I am not perfect. This fact has grown easier to live with the older I get. A decade ago, I might not have admitted it publicly, but even then I knew. Now I am happy to proclaim it in public spaces like this one. I have many failures, but in this case I am talking about a set of salami I began curing some months ago.

I am relating this story both to warn my fellow salami-makers about particular pitfalls in the process, but also how I have learned from those pitfalls and — I hope — fixed the problems on this next batch, a Spanish-style chorizo made from a wild boar Holly shot some months ago.

First the failure. I made a batch of wild duck sopressatta and wild sheep fennel salami. They were awful. The duck salami was so bad I chucked it. The sheep salami I am still looking at from time to time, vacuum-sealed in my fridge. I contemplate daily whether to chuck this, too.

The failure was a classic case of hubris: For some unknown reason I decided to make both batches on the same day. Salami-making is all about detail, and I missed several — on that day, and on many subsequent days. I am not entirely sure what killed my salami, but case hardening is definitely one culprit: This is what happens when the outside of the sausage is exposed to low humidity, causing it to dry so fast that the moisture at its center cannot escape; the sausage rots from within.

This definitely destroyed the duck sausage. I also, finally, have determined that adding duck fat is not a good idea. Its melting point is simply too low, causing the salami to weep delicious but unsightly duck fat. Bummer.

The sheep salami fared better: Not the prettiest salami I’ve ever made, but it is edible, if sour. Really sour. And I know why. I kinda like that tang in a salami — it’s a product of the lactic acid built up by the “good” bacteria you add as a starter culture. The idea with a starter culture is that you add it to the meat to overwhelm any bad beasties with a particular set of good beasties you want in your salami. And those wee beasties eat sugar, in this case dextrose. More sugar, more lactic acid, more tang. Looks like I added too much.

I also chose the wrong wee beasties. Knowing just enough to be dangerous, I reckoned that if the starter culture recommended in Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn’s Charcuterie: The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing would give a decent tang, well then, some of the others sold by Butcher & Packer would give me more. But be careful what you wish for.

It seems that the starter culture I chose is the pocket rocket of bacteria, needing temperatures in the 90s and near-100 percent humidity to rev properly. Needless to say I do not have this environment available anywhere in my house. Still, it fermented enough to kill off botulism and other nasty bugs, so thank heaven that there is some leeway in this process.

Defeated, I went back to the books to study. I read dozens of scientific papers on the subject, which are only partially in English. Then I found Stanley Marianski’s The Art of Making Fermented Sausages. At last, a book that discusses the details. In English. I learned in this book that the culture I wanted is called T-SPX, which is perfect for the slow fermented, Southern European (Spanish and Italian) salami I prefer to make.

As it happens, T-SPX is an ideal starter culture for a room that fluctuates between 68 and 75 degrees. This I can do. The only problem is you need to maintain a very high humidity for 3-4 days. That was another issue I had with the last batch. The set-up I had looked like what I have at right. Rack for the salami. Taller rack to drape plastic sheeting over. Towel for drips. Humidifier set on medium. Perfect, right? Nope.

I now use a humidity and temperature gauge to check the conditions, and even with the humidifier on full, I only get humidity of 75 percent; not good enough. I now mist my salami several times each day with water to keep things even moister.

Why so moist? You want the salami at this stage to ferment, not dry. Drying here is a Very Bad Thing. Even in the drying phase, you want the humidity to be just about 5 percent lower than that of your salami, so you need to ratchet it down as the drying process proceeds.

All of this I have applied to my latest batch, which is Spanish style chorizo. This is not like Mexican chorizo, which is very soft. Spanish chorizo is a very spicy dry salami that just rocks eaten on a hot day with some Manchego cheese and a hit of sherry as dry as a Sacramento summer.

If you would like to try the real Spanish stuff, it is available here through La Tienda.

I also broke down and bought salami netting. This was one of those “duh!” moments, experienced as I tied yet another link laboriously by hand. This netting is cheap and works great. What’s more, I am employing one more secret weapon: Penicillin.

That’s right, penicillin. Mold. I dip each salami in a starter mold culture diluted in water. The molds then grow on the outside of the sausage and give it that gorgeous white coating you are so familiar with on store-bought salami.

Why bother? Just like the good wee beasties inside the salami, these are the good molds that beat up the bad molds — green and black — that can destroy your sausage. These good molds also eat up a little bit of the lactic acid the wee beasties within create (making your salami taste more like meat and less like a lemon) and they help prevent case hardening by keeping the casing moist. Pretty cool, eh?

Thus far I am happy to report that the ferment is going well. If you look at the picture above, you can see the links just after they were finished; pale and not very chorizo-looking. After 48 hours they have tightened in the skins and have taken on the color they ought to be, a delicious mahogany.

I am paying special attention to detail this time. Misting my makeshift fermentation chamber several times a day, using the correct starter culture, and letting the salami ferment for a full three days; I set the last batch to drying after only 36 hours.

Once they go inside the old fridge I use as a drying cellar, the chorizos will stay moist — thanks to the tiny personal humidifier I bought to keep the humidity in the fridge up to snuff. Like many things, tiny details separate good salami from great salami. This time, I am taking no chances.