Meeting the Cheese Family Part 3: Making Goat Cheese at Beltane

Until now, my only experience making cheese has been at Cato Corner and a brief laboratory session at cheese school in Vermont (i.e., VIAC classes). I thought all cheesemaking was an intense, sweat-soaked battle with curd. I completely forgot that not all cheese comes in ten to thirty-pound wheels of bicep challenging fury. What revived my cheesy perspective? Making goat cheese at Beltane Farm for a day.

Paul at Beltane and Mark at Cato Corner are cheese buddies who make their respective cheeses ten minutes down the road from each other. They each have their niche and they each rock the cheesy rind off that niche. Mark is the master of raw cow's milk, whereas Paul makes awesome fresh chevre and bloomy rind, French-style soft-ripened goat cheese from pasteurized goats milk. Last week, Paul was gracious enough to let me see the farm and help them out for a day in the cheeseroom.

Paul had a very calm and patient approach that made working in his cheeseroom a pleasure. His staff was great to work with as well. The majority of the time we laughed and talked about cartoons and music, so I felt right at home.

I started out, as expected, with cleaning dishes. Cleaning is always a constant no matter what cheesemaker you're working with. Then, I took down the chevre that had been hang-drying in the cheese cloth hoops overnight. We mixed the thick glorious mounds of fresh goat cheese into a tray and added salt. I did the honors of tasting several spoonfuls to make sure the salt was spread evenly. I'm always a little hesitant to offer up sophisticated tasting observations because most of the time I'm so excited about food that all my brain tells me is "mmmm tasty, now eat more." But I surprised myself in being able to pick out when the salt was inconsistent.


Fresh chevre takes almost two days to make. First, it has to rennet overnight in order to retain more moisture with a slower coagulation. Then, it has to dry overnight in hanging cheese cloths. Yet, it is an instantly gratifying cheese to make, because after those two days, it's ready to be packaged and sold right away. No aging room, no maintenance, no drama.

After last night's chevre chilled for a while, it was thrown into a crazy cheese-sausage-making contraption that squeezed out symmetrical 4-inch rolls for packaging. Some were sprinkled with herbs.

Next, we worked on the curd that had renneted overnight in the vat to use for a couple different cheeses. We spooned some of it into small molds that looked like plastic Dixie cups. These molds would then be flipped, but not pressed, much like Cato Corner's softer cheeses. The spooned curd will ripen and become one of their soft bloomy rind cheeses. Then, we scooped the rest of the curd in a large pitcher and poured it into cheese cloths to hang overnight for tomorrow's chevre. No hot and sweaty stirring, no cutting with giant wire harp cutters, no draining, no pressing. There was a fine art, however, to pouring the curd, which was a very wet, jello-like amorphous mass, and carefully gripping the cloth around the heavy wet blob to tie it so that everything didn't go spilling out from an errant corner. Plus, if the cord isn't tied tight enough while it is hanging, the cloth could slip out and spill all its cheese entrails on the floor.

While all this was happening, the milk in the second small vat was pasteurizing for that day's cheese, which would be a Camembert-style ripened cheese. In order to make fresh cheeses like chevre that cannot be aged, the milk has to be pasteurized. By federal law, anything made with raw milk has to age at least 60 days. That just won't fly with soft un-aged cheeses, such as chevre, ricotta or even many Camembert or Brie-style cheeses, that is unless you want a plateful of funky rubber in two months. Therefore, in this country, young fresh and soft-ripened cheeses have to be made with pasteurized milk. To accommodate this step, cheesemakers like Paul use a cheese vat that doubles as a pasteurizer. Once the milk heats for long enough to meet pasteurization requirements and then cools to avoid killing the rennet and culture, then everything can remain in the same vat and be added directly to it.

There wasn't much milk. The pasteurization, cooling, acidification and coagulation process, all taking place in the same vat, didn't require much time. By late afternoon we were hooping. Everything at this stage involved the same familiar concepts of cutting the curd and scooping it up in molds, but with one-tenth of the milk, almost no heat, and different equipment. We cut the curd by cutting lines in the gel with a basic kitchen knife and stirred only long enough to catch the big pieces we missed. With such a small vat it only took fifteen minutes to empty out the curd during hooping. The molds were the same ones we use at Cato Corner for Hooligans. We flipped the cheeses in the molds, of which there were only a few dozen (versus over 120 Hooligans at a time). Both vats cleaned and all done...at 2:30!

