Propane Modification to Campsite Smoker

Due to the dry conditions in Central Oregon, the Deschutes National Forest has enacted fire restrictions about a month and a half earlier than normal.

For campers this means NO charcoal or wood fires, though gas and propane stoves are fine.

This is a problem, because one of my pleasures when camping is smoking ribs and chicken. It takes about five hours to properly slow-cook a rack or two of ribs, and for this I bring my little Old Smokey #14 Charcoal Smoker -- it's lightweight and small, and does a perfectly fine job.

But it does use charcoal, so I can't legally (or safely) use it until next year. There are propane smokers, I have one at the house, but every one I've looked at is too large and too heavy to bother bringing.

What's a girl to do? I could simply not smoke anything, but that's no fun.

So I decided to create another of my famous unnecessarily complex solutions.

First, I purchased a cheap single burner propane stove:

Once the reflector/pot stand was removed, I unsnapped the burner assembly and passed the stove's carburetor tube into the opening on the bottom of the smoker, re-attached the burner, and lit it.

But even on the lowest setting, the temperature in the smoker was too high for slow cooking. I smoke and cook ribs at 220 degrees F, and this thing headed north of 250 degrees and kept climbing. Thems is grillin' temperatures, not smokin' temperatures.

The stove's valve has detents for each heat setting, but they are buried inside the body of the stove, and I could not find a way to take the thing apart without damaging the plastic valve assembly, which is press-fit into the pot metal body. And the detents are quite aggressive: you can't balance the knob at a halfway point between "off" and "low" without the shaft snapping to either the "off" or "low" position.

Covering up some of the holes in the burner would be of no use since the actual nozzle is at the bottom of the carburetor tube, and unless I could find a replacement jet with a much smaller opening, no matter how many burner holes are covered, the amount of propane being released would not change -- only the flame pattern.

I examined the stove and saw that wotating the knob actually pushes the shaft into the valve body, which opens the valve. You can squeeze the shaft inward and open the valve.

What I needed was a means to easily squeeze the shaft into the body, with fine control over how far in the shaft gets pressed.

So, here's what the stove looks like with the knob and reflector off:

I modified an old C-clamp by removing the foot from the end of the threaded shaft and grinding the end to a point so it will seat in the hole on the end of the knob shaft:

Put some Velcro on the other end of the clamp.

And a matching patch of Velcro on the backside of the valve body.

Now the C-clamp can be mounted to the stove:

At this point, I found that I had very fine control over the stove heat, and it can be turned down to a whisper. 

So -- sit the smoker bottom over the stove:

(I will sort out a somewhat less-clunky means to get the smoker high enough to fit the stove under -- the Old Smokey company makes longer legs and that's probably the way I will go.)

Snap the burner back on inside the smoker:

And I'm good to go. Initial tests show that set to a very low setting, the smoker doesn't go over 150 degrees -- this should give me plenty of control over the heat.

And that's your Uncle Jack's Unnecessarily Complicated Solution to an Otherwise Trivial Problem.

Catching Up on Camping with Cat

Many people expressed their surprise that I would take a cat on a camping trip. The folk at Newport Avenue Market (where I bought some of my pre-camping supplies) asked about how it worked out. Friends at KPOV expressed wonderment. Even my lovely wife said, are you sure?

Well, the trip was a success.

Our little girl cat, Cosette, had a wonderful time camping with me; and I with her. Here she is in her favorite napping corner under the popped-top lid:

She and I stayed six nights at a secret place on the south end of the Crooked River National Grassland, a mere wide spot off a four-wheel road on the shoulder of Gray Butte. A solitary site known only to Arne Aquvit, Sven Hardwax, Bob Woodward, Brian the produce guy at Newport Market, and my son.

I busted the tongue of my little Westrailia trailer getting there.

This sweet little rescue cat-- who is not allowed to go outside off-leash at home on account of a very busy street, territorial other cats, dangerous Bad People (no one particular but the greater the population density, the higher the odds that someone who enjoys torturing cats might pick her up -- she likes people), and big rambunctious dogs who may mean no harm but could spook a little eight-pound cat into running so far that she might not know how to get back home [she is chipped but still . . . ) -- this kitty came with me.

