The mangosteen is a species of evergreen tree in the Clusiaceae family, native to Southeast Asia, but now cultivated in several other tropical areas. It is cultivated for its edible fruit, the purple mangosteen. It is the most widely cultivated species within the Garcinia genus, though many other species also produce fruit and are grown for local consumption. The mangosteen is closely related to the gamboge trees (G. hanburyi and G. morella, both native to India), whose resin is used to make the yellow pigment of the same name. Gamboge is famous as the dye used to color the robes of Buddhist monks.
Alunite (hydrated aluminum potassium sulfate) is a naturally occurring mineral containing alum. The name “alum” is used for several different compounds, but usually refers to the double sulfate salt of aluminum and either potassium, ammonium, or sodium. Most commonly, it refers to potassium alum. Alum has been in use since antiquity, and it is still widely used today in industry as a mordant in dyeing, in tanning, in making paper and baking powders, as a flocculant to purify piped water, and to fireproof paper and cloth. Alum is commonly used as a styptic to stop the bleeding of minor wounds, and an astringent. Styptic pencils and alum blocks were once common items in men’s shaving kits.
Pacific Flake Sea Salt is a salt harvestry located in a tiny corner of what was once a huge Louisiana Pacific pulp mill out on the Samoa Peninsula, just across Humboldt Bay from my hometown of Eureka, California.
I met the owner, Bryon Duty, back in 2017 when I was first developing an interest in the idea of cottage industry. I was very impressed by someone who was not afraid to go back to the basics, and it just doesn’t get much more basic than salt.
Although salt is something that most of us take for granted, Bryon takes his profession and his craft very seriously. He is self-taught, and I can understand why: salt makers are a rare breed these days, and I can imagine it would be extremely difficult to find someone to teach you how to do it.
Bryon gave me a tour and explanation of his small facility, and his pride and knowledge are obvious and well-earned. His is the kind of passion that inspires in the listener a desire to find something similar–a trade, a craft, something you can do and put your hands on and be proud of sharing.
Although I live in Salt Lake City now (home a facility of Morton, the industrial salt harvester), I still get the salt that I use as a flavor enhancer in my home-made hot cocoa mix from Pacific Flake. To me, it adds just that little extra bit of pure love that comes from a high quality product, made with skill and dedication.
A coppice (also known as a copse) is a thicket of small trees and shrubs, typically those whose slender trunks and branches (or withies) are cut periodically for a variety of uses. The word also refers to a tree’s ability to regrow shoots from a cut main trunk. Some trees, such as willow, chestnut, oak, hornbeam, hazel and linden coppice better than others and have been widely cultivated for this purpose.
Coppicing is a very, very old method of tree management that has its roots (so to speak) far back in prehistory, in many parts of the world. Coppicing is an important resource for the so-called woodland industries. These are cottage industries that rely on the fast-growing smallwood coppices, such as: charcoal-making, basket-weaving, thatching, fuelwood, and many others.
The practice is alive and well today, though not as commercially important as in former times.
Featured photo: a coppice in a field of rape (Brassica napus), Poland. Courtesy of Shutterstock.
“Yelming” is part of the thatcher’s trade: to yelm is to prepare the gathered straw, sorting it by size, laying it out flat, and in some techniques, dampening it with water.
According to James Arnold in his amazing book The Shell Book of Country Crafts (if you’ve read some of my other entries, you already know how much I love this book), the thatching trade is one of the few to remain virtually unchanged for the centuries, and into the modern age. A thatched roof is more than a fashion statement, it is a highly practical means of roofing a house. Furthermore, though the skills take time to master, the most effective tools for the job have never been more than the jack (a pronged fork for carrying bundles of material), the mallet, the leggat (a grooved board used to “coax home” the straw or reed), and the scythe–the last two being incorporated in the seal of Britain’s National Society of Master Thatchers:
In 1968, when Arnold’s book was written, there were between 700-800 working professional thatchers in Britain. This number was on the increase at the time, as there was a renewed interest in thatching, which had previously been in decline due to several factors. These included the booming slate roof industry and the advent of combine-harvesting of wheat (a process that destroys the wheatstraw previously used for roof thatching). To replace the wheatstraw, common reed (which had always been one of the materials of choice) was increasingly being systematically cultivated and harvested.
Today, that number remains roughly the same, with about 900 thatchers in Great Britain (and about 60,000 thatched roofs). According to the International Thatching Society, there are about 300 thatchers in Japan (with 100,000 thatched roofs), 1000 thatchers in Holland, and 400 in Denmark. Sweden, Germany, and South Africa also have a lively tradition of thatched roofing. Sadly, in the United States, the thatched roof remains a novelty, with a select few craftsmen (mostly transplanted from Europe) here to practice the trade.