Though the day ends early and I lose far less fluids making goat cheese, there was a careful dance to balance the various batches and additional work of pasteurizing the cheese. On top of that, they make cheese every day of the week -- all seven of them -- so there is no reprieve. I'm glad I got the opportunity to broaden my experience while catching a glimpse of the goat-world with such an awesome crew.

Be it from a goat or from a cow, I still love eating both by the fistful. And now, I love making both. I'll pick cow when I need more cardio and weight training though.

The aging room. Less space required.
What no giant wheels of cheese?

I love baby animals so much. 

Only Two Weeks Left

Last Wednesday, Diana, one of the cheesemakers attempted to say goodbye to me. She only works on Wednesdays. She wouldn't be here this week and wasn't sure when I was leaving the following week. I refused to let her do so. It was a solid two weeks from my last day at that point. Too soon for goodbyes. At that moment, I immediately extended my stay for a day and assured everyone I would make the Wednesday after next my last day, as opposed to Tuesday.

I tried my best to forestall the inevitable, but merely three days later I was faced with my first last. It was my last Saturday helping out in the farm's cheese store followed by making cheese in the afternoon with Chris and Patrick. Saturday was immediately followed by a goodbye with Leslie in the cheese store on Sunday because the next weekend -- my last weekend -- I would be working the Connecticut wine festival. On top of that, I had to say goodbye that morning to Dianne, Mark's mother-in-law who has been kind enough to welcome me into her home to stay for the last three months. She was leaving on a two-week vacation and would not return before I left.

In total, I've had two lasts and two goodbyes this weekend and I'm not comfortable with it.

I've always been a nostalgic person, easily attached to people and places. Despite two years of misery working at a big law firm, I still look back at the fun moments and the accomplishments. Oh Nostalgia. It's much much worse when I actually like something.

I always remember how terrified I was on my last day of high school when my English teacher said something that freaked the hell out of me. "Soon you will be saying goodbye to people you will never see again." (Note that this was an era before Facebook).  For those of you who went to super sized public high schools, that statement would seem pretty obvious. I, however, went to a small private all-girls Catholic school with 60 people in my class. I knew everyone's names, most people's middle names, and sordid details about almost all of them. Granted not everyone was my best friend; I'm sure that the rest of the class didn't blink at the prospect presented by my teacher. For me, the thought rocked my world. I didn't want to imagine never seeing someone with whom I'd spent 75% of the last 4 years of my waking hours...regardless of whether they sucked or not. 

Since then, I've always had trouble saying goodbye to people and phases of my life, especially if I'm not sure when I will revisit them.  I've had a particularly difficult time parting with people and places that highlight important phases of my growth and individuality -- high school was one, shockingly law school was as well, cheesemaking at Cato Corner is the latest.

I know I have a lot of learning left in my journey before I reach my final destination on cheesy street. But I've really come to love what I do on a daily basis on the farm. I've even come to love Connecticut -- slow state highways, the occasional waspy attitude, terrible drivers, and all. Sure there are days when getting to work in the morning is a struggle. And sometimes I've really needed and enjoyed my days off. Still, I really love making cheese, learning about cheese, and working with the people here.

This isn't my good bye to Cato Corner post. It's too soon for that! I've just been smacked in the face with the amazing opportunities I've had here and the great people I've met. I'm just being prematurely nostalgic.

On a lighter note, I truly believe the answer to this question should be C. (Click on the small thumbnails for any picture on this site in order to see the enlarged version.).

Meeting the Cheese Family Part 2: Fromage

Whaaaaa?!

The day I returned from visiting Saxelby's in New York, I drove down to visit Fromage, a cheese store in the pleasant coastal town of Old Saybrook, Connecticut. Somehow I scheduled consecutive visits to cheese stores that are polar opposites of each other. When I walked into Fromage, I stood in the doorway with my mouth gaping, mumbling to myself in hallucinatory disbelief for a few seconds because they had EVERYTHING. If someone asked me, "hey, where can I find the most baller specialty food store ever," I would send them to Fromage. From dishes and soaps to olive oils and chocolates, they are stocked. There were some things that made me question the desires of people with excess amounts of money. Gourmet baking sprinkles! I've never once in my life thought, hey you know what I want to spend ten bucks on? Sprinkles.

The most impressive thing was the giant chalkboard behind the counter with the epic list of cheeses available in the store. Instead of just focusing on one region or one country like Saxelby's, Fromage makes sure all bases are covered. They had fresh cheeses, American farmstead cheeses, imported cheeses, meats and an olive bar. She deals directly with many of the regional cheesemakers, but the rest, