Remember in the movie Fight Club where Tyler Durden hunted through the dumpsters at hospitals for the bags of fat that were sucked out of old ladies' thighs so he could use it to make soap? That's always been my fantasy. Well, maybe not exactly. I like to think of myself as being above dumpster-diving and I prefer vegetarian oils to human fat. But I have always wanted to make soap. Maybe it's part of my ongoing desire to emulate the neo-Luddite, anarcho-primitivist, and really, really good looking Tyler Durden. Or maybe I'm just a nerd.
Either way, while Brian and I were in India, we met two wonderful people-Patti Flynn and Maurice Roche-who are organic soapmakers in Australia. We spent two days with them in the Thar desert. Hearing them talk about turning their passion of soapmaking into a business sparked my previous fantasy of trying out the hobby.
Like most of my fantastical ideas, this soapmaking idea faced a near-certain fate of fizzling and quickly being forgotten. But I was determined to not let that happen. So as soon as I got back, I ordered the book that Patti had suggested, The Soapmaker's Companion. I spent a couple weeks studying the book and then set out to buy my ingredients. I knew that once I had money invested, I would follow through.
It probably wasn't the most cost-conscious move, but I headed over to Rainbow, our local organic food co-op. The base oils that I selected are:
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Coconut Oil
Red Palm Oil
I wanted a lavender-based scent, so I got essential oils of lavender spike, bergamot, lemon, and tangerine. I also decided to experiment a little, so I got some annatto seeds and steeped them in hot olive oil to extract the dark red color. I also got some dried marigold flowers, dried safflower, and dried lavender flowers. Cost-wise, it was the palm oil and the essential oils that killed me. ($14 for 5 ml (2 teaspoons) of lavender oil!) This is going to be some very pricey soap.
The process of making the soap is a little bit daunting only because you have to use a caustic chemical - lye (sodium hydroxide.) Remember in Fight Club when Tyler Durden poured the chemical on the narrator's hand and it burned like hell? That's lye. Lye will eat skin immediately upon contact. (You might also remember lye from its previous appearance in Drano.) Even though it's entirely natural and organic, when it's in a pure form, lye is nasty, nasty stuff. But when it's exposed to fats and oils, it sparks a chemical reaction that creates that magical thing we call soap.
Following the directions to the letter (something I rarely do with recipes) I mixed the lye with the water and watched it steam over like a middle-school volcano simulation. I did this in the backyard just in case there was a disaster. Heart racing, I went back inside to start the rest of the soap. After melting the fats and combining them with the oils, I went back downstairs to get the lye. This is where it happens (or where the ambulance is called.) I poured the lye into the oils and waited for the poof of smoke that (at least according to every sitcom I've seen about witchcraft) would tell me that magic just occurred. No poof. Instead, I watched as the mixer endlessly spun around a never-changing liquid.
The mixture needed to thicken. In soapmaker parlance (being the expert that I am now) this is called "trace." This just means that the mixture is thick enough so when you dribble a little, it leaves a trace behind. Think light cake batter. Unfortunately, my soap wasn't thickening as it should have. So, naturally, I started to panic. I got out the computer and started researching all the things I could have done wrong. Some people said that it can take a long time to get to trace, so I let it keep churning along. For over an hour.
But then . . . trace!! I quickly added my essential oils and my dried flowers and poured the mixture into a wood mold and covered it with a lid. Now it goes to sleep under a blanket (not kidding) for two days. Ever the pessimist, I was still convinced that I did something wrong. I fully expected to uncover in a soupy-and very expensive-mess.
On Tuesday morning, I woke the soap from its sleep. It seemed pretty hard, so I unmolded it from its box. Much to my surprise (and delight) it was a firm block of soap, just the way it should be. A miracle!
And now, the final product:
Patti warned me that this would be an addictive hobby. She was right. I'm already dreaming of my next batch of soap.
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