Anyways, she and I had a fine time. For the first two nights she was on-leash until I was satisfied that she had settled down. The after that she had plenty to keep her occupied. Like this one lizard who lived in the rocks around the firepit, this one tree where a mouse had a home the roots -- and she absolutely delighted in rolling herself in the dust of the road that passed by our site.

We went for walks. On her own she does not like to get very far from me (she's a Daddy's Girl), but with her Daddy human she was happy to go exploring. Together she prowled to my right and to my left, walking behind me and before me, stopping frequently to sniff this bush, to explore that tree, and gaze interestedly down that ravine. But she never got too far from me.

In the evenings, when the coyotes sang, she looked at me with eyes as big as dinner plates. She knew those were monsters who could catch a little cat and hurt her.

And when it was time for to go to sleep (the VW Vanagon Westfalia poptop camper van's bench seat brilliantly converts into a bed) she did her final rounds of the windows: looking outside to make sure there were no lizards, no mouses, nor any monsters lurking outside the van, then laid down next to me, curled up, and snoozed through the night.

Yes, on the third morning she woke me up at 5:30 by patting me on the nose to tell me that it was time to get up! We can sleep all day! Let's go! Come ON!

And yeah, I was so charmed by her enthusiasm that I did get up, fired up the propane heater, made myself a cup of hot tea, and let her go outside to explore.

I do indulge her.

ANYWAY, we broke camp on Thursday morning. I had to put her into the pet carrier and drive home. Like most cats, she is not a fan of vehicular travel. She yowled the whole way.

But when I brought her into the kitchen and opened the latch on the carrier, she stepped out, and looked at me. "Home?" she said. Yes, home, I said. She jumped down from the table, and was happy to be back.

A Blustery Night?

Bob Shaw, the chief metereologist on KTVZ in Bend sez we got a low pressure system working its way southward off the coast, and that as the day continues we'll start seeing more moisture in the clouds and there may be some rain showers. 

And there will be wind with stiff gusts. "A blustery night," he promises. 

We'll see about that. I've camped through some pretty rough weather so I think I'm prepared. 

In the meantime, I'm smoking a rack of ribs for dinner. Alderwood, mostly.

UPDATE, Wednesday morning. Naw, it was a quiet night. 38 degrees in the van when I woke up. Slept warmly under two down comforters. Ciosette Cat tried to sleep on my neck at one point. "Gack, gack -- hey, get off!"

First Camping Trip of 2014

Our new rescue cat, Cosette, and I are camping in the Crooked River National Grasslands, near Madras, Ore., for six nights. 

No facilities, just a wide spot off a small dirt road off a barely larger dirt road. But free, completely solitary, and with beautiful views.

It's been coolish and windish, partly cloudy, the occasional spatter of rain.  But I have a warm, wind-free shelter and warm clothing so I'm fine. Cat seems unbothered. Sleeps cuddled next to me at night. 

It's nice to be out before fire season clamps down on open and charcoal fires. I have been enjoying quickly seared steaks and slowly smoked ribs. 

Cat has been having a great time. It's so exciting here! Here is Camping Cat on morning patrol.

Old Stubbly Guys

At one of Bend's better drinking establishments, the M&J.

I Don't Usually Drink Beer . . .

. . . but I do like a dry (Irish) stout for St. Patrick's day. 

(Or: Yes, kids, it's time for Jack's annual post about dry stouts.)

In my experience, there is only one dry stout that can be found reliably here in Bend, and it doesn't come from any of the locals -- the local offerings are sweet, not dry.

No, it's Guinness for dry stout, and not just any Guinness, but their Extra Stout version. Not the Draught and not the Foreign.

The Draught is watery, and the Foreign isn't a whole lot better. Murphy's has a dry stout in cans but it's no more interesting than Guinness Draught. But Guinness Extra is quite a bit bolder: the roasted barley and the hops -- you can taste them both. It doesn't have much of a head.

