of identified as referring to 'per 100 parts tobacco.' It seems to imply that for 100 grams (g) of tobacco, one would use, for example, 0.2 g. of maple sweet, with 0.2 g of chocolate, et cetera, et cetera. But wait! This falls flat if the 'casing' or the 'top dressing' refer to the cigarette's paper, because then a whole hell of a lot of ambiguity is thrown into the mix. These arbitrary 'parts,' are they then mixed up in amounts proportionate to the amount of tobacco being rolled, or are they per cigarette paper? For that matter, how much tobacco per cigarette? How big or small are these cigarettes?
Now for the ingredients. Maple sweet? I assume they mean maple sugar, or a preparation of maple syrup, but really, it could be anything. Chocolate, licorice, yeah, sure. Powdered, boiled, stirred, not shaken? Plum casing. The casing of a plum? The skin? Coffee, sure, who doesn't love coffee, but brewed, or just ground up and crammed in there? Dried nangka I had to look up, and it's either jackfruit, the largest of all tree-bourne fruits, or some kind of curry. No clue. Dried fruit, but which kind(s)? Then, these are all mixed up and suspended in water, invert sugar and humectants. Water's easy, as is invert sugar (sucrose hydrolysed into glucose and fructose, two monosaccharides). Humectants are just moisturizing agents. Could mean anything, really. Hand-cream? Vegetable oil? You get it. Havana and milana I can only assume are types of fruit, because I doubt Djarum would use a Cuban city and an Italian porn-star for ingredients. Pisang ambon is a Dutch liqeur, clove enhancer could mean either cloves or something that makes cloves taste better, pruimen is the dutch word for prunes, aniseed oil is oil made from the anis seed (quite tasty as tea -- the seeds, not the oil), Cassia is Chinese cinnamon, and salak is snake-fruit. Thene there's a whole shitload of secret ingredients.
All in all, good to know about, but useless to try to emulate. The recipe is fiddly, badly written and/or translated, and contains many ingredients that not even I, who lives in New York fuckin' City, can easily aquire. Not to mention the lack of directions, no hint as to how any of these things are prepared, or even where they're supposed to be applied, tobacco or paper?
So use this as a springboard for your imagination, and use it as a reference, but don't bother trying to follow these directions. You'll end up flossing with your bootlaces, and that's just gross.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Moist & Dry vs. Dry & Moist
Alright, kiddoes, after too long of a break, I've got a little surprise for you all that will make your weeks of agonizingly lonely me-less life bearable again. Not only did I go through another experiment, I also tested the products, and will be reviewing them in this post. "My Goodness, an experiment AND a review, all in one post? You must be magic!" I hear you exclaiming. Yes, my pets, I am, indeed, magic. Now, assume The Position, so that I may once again enlighten you in the art of Rolling Your Own Clove Cigarettes.
So, we've had some trouble with our cigarettes, which I won't go over, because it gets old. However, if you're a new-comer, please read through Experiment 1 and its failure, as well as Experiment the 2nd and its failure. Sure, they've all failed so far, but I honed my methodology until this, Experiment Numero Tres (that means 3), and there are important things for you to learn about in those older posts, like rolling techniques we simply won't go through here.
Now for the theory. The previous DIY kreteks failed because they were too moist and drew like a pencil, or too dry, and gave me a sore throat and crack-lung. Those that were too moist used a moist tobacco and fresh, finely-ground cloves, while those that were too dry used a dry tobacco with crushed cloves, which were dryer than the finely ground cloves. The theories we will be exploring in this third experiment will be a moist tobacco with a dry clove, and also (as an added bonus), a dry tobacco with a moist clove. Theoretically, this would bypass the problems encountered before, but which one will be the winner? Stay tuned to find out!
