Making cheese, honestly

The most honest thing someone can do

  There is a masochism to what we do everyday A thrill even, to waking up hours before the sun shows its bright sunburnt face. Something about being up that early has always made my heart race, like I am going to be late, or something is going to happen while no one is out on the road. My five-minute drive up the mountain will lead to some devastating occurrence that no one would witness for three more hours. Just me and the small family of foxes looking for food on the road.

I am always the first one in the creamery on the days I would make. Twice a week. Stressed but sharp as a tack. Light switches then coffee then more lights and a change into my uniform. A stale, pressed, white collard shirt. Navy blue shorts and my white boots. Boots, that were never mine unless I was wearing them. The smell of someone else’s feet always lingering inside ruining whatever pair of socks I decided to wear that day. Years of someone else’s mistakes, marking its smell on the insole like a footprint. A quick glance at the clock above the door and a final tap on my phone sets my mind straight. So much to do and only the perfect amount of time to do it.

  Becoming a cheesemaker has weighed on my mind so heavily since I arrived In February that I have developed anxiety and habits I never thought I would have. To want something like this is throwing yourself into the path of an oncoming train. It is knowing damn well you won’t be the same after you commit your life to the practice. The act of doing it changes your molecular makeup instantly, while its so honest and human there is no going back.

It is just cheesemaking but to me it’s the exact feeling of doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing at the exact moment I am doing it. I can’t help but smile writing this knowing how lucky I was in that very moment.

The vat. MY vat. A vat so big, so scary that there is no way someone like me should ever be in control of such a monster. Three thousand liters of raw milk. An amount that my American brain can’t comprehend. What is a liter? Why not gallons, I never asked. What I do know immediately is I have an immense amount of work to do and it is 5am. What got me to this point after only two hours of work was a lot of nonsense in comparison to what is about to ensue. My heart has been racing and I have now been sweating for two hours. It is 5am

The lactic smell is everywhere I am. It is in my boot. It is on my skin. I can taste it on my lip, Sweet. Milk is flowing, rushing from the truck outside the creamery through a hamster maze of pipes in the ceiling and down into my vat. A small scale sits on a large stainless-steel table where I measure out my cultures like a cartel member portions and cuts their product to the exact gram. Precise.

I always felt so confident in this moment. I was a peak multitasker in my ability too focus so acutely on the numbers and grams of tiny off-white pellets and unidentified dust from bottles while thousands of liters in milk spill out only ten feet away from me. This is truly exotic to me in every sense of the word. A lapse in judgment or the hint of a daydream in this moment would certainly lead to disaster of monumental proportions. Milk around here is incredibly precious so to waste it would feel like a downright sinful experience. I have done my milk math and have my exact amounts allotted for each vat so I must be extremely carful and present to not waste a drop.

  At that time in the morning there is no sound in the creamery other than a very distant speaker playing classic rock or ninety’s country, whatever Tim was feeling that day. Other than the sweet sound of Pink Floyd I am surrounded by the cascade of pumping milk like a constant flow of waves on a beach at high tide. No rest until all the milk is drained from the truck. The gentle whir of my agitator ever present in the back of my mind moving back and forth like an Egyptian pendulum through the milk. Metronome like, almost calming to me at this point in my morning. It signifies to me that I have truly begun the cheesemaking process. With my little ramequin of cultures and my tiny bottle of penicillium I have now gained total control. I have begun the process that I feel I was put on this earth to do. I have started making cheese.

Time, in my head, clock on the wall, digital timer above my vat. Time is the ingredient in cheese that few ever talk about when describing how this magnificent substance is made. It is an ingredient that must be followed, similar in baking to receive an exact outcome it is unable to be altered, time is forever moving and I’m at its mercy. Because for the next fifty minutes I have a short honey do list of things that must be done before I set my vat. Time is now an ingredient that can’t be altered on my make sheet. Time to follow the clock.

  I am right on time, even early to the momentous occasion about to in sue. “The setting of the vat!” Horns play a familiar chorale in my head as I rush over to the starboard side of my ship. In my hand I carry the gallon pitcher of concoction I just made, commercial grade rennet and cold water. My mind wanders and I can’t help but think that the pitcher resembles that of piss from someone who desperately needs to consume more water. Patiently I wait for my number to be called, to pour in the contents that will change this liquid gold into a solid white mass.

Five, heart racing… four, eyes darting back and forth from timer to vat… three, deep breath to focus the mind… two, one… my right hand pours steady across the surface and back again in one smooth motion, Spreading evenly. Dodging the oncoming threat of the agitator as it speeds toward me. Now, I have begun the chain reaction between ions. Irreversibly and unmistakably taking on this eight-thousand-year-old practice in a single moment. I will wait and watch for the exact moment this reaction is visible to the naked eye. Again, time is in control.

  The practice of making cheese has my undivided attention for the next eight hours. Eight hours of ballet with changing time signatures and costume changes. Taking on the role of a surgeon to plunge my scalpel into my patient, initiating the cutting process. A warrior gilded in armor, with sword in hand slicing through my foe on the battlefield over and over. Cosplaying a chemist, titrating and moving around my laboratory stirring various liquids at various stages of maturation. Daydreaming as a child looking for the perfect stone in a pond full of tiny rocks while the current ebbs and flows to surround my hands with gentle kisses and warm whey. I’m lost in the beauty and goodness of it all but never truly lost, although Throughout my day I wear so many hats that I do loose track of who I really am. My mind has been entirely taken over and I’ve gotten so COMPLETELY lost in the train of thought that I almost missed my stop here. Going from passenger to conductor on my trip to cheese I continue to loose and gain perspective on the big picture. To create incredible cheese with incredible people in incredible places. Giving myself entirely to the process for the rest of my life… I’ll get ready for my next make.