I've heard that they have a "Foreign Extra," too, but I haven't seen it.

Yesterday I found the last six-pack of Guinness Extra on the west side. Newport Market said that they had purchased a case for the weekend but blew through it in less than a day. West Side Liquor didn't have it. But Marcia at Safeway took my call, found that last sixer, and held it for me at Customer Service.

Before someone quite reasonably points out that I have no taste in beer, I offer the following: (1) If someone in town made a dry stout, I'd drink it, and B), Beer is only an occasional beverage for me, because beer makes me fat.

Many men my age just grow the belly, and -- what the hell -- stop shaving. Rock that "garden gnome" look.*  And, yes, I could go that route. But and alas, it is not just my belly that swells when I drink beer, but my butt goes along for the ride.

Fun fact: The fellow at West Side Liquor said that all they had was Guinness "Drot."

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* it was my friend Bruce Miller who pointed out the uncanny resemblance between older men with white beards and garden gnomes. Once seen, it cannot be unseen.

Wild Rose -- Northern Thai food . . .

. . . for the masses. 

Don't get fooled by the white tablecloths and cute little bistro tables one sees at most Thai restaurants. Thai food is family food, not snooty high-end dining.

I don't blame Thai chefs and restaurants for trying to keep it classy: consider what has happened to Chinese restaurants: In the past thirty years I've watched them race to the bottom to cater to the all-u-can-eat-lunch-buffet crowd. Low prices, uninspired predictable food.

In a community with a vibrant Chinese community, the restaurants will be vibrant and exciting. Otherwise, you get tedious, predictable, and boring.

Like Mexican restaurants: they all serve the same thing.

If you compete in a race to the bottom, you have to be willing to live in crappier house or tent than your competitor is willing to do.

My guess is that most Thai restaurateurs took one look at that business model and said, "I don't think so."

And I think that's why most Thai places look pretty upscale when compared with the crummy old-school Chinese restaurants offering large quantities of low-quality food at low, low prices.

This reporter's introduction to Thai food was in the late '70s in Ventura, Calif.

Thar I wuz, living in a one-bedroom apartment with the first Mrs Elliott. I was working for minimum wage in the display department at Montgomery Ward, she was a housecleaner. We discovered this new restaurant downtown. It was dimly-lit, funky, it was never crowded. We'd never heard of Thai food. The table service was done by a white guy wearing traditional Thai clothes.

The food was amazing, the flavors shockingly bold, the cost was low.

The guy was American. He'd lived in Thailand for a while, met a woman, married her. He, she, and her mother, moved to Ventura where they opened a restaurant. The mother provided the recipes, her daughter helped with the cooking, the husband served the tables.

My eyes were opened to fine, inexpensive, bold Thai cooking. But that was a long time ago.

Since then, Thai food has become more popular, but in the process, more generic, less interesting, less exciting. Thai restaurants have learned to cater to the American palate -- sweetness has been elevated, heat has been lowered. The jarring contrasts between sour tamarind paste, rich peanuts, hot red chiles, and fresh mint have been toned down.

What passed for medium heat is now a -1 on the scale of heat. And I got bored with Thai food.

Anyway, long story not even close to short.

Mrs Elliott and I went to Wild Rose Thai on Oregon street today for lunch.

Best Thai I've had in a long time.

It's northern Thai cooking, they say. There's no Pad Thai (the "chop suey" of American Thai restaurants, I say). No chopsticks (back in 1970, the guy at that restaurant in Ventura told us that chopsticks are not used in Thailand). No white tablecloths. Oilcloth, in fact. Casual, but in the funky sense, not in the slumming sense. But a full menu -- currys, soups, small plates -- and I could sit there for a while. A full, though modest, bar. Moderate prices. Fine service, not officious. The place felt ... if not family ... homey.

The food was rich, tasty, flavorful, bold, interesting.

Check them out.

(Note: they rank their food's fieriness on a scale from "1" (baby food) to 5 (their hottest). I ordered both my soup and plate at "4". They were what this SoCal boy would call a "2". Maybe a "1". PNW palates are timid. -Ed.)