So, the first part of this experiment will be the moist tobacco with the dry clove preparation. Since I ran out of the Bali Shag we used in the first experiment, I went out and discovered that the Tobacconist's shop was out, so I purchased a pouch of Drum tobacco, instead. It is comparably moist, while having a bit more of a robust flavour than the Bali Golden Shag, which is quite mild. Now, for the cloves, I decided to go with store-bought ground cloves. The home-ground cloves were too moist, and those crushed with mortar and pestle came out a bit chunky. So, store-bought. Now, these store-bought ground cloves are very dry, and very finely ground. Powdery, even. They don't smell as strong as the freshly-ground ones, but what the hell. Subtle can be nice, too. For this batch, I used a handful of tobacco and 2 tablespoons of the ground cloves, then forced the mixture, kicking and screaming, into the empty cigarette tubes using the Rizla rolling machine. For instructions on how to use these things, go back to Experiment the First, where I take you step by step through the process.
The second batch tests out the dry tobacco and moist cloves theory. So, I went back to the American Spirit tobacco, pictured at right, and ground up some whole cloves in my tiny blender. A regular sized-blender should work also, as would a coffee grinder or food processor type thing. Any electrical choppy/blendy thing. You know, with a motor, and sharp blades that go round and round really fast, the kind of thing you should NEVER EVER put your fingers in. Well, except you in the corner. You should totally put your hand in there, just to show everyone else what happens.* Really, I'm sure you'll be fine; it's a valuable life lesson. Keep grinding the whole cloves until they've been chopped into tiny tiny pieces, and the whole mess looks kind of like the sample I've prepared, seen at left. It's finely ground, but moist, and so kind of sticky, and the aroma is unbelievably strong and wonderful. For this second batch, I used about a handful of the tobacco, and only about a teaspoon and a half of the cloves, because they're so strong. Then, into the filter tubes with the whole mess, using the Rizla machine again.
So, I promised a review of these beautiful smokables, and you shall have it. I smoked both of these blends over a period of two weeks, and they actually both held up rather well to scrutiny. The moist tobacco/dry cloves blend was a little light on clove flavour, and took slightly more effort to draw than a regular cigarette, but it was entirely bearable. The second batch, with the dry tobacco/moist cloves mix was better than the first batch in my opinion, since the clove flavour was much more pronounced, and I like that sort of thing. The dry tobacco did dry out my throat a bit, but the moist cloves prevented it from becoming a problem. The Perfect Kretek is not here yet, but this is very promising. The key, I think, is to establish a blend of 1:3 or 1:4 moist:dry tobacco and then use the moist fresh-ground cloves for the flavouring. This is what I shall attempt to perfect over the next few days, and an update shall be posted once I've got it down pat. Until then, my little cherrybombs, keep experimenting!
Post Script - If any of you have anything to say, such as success stories, Epic Failzzes, tips for your fellows, or pleas for aide, comment comment comment. I can't help you (or ridicule you) if you don't talk to me.
*DISCLAIMER: Do not actually put your hands (or any other soft fleshy part) in a blender. I don't care how pretty the spinning blades look, it's a stupid idea and if you do such things, it's your own damned fault you end up hand-less, you damned fool.
So, we've had some trouble with our cigarettes, which I won't go over, because it gets old. However, if you're a new-comer, please read through Experiment 1 and its failure, as well as Experiment the 2nd and its failure. Sure, they've all failed so far, but I honed my methodology until this, Experiment Numero Tres (that means 3), and there are important things for you to learn about in those older posts, like rolling techniques we simply won't go through here.
Now for the theory. The previous DIY kreteks failed because they were too moist and drew like a pencil, or too dry, and gave me a sore throat and crack-lung. Those that were too moist used a moist tobacco and fresh, finely-ground cloves, while those that were too dry used a dry tobacco with crushed cloves, which were dryer than the finely ground cloves. The theories we will be exploring in this third experiment will be a moist tobacco with a dry clove, and also (as an added bonus), a dry tobacco with a moist clove. Theoretically, this would bypass the problems encountered before, but which one will be the winner? Stay tuned to find out!
