The heaving black and white bodies arrived, and it fell to me to carry the milk. From barn to milk house, I slopped frothy pails. As Dad had instructed, I threw the cooler’s switch, and the paddle circulated. Every trip, the shiny bottom filled with swirling white.
When we finished and cleaned up, Dad noticed the “other” switch. Streaks of yellow were a giveaway. I had turned on the paddle without refrigeration. Our milking was becoming butter.
Not particularly happy, Dad called the “factory” to come. They turned it into cheese.
I did so much right. I worked hard and tried not to spill. I turned one switch on, but one wasn’t enough. Dad didn’t berate me or banish me to the henhouse. He forgave my childish mistake and made the best of my mess.
What began with such enthusiasm ended rather sourly, but Dad demonstrated the flexibility of the Father. Sometimes life hands you lemons, but when that happens, well . . . you just make cheese!
Good one, I've never heard that particular family tale before. Must see if Caroline is familiar with it.
ReplyDeleteIf we had not been able to have the cheese factory come for it, we would have lost our whole first milking! I did not feel happy with myself. But it was a good lesson to see how you can make butter--warm milk, add paddle!
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