Personally I’m fascinated by this craft that found its perfection so long ago, and has retained it for centuries. It’s beautiful in its simplicity and practicality, and I have nothing but respect for the hardworking and skilled tradesmen (and the homeowners who love their roofs) who keep it alive.
Featured photo: A traditional thatched roof (with solar panels), Altensien, Germany. Photo courtesy of Shutterstock.
“Bort” refers to shards of small, impure diamonds, or the small fragments removed from gem-quality diamonds during the cutting process. It is also a term used to describe low-grade diamonds, not of gem quality. Both categories of bort are utilized mainly in a variety of abrasives. The origin of the word “bort” is not entirely known, but is speculated to have come from the Old French “bord” or “bort,” meaning “bastard.”
Carbonado or “black diamond” is a dark-colored, impure diamond with a slightly different and more rare structural form and chemical composition. It is composed of crystalline diamond, graphite, and amorphous carbon; it is the hardest form of natural diamond. Like bort, it is mainly used as an abrasive and for diamond set drills.
Though bort and carbonado are certainly less glamorous than the gem-quality diamonds, they are by far the more abundant and useful. About 80% of all diamonds mined (representing around 130,000,000 carats or 26,000 kg per year) are industrial-grade. With the highest hardness, thermal conductivity and melting point of any mineral, these humble-looking diamonds possess the properties which rank them among the most useful industrial materials in the world.
Featured photo: Bort as a combination of shards and crystals. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
Propolis, also called bee glue, is an aromatic reddish substance collected by honeybees from tree buds and bark, consisting of a mixture of tree resins, balsams, and waxes which are altered by the bees’ own secretions, esp. saliva and beeswax, and used by them to seal cracks in the hive and varnish the cells of the comb. (Thank you to the Oxford English Dictionary for this definition).
For centuries, healing properties have been attributed to propolis, and it is often touted as an herbal remedy or supplement. However, even a quick scan of the literature (such as the articles found on sciencedirect.com) strongly suggests that most of the evidence for its effectiveness is anecdotal. On a hopeful note, in vitro studies have supported claims for the anti-microbial effects of propolis, although actual clinical studies are nearly nonexistent (1). Part of the issue is that the chemical composition of propolis is very complex and can vary widely and depends largely on the local ecology, especially the plants from which the bees are collecting the resins (2).
In Petra Ahnert’s wonderful book Beehive Alchemy, of the fifty or so recipes involving bee products, only three include propolis (salve, toothpaste and throat lozenges). So it appears (for now, at least) that propolis is far more useful to the bees that it is to us.
And in my opinion, that’s really okay.
Featured image: Propolis found at the edge of a beehive. Photo courtesy of beeinformed.org.
(1) Red Propolis: Phenolics, Polyphenolics, and Applications to Microbiological Health and Disease, (Irlan A. Freires, … Bruno Bueno-Silva, in Polyphenols: Prevention and Treatment of Human Disease (Second Edition), 2018)
(2) A worldwide yearly survey of new data in adverse drug reactions and interactions N.H. Choulis, in Side Effects of Drugs Annual, 2012 (entry on Propolis)
An ashlar is a large stone hewn to square sides, for use in building or laying pavement. It also refers to the particular method of stone masonry called ashlar or ashlar-work, which makes use of hewn stones, often made to a specific proportion, as opposed to rubble-work, which makes use of unhewn stone.
According to The Stonemason and the Bricklayer, a manual from 1891, by the self-described (but unnamed) editor of the “Industrial Self-Instructor”:
“The stones for the best class of [ashlar] work should be carefully proportioned, the length, depth and breadth having what is called a harmonious relation to each other [a proportion further described in the book].”
Anything less than this constitutes “sham” or “false” ashlar, which can only result in inferior and unstable stonework.
In literature from the Middle Ages, there are references to “ashlars” used as weapons, being hurled from fortress walls at attackers below. Whether they were made for this purpose, or the defenders were simply desperate enough to use the stones of their own buildings, I don’t know — either way, it would be a pretty effective missile.
The usefulness of ashlar-type stonework has certainly been recognized throughout many eras, and many parts of the world.
Today, ashlar work is still very much alive and well, though its definition (at least, according to the author quoted above) has been expanded to include a number of styles that include a variety of types of dressed stone.
Still, harmony, stability, and fine craftsmanship lie at the heart of ashlar stonework, with the aim of creating a structure that will stand for centuries and beyond.
Unless, of course, one is aiming simply to throw it at an enemy’s head.
Featured photo: ashlar wall of Palazzo Rucellai in Florence, Italy. Photo courtesy of Shutterstock.
Tales From a Cabinetmaker's Life
Your Guide to the Cottage Industry Revolution