So, the first part of this experiment will be the moist tobacco with the dry clove preparation. Since I ran out of the Bali Shag we used in the first experiment, I went out and discovered that the Tobacconist's shop was out, so I purchased a pouch of Drum tobacco, instead. It is comparably moist, while having a bit more of a robust flavour than the Bali Golden Shag, which is quite mild. Now, for the cloves, I decided to go with store-bought ground cloves. The home-ground cloves were too moist, and those crushed with mortar and pestle came out a bit chunky. So, store-bought. Now, these store-bought ground cloves are very dry, and very finely ground. Powdery, even. They don't smell as strong as the freshly-ground ones, but what the hell. Subtle can be nice, too. For this batch, I used a handful of tobacco and 2 tablespoons of the ground cloves, then forced the mixture, kicking and screaming, into the empty cigarette tubes using the Rizla rolling machine. For instructions on how to use these things, go back to Experiment the First, where I take you step by step through the process.
The second batch tests out the dry tobacco and moist cloves theory. So, I went back to the American Spirit tobacco, pictured at right, and ground up some whole cloves in my tiny blender. A regular sized-blender should work also, as would a coffee grinder or food processor type thing. Any electrical choppy/blendy thing. You know, with a motor, and sharp blades that go round and round really fast, the kind of thing you should NEVER EVER put your fingers in. Well, except you in the corner. You should totally put your hand in there, just to show everyone else what happens.* Really, I'm sure you'll be fine; it's a valuable life lesson. Keep grinding the whole cloves until they've been chopped into tiny tiny pieces, and the whole mess looks kind of like the sample I've prepared, seen at left. It's finely ground, but moist, and so kind of sticky, and the aroma is unbelievably strong and wonderful. For this second batch, I used about a handful of the tobacco, and only about a teaspoon and a half of the cloves, because they're so strong. Then, into the filter tubes with the whole mess, using the Rizla machine again.
So, I promised a review of these beautiful smokables, and you shall have it. I smoked both of these blends over a period of two weeks, and they actually both held up rather well to scrutiny. The moist tobacco/dry cloves blend was a little light on clove flavour, and took slightly more effort to draw than a regular cigarette, but it was entirely bearable. The second batch, with the dry tobacco/moist cloves mix was better than the first batch in my opinion, since the clove flavour was much more pronounced, and I like that sort of thing. The dry tobacco did dry out my throat a bit, but the moist cloves prevented it from becoming a problem. The Perfect Kretek is not here yet, but this is very promising. The key, I think, is to establish a blend of 1:3 or 1:4 moist:dry tobacco and then use the moist fresh-ground cloves for the flavouring. This is what I shall attempt to perfect over the next few days, and an update shall be posted once I've got it down pat. Until then, my little cherrybombs, keep experimenting!
Post Script - If any of you have anything to say, such as success stories, Epic Failzzes, tips for your fellows, or pleas for aide, comment comment comment. I can't help you (or ridicule you) if you don't talk to me.
*DISCLAIMER: Do not actually put your hands (or any other soft fleshy part) in a blender. I don't care how pretty the spinning blades look, it's a stupid idea and if you do such things, it's your own damned fault you end up hand-less, you damned fool.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tobacco Means Tobacco, You Pricks!
All work and no play makes my blog a very dull read. So it's a good thing that DIY anything is a pleasant mixture of work and play, eh? However, it never does to fall into a routine, for nothing kills the fiery passion of lusty clove-smokin' brigands quite like the same old, same old of real life. So, today, my scurvy curs, you get to take a break, as I give you: Storytime!
Once upon a week or so ago, your Statuesque and Erudite muse went questing for DIY supplies. Along the way she, that is to say, I, decided that what I really needed was a nice cigarette case in which to carry my creations around, instead of the semi-crushed empty packs that spoke only of hopeless longing and despair. I thought about it for a moment, and decided that the best place to find supplies and also a decent selection of cig cases would be in the Village, spanning from about West 4th Street all along St. Mark's Place.
