Pictured is a mesculun salad with maple balsamic in a frico cup which I made. Below it is a banana petite cupcake with coconut icing.
Well, post neighbour's open house boxing day party, I begin my journey. Really, I am only beginning blogging it, my journey began so long ago I can't think of the year. What I do recall is the absolute excitement of the process of cooking. The end product is like a bonus, a bit of an after-the-fact reward for a job well done. However, like life, it is the journey, not the end point which truly matters.
When I was quite young, I remember helping churn butter. It began really with the ingredients. I recall standing in the barn watching Mom or Dad milk, asking to help, but usually being told no because Maya kicked. Betsy did not usually kick, but parents, being parents tend to error on the side of caution. When the milk was in the pail, if it was clean, we carried it to the house. Any that actually got kicked and dirtied, went to the barn cats. The steaming pails were brought to the house to cool. The old separator sat on the edge of the old kitchen table. Its parts were boiled between uses, I used to love the round metal float the best. It sat in the concave part of the top where the milk was poured in. Something about its smooth metal completeness was very satisfying. I often helped pour the milk in. I usually got to flick the switch as well. The machine wound up. Loud humming would fill the room. Then the two spouts would begin to put forth the fruits of our labours. The milk would absolutely pour. The cream would trickle out much slower. When it was done, each went to the fridge to chill. this was our milk and our cream which I loved in cereal. it was unpasteurized, but our process was clean, and the cows were well kept.I recall periodically cows needing ointment, Watkins I think for their udders, but I can't recall why. Either way, that and vet visits aside, our cows were well.
The cream was put in big metal urns to take to the creamery for sale. if my memory serves correct, often in those large cans we only got $30 for them. It seems a huge rip off by today standards, especially considering our products were organic, but money was money and you took it then. What we saved for our own use was then made into butter. The cold milk was poured into the cylindrical drum shaped churn. A handle sat on one side to turn. A rectangular lid sat atop, wooden bars inside served to turn the milk. I recall turning until my arm ached, listening to the swooshing, swooshing, with a rythmical sound, over,and over. I would turn and turn, waiting for the thumping sound to appear. For a young kid, it was amazing patience, but when it appeared it was amazing. I would peer inside, trying to catch the first glimpse of the lumps of butter. When ti finally came together, the sheer joy of pressing the butter into the wooden presses, tasting its sweet creaminess was beyond description. This is an experience most will never know. Pure, fresh sweet butter, unadulterated by salt, chemicals or time. Absolute bliss.
Ok, so I said absolute alot. Point is, it was damn good. We had a sirloin roast tonight. The cut was nothing special. Marinated in cab sauv, rosemary from my garden tonight, roasted garlic, caramelized onions, carrots, purple and yukon gold roasted fingerlings, it was, unreal.I am very food satisfied, enjoyable eve. I will finish off my glass of Castillero el Diablo Carmenere (very nice fav), and watch hockey. Ultimate Chileno-Canadian household....salut!
