He didn't have proper distillation equipment, of course. Improvisation was key. He instructed Jasmin to finely chop the rosemary leaves and stems, releasing their pungent oils. Then, he placed the chopped herbs into the large iron cauldron with a generous amount of clean water, positioning the cauldron back over a carefully controlled, very low fire in the hearth. He rigged a makeshift lid using a flat piece of slate tilted slightly, with a smaller earthenware bowl placed upside down beneath it, directly over the simmering herbs but not touching the water.
"Watch," he explained to Jasmin as the water began to gently simmer, steam rising. "The steam carries the volatile oils from the rosemary upwards. It hits the cooler underside of the slate lid, condenses back into water droplets – but droplets now infused with the rosemary oil. These drops run down the tilted slate and collect," he pointed, "in this small bowl."
It was a crude form of steam distillation, inefficient, yielding only a small amount of hydrosol (fragrant water) and an even smaller amount of separated essential oil floating on top. But it was something. The air in the smokehouse filled with the clean, invigorating scent of boiling rosemary. Jasmin watched, mesmerized, as tiny, precious droplets of fragrant liquid slowly accumulated in the collection bowl. Alchemy indeed.
While the rosemary infusion simmered, they turned their attention back to the main event. Lloyd carefully diluted a portion of their concentrated hardwood lye solution with extra water, aiming for a specific weaker concentration he calculated mentally, hoping it would favor a softer result.
Meanwhile, Jasmin melted another large portion of the clean tallow in a separate, smaller pot, stirring diligently, keeping the heat low and steady.
Once the tallow was melted and the diluted lye solution was ready, Lloyd took charge of the critical mixing stage again. "Alright, Jasmin," he instructed, "slow stirring, just like yesterday."
As Jasmin stirred the warm tallow, Lloyd began slowly adding the diluted lye solution. The initial reaction was similar – cloudiness, a faint hiss – but perhaps less vigorous than with the concentrated lye.
"Keep stirring," Lloyd urged, emptying the bowl of diluted lye. "Now we watch for trace again. But," he cautioned, "it might look different this time. We're aiming for something softer, perhaps taking longer to reach that thickening point."
They fell back into the rhythm of stirring, the silence broken only by the crackle of the fire, the gentle bubbling of the rosemary infusion, and Lloyd's occasional quiet instruction. This batch did indeed seem thinner, taking longer to emulsify. They stirred patiently, watching for the subtle signs.
After what felt like another eternity, the mixture began to thicken, but not to the thick custard stage of the hard soap. It reached a consistency more like heavy cream or thin pudding. When Lloyd lifted the paddle, the drizzled trail remained on the surface, but seemed less defined, sinking back in more quickly.
"There," Lloyd judged, peering closely. "That's likely as close to 'trace' as we'll get with this recipe aiming for softness. Remove from heat!"
They carefully moved the pot off the fire. The mixture was opaque, creamy, smelling of cooked fat and alkali. Now, for the scent.
Lloyd carefully collected the small bowl of fragrant liquid from under the makeshift distillation lid. A thin, iridescent film of pure rosemary essential oil floated on top of the milky hydrosol. Using a feather quill borrowed from the study supplies, he carefully skimmed off the precious oil droplets, transferring them to a tiny vial. There wasn't much, maybe half a thimbleful, but the scent was potent, pure rosemary. He then poured the remaining rosemary-infused water (the hydrosol) directly into the warm soap mixture.
"Stir it in gently, Jasmin," he instructed. "Incorporate the fragrance."
Jasmin stirred, the clean scent of rosemary rising, mingling with the heavier base notes of the soap, cutting through the alkaline sharpness.
"Now, the oil itself," Lloyd added the few precious drops of concentrated rosemary essential oil, stirring it in quickly before the volatile compounds evaporated.
The final mixture was a thick, creamy, pale beige liquid, smelling pleasantly of rosemary. It wasn't the clear, refined liquid soap he ultimately envisioned, more like a soft soap or a thick gel, a result of using tallow and hardwood lye. But it was liquid. Ish. And it smelled good.
"We let this cool completely," Lloyd declared, surveying the pot with satisfaction. "It will likely thicken further as it cools. We won't pour it into molds. We'll store it in stoppered jars once it's cool enough to handle."