A bit of background for those of you not from NYC -- the Village is a neighborhood in Manhattan which is split into West and East. West Village, traditionally (as of 10 years ago, anyway), houses well-off young business people, and is a hub of the Gay/Lesbian/Transgender community. Also, many and varied sex-shops. Seriously. You need a bright purple leather teddy with lime green feather trim and peek-a-boo nipple holes? Go to the West Village. The East Village used to have a lot of punk rock kids (I should know, as I was one of them), vagrant artists, tattoo shops, off-beat clothing stores, used record/movie stores, and its crown jewel, CBGB's. That's all gone now, and has been replaced with 'vintage' clothing stores, J-Pop restaurants, and one hell of a lot of hipsters who like the idea of living in a center of Punk Rock subculture, but can't stand the stench. Oh, and CBGB's was killed, and its lesser zombie self reanimated in Las Vegas. Fuckin' gentrification. Gone are the days when you could get an eighth of shit moonshine for under $5 without getting carded, take it to a community garden and get wrecked with some other people with silly hair and angry clothing, then sleep it off in the subway station. Not anymore, 'cause now there's rules and stuff. Oh well, the punk rock scene was at it's best in the late '70s and early '80s anyway. I wasn't involved till the the late '90s, whereupon it went all mainstream. Quicker than you could spit, little Avril Lavigne look-alikes took over, no one bothered making their own clothes, buying them pre-ripped, pre-studded, and pre-filthed, overpriced and funded by mummy and daddy's credit cards. Pathetic.
However, the one thing both West and East Village have in common are headshops, thinly disguised as tobacconists. Now, these shops come in all sizes and specializations, from the ratty little corner deli with a couple of pipes and some flavoured papers, to the shiny gleaming superstore boasting displays of bongs and intricate hookahs, with two dusty pouches of Top rolling tobacco, just to keep up appearances. I am, of course, excluding the street vendors, who hawk their illicit paraphernalia on a little collapsible table, and chat with customers blatantly about what kind of pot is best, but I'm only excluding them because they're not licensed to sell tobacco. All of these, including the street vendors, do have one thing in common: a small, grubby, hand-written note tacked up somewhere that says, 'for tobacco smoking use only.'
Now that you've got all the essential background information, I can continue my tale. I went to this section of the city in search of a nice cigarette holder. If you don't know what they are, I will tell you; they are metal boxes, shallow, hinged on one side so they open up like a book, with a metal bar or some elastic on the inside, so that the cigarettes you place within won't fall out. They come in different sizes and proportions, some long, some short, some thicker, some shallower. Plain or ornate, with silly decals or pretentious paintings. An old Altoids tin works also, and is more customizable, but sometimes it's nice to buy yourself something nice, which is precisely what I wanted to do on this particular occasion.
I approached the bored and rude art school dropout at the first store I came upon, which I thought showed great promise. This was one of the larger stores, that sold fifty different kinds of bongs, had a dizzying rainbow of hookahs, and a virtual menagerie of bowls shaped like dragons and piglets and unicorns. I inquired after their cigarette holders, whereupon the pretentious almost-human sighed, put down her Sharpie (with which she was painting her nails), and pulled a strange cedar box out from under the counter. 'What is this?' I asked, perplexed. 'A cigarette holder?' she contemptuously replied. 'But it only holds one cigarette, what the hell use is that to me?' I rejoindered. 'Ohh, you're talking about tobacco cigarettes, not tobacco cigarettes, right? Yeah, we don't have anything for your type here.' I happily imagined the glass menagerie coming to life and mauling her slowly as I exited the shop, certain that the next store wouldn't be quite so stupid.
The next store over, a smaller shop with not as large a variety of bongs and bowls, and with the added bonus of carrying hookah tobacco, was staffed by an Indian man who, at the moment of my entrance, was busy flirting with some tourist ladies. I looked around the shop, peered into the glass cabinets, and waited patiently to catch his eye, so that he'd maybe do his goddamned job and help out a valid customer. Alas, no luck. I interjected, across the inane prattling of those Ohio bimbos 'Hey, do you have any cigarette cases? To hold cigarettes?' whereupon he looked up, sighed, and handed me the same thing the talentless graphic designer had, a little painted joint hider. He even commenced to explain that, 'It is made of cedar, police dogs no smell, sniff sniff, you tobacco is safe, you no go jail. Good? Fifteen dollah.' When I tried to explain what I was actually after, his countenance went blank, and he shrugged as if confused, saying he'd never heard of such a thing. I left, once again, amidst daydreams of pain and destruction.
This kept on happening all throughout the East Village, and into a good part of the West Village as well. Large and small shops alike just automatically assumed that when I said 'tobacco' or 'cigarettes' I really meant 'tobacco' and 'cigarettes.' The italics, if you haven't realized by now, means marijuana. They all seemed confused and slightly put out when I finally got the point across that no, I did NOT mean marijuana, pot, weed, reefer, grass, or The Gange. I eventually just went home, empty handed and a hair away from immanentizing the eschaton.
A day or two later, I went to a tobacconist's on 14th Street, almost exactly between the West and East Village territories, since I did actually need to get some tobacco and a few other supplies (which are, as yet, a secret to you, my little ducklings), and what did mine eyes behold? A glass-fronted, well-lit, artfully-arranged cabinet, presenting an enchanting variety of cigarette cases. Entranced and hardly believing that this vision before me was more than stress-induced hallucination, I perused. I eventually chose one case, longer than wide, with an antiqued picture of a young lady in a white bonnet. It's nicer than it sounds. Elated, I purchased my parcels, and skipped off homeward. The very next day I passed by a flea market, and stopped to peruse its wares. Third table down, I found another glorious cigarette holder, square shaped, all silver and etched with a motif of flames surrounding an engraving of Baron Samedi. All for around $2. Score!
The moral of this story, then, my chickies, is that good things don't come to those who persevere and wait patiently for providence, but, rather, that good things come to those who are fueled by lakes of fiery hatred for their fellow man, and whose burning, searing rage flows out of them through soothing dreams of mass mayhem and chaos, sending tendrils of energy to the loom of the Moirae, tweaking the strings of destiny they weave to bring to the infuriated that which he or she so desperately and angrily desires. That's how I did it, and So Should You!
The End.
Once upon a week or so ago, your Statuesque and Erudite muse went questing for DIY supplies. Along the way she, that is to say, I, decided that what I really needed was a nice cigarette case in which to carry my creations around, instead of the semi-crushed empty packs that spoke only of hopeless longing and despair. I thought about it for a moment, and decided that the best place to find supplies and also a decent selection of cig cases would be in the Village, spanning from about West 4th Street all along St. Mark's Place.
A bit of background for those of you not from NYC -- the Village is a neighborhood in Manhattan which is split into West and East. West Village, traditionally (as of 10 years ago, anyway), houses well-off young business people, and is a hub of the Gay/Lesbian/Transgender community. Also, many and varied sex-shops. Seriously. You need a bright purple leather teddy with lime green feather trim and peek-a-boo nipple holes? Go to the West Village. The East Village used to have a lot of punk rock kids (I should know, as I was one of them), vagrant artists, tattoo shops, off-beat clothing stores, used record/movie stores, and its crown jewel, CBGB's. That's all gone now, and has been replaced with 'vintage' clothing stores, J-Pop restaurants, and one hell of a lot of hipsters who like the idea of living in a center of Punk Rock subculture, but can't stand the stench. Oh, and CBGB's was killed, and its lesser zombie self reanimated in Las Vegas. Fuckin' gentrification. Gone are the days when you could get an eighth of shit moonshine for under $5 without getting carded, take it to a community garden and get wrecked with some other people with silly hair and angry clothing, then sleep it off in the subway station. Not anymore, 'cause now there's rules and stuff. Oh well, the punk rock scene was at it's best in the late '70s and early '80s anyway. I wasn't involved till the the late '90s, whereupon it went all mainstream. Quicker than you could spit, little Avril Lavigne look-alikes took over, no one bothered making their own clothes, buying them pre-ripped, pre-studded, and pre-filthed, overpriced and funded by mummy and daddy's credit cards. Pathetic.
However, the one thing both West and East Village have in common are headshops, thinly disguised as tobacconists. Now, these shops come in all sizes and specializations, from the ratty little corner deli with a couple of pipes and some flavoured papers, to the shiny gleaming superstore boasting displays of bongs and intricate hookahs, with two dusty pouches of Top rolling tobacco, just to keep up appearances. I am, of course, excluding the street vendors, who hawk their illicit paraphernalia on a little collapsible table, and chat with customers blatantly about what kind of pot is best, but I'm only excluding them because they're not licensed to sell tobacco. All of these, including the street vendors, do have one thing in common: a small, grubby, hand-written note tacked up somewhere that says, 'for tobacco smoking use only.'
Now that you've got all the essential background information, I can continue my tale. I went to this section of the city in search of a nice cigarette holder. If you don't know what they are, I will tell you; they are metal boxes, shallow, hinged on one side so they open up like a book, with a metal bar or some elastic on the inside, so that the cigarettes you place within won't fall out. They come in different sizes and proportions, some long, some short, some thicker, some shallower. Plain or ornate, with silly decals or pretentious paintings. An old Altoids tin works also, and is more customizable, but sometimes it's nice to buy yourself something nice, which is precisely what I wanted to do on this particular occasion.
I approached the bored and rude art school dropout at the first store I came upon, which I thought showed great promise. This was one of the larger stores, that sold fifty different kinds of bongs, had a dizzying rainbow of hookahs, and a virtual menagerie of bowls shaped like dragons and piglets and unicorns. I inquired after their cigarette holders, whereupon the pretentious almost-human sighed, put down her Sharpie (with which she was painting her nails), and pulled a strange cedar box out from under the counter. 'What is this?' I asked, perplexed. 'A cigarette holder?' she contemptuously replied. 'But it only holds one cigarette, what the hell use is that to me?' I rejoindered. 'Ohh, you're talking about tobacco cigarettes, not tobacco cigarettes, right? Yeah, we don't have anything for your type here.' I happily imagined the glass menagerie coming to life and mauling her slowly as I exited the shop, certain that the next store wouldn't be quite so stupid.
The next store over, a smaller shop with not as large a variety of bongs and bowls, and with the added bonus of carrying hookah tobacco, was staffed by an Indian man who, at the moment of my entrance, was busy flirting with some tourist ladies. I looked around the shop, peered into the glass cabinets, and waited patiently to catch his eye, so that he'd maybe do his goddamned job and help out a valid customer. Alas, no luck. I interjected, across the inane prattling of those Ohio bimbos 'Hey, do you have any cigarette cases? To hold cigarettes?' whereupon he looked up, sighed, and handed me the same thing the talentless graphic designer had, a little painted joint hider. He even commenced to explain that, 'It is made of cedar, police dogs no smell, sniff sniff, you tobacco is safe, you no go jail. Good? Fifteen dollah.' When I tried to explain what I was actually after, his countenance went blank, and he shrugged as if confused, saying he'd never heard of such a thing. I left, once again, amidst daydreams of pain and destruction.
This kept on happening all throughout the East Village, and into a good part of the West Village as well. Large and small shops alike just automatically assumed that when I said 'tobacco' or 'cigarettes' I really meant 'tobacco' and 'cigarettes.' The italics, if you haven't realized by now, means marijuana. They all seemed confused and slightly put out when I finally got the point across that no, I did NOT mean marijuana, pot, weed, reefer, grass, or The Gange. I eventually just went home, empty handed and a hair away from immanentizing the eschaton.
A day or two later, I went to a tobacconist's on 14th Street, almost exactly between the West and East Village territories, since I did actually need to get some tobacco and a few other supplies (which are, as yet, a secret to you, my little ducklings), and what did mine eyes behold? A glass-fronted, well-lit, artfully-arranged cabinet, presenting an enchanting variety of cigarette cases. Entranced and hardly believing that this vision before me was more than stress-induced hallucination, I perused. I eventually chose one case, longer than wide, with an antiqued picture of a young lady in a white bonnet. It's nicer than it sounds. Elated, I purchased my parcels, and skipped off homeward. The very next day I passed by a flea market, and stopped to peruse its wares. Third table down, I found another glorious cigarette holder, square shaped, all silver and etched with a motif of flames surrounding an engraving of Baron Samedi. All for around $2. Score!
The moral of this story, then, my chickies, is that good things don't come to those who persevere and wait patiently for providence, but, rather, that good things come to those who are fueled by lakes of fiery hatred for their fellow man, and whose burning, searing rage flows out of them through soothing dreams of mass mayhem and chaos, sending tendrils of energy to the loom of the Moirae, tweaking the strings of destiny they weave to bring to the infuriated that which he or she so desperately and angrily desires. That's how I did it, and So Should You!
The End.
Friday, September 4, 2009
I Get Knocked Down, Then I Get Up Again - With A Sore Throat
I know, I know. I'm a harsh mistress. 'Do This,' I command. 'Try That' and so on. And how do I reward you for obeying my every whim? Neglect! Ridicule! Callousness and Sarcasm! But seriously, my pets, don't protest so. It's unseemly. You've presumed too much, as if I didn't have it all in hand, well controlled. Whatever happened to discipline, eh? Naughty lungs must needs be punished...
And, if you've been smoking the Second Experiment's kreteks, as I have, those lungs would be thoroughly beaten. Now, the second experiment attempted to fix some problems that arose from the First Experiment, namely, that the tobacco and clove preparation both proved too moist, and were unsmokable. So, we fixed this problem by using a dryer tobacco, and a dryer clove preparation, never thinking that we might have fixed it too much.
At first, the second round of cigarettes were very enjoyable, easy to smoke, well-flavoured, and with the crackling we all know and love so dearly. The only problem I initially found was that some of the chunks of clove -- which in this preparation we crushed roughly in a mortar and pestle-- were too large, so that some puffs were extra super clove-y. A problem that not only is not a problem for some folks, but that is easily solved by expending a bit more effort with the next batch's clove-crushing. 'Not bad,' I thought to myself, and I baked a congratulatory pie.
This love affair, as so many do, lasted all of two days, whereupon the skies turned grey and all joy was for nought.
I awoke, one morning, with a scratchy, dry throat, which progressed as I smoked more of those delicious death-sticks, until my melodious voice was somehow switched out for a hoarse rasp. I refused to blame the cigarettes, though they certainly irritated my brittle carbon-coated bronchii, instead attributing the cause to the rain, or the unseasonable cool evenings. But alas, a discrepancy; there hasn't been any rain, and I haven't been out in the fresh and cool since early spring.
So, this second batch was just as bad as the first, though more insidious and deceitful in its awfulness. Well, perhaps not as bad, since these I was actually able to smoke, instead of sucking and sucking and receiving nothing.
I shall leave you with that, my dears, until next time, when I shall once again let you partake of the cup of knowledge, for the insignificant fee of undying allegiance and a lifetime of minion-hood...
And, if you've been smoking the Second Experiment's kreteks, as I have, those lungs would be thoroughly beaten. Now, the second experiment attempted to fix some problems that arose from the First Experiment, namely, that the tobacco and clove preparation both proved too moist, and were unsmokable. So, we fixed this problem by using a dryer tobacco, and a dryer clove preparation, never thinking that we might have fixed it too much.
At first, the second round of cigarettes were very enjoyable, easy to smoke, well-flavoured, and with the crackling we all know and love so dearly. The only problem I initially found was that some of the chunks of clove -- which in this preparation we crushed roughly in a mortar and pestle-- were too large, so that some puffs were extra super clove-y. A problem that not only is not a problem for some folks, but that is easily solved by expending a bit more effort with the next batch's clove-crushing. 'Not bad,' I thought to myself, and I baked a congratulatory pie.
This love affair, as so many do, lasted all of two days, whereupon the skies turned grey and all joy was for nought.
I awoke, one morning, with a scratchy, dry throat, which progressed as I smoked more of those delicious death-sticks, until my melodious voice was somehow switched out for a hoarse rasp. I refused to blame the cigarettes, though they certainly irritated my brittle carbon-coated bronchii, instead attributing the cause to the rain, or the unseasonable cool evenings. But alas, a discrepancy; there hasn't been any rain, and I haven't been out in the fresh and cool since early spring.
So, this second batch was just as bad as the first, though more insidious and deceitful in its awfulness. Well, perhaps not as bad, since these I was actually able to smoke, instead of sucking and sucking and receiving nothing.
I shall leave you with that, my dears, until next time, when I shall once again let you partake of the cup of knowledge, for the insignificant fee of undying allegiance and a lifetime of minion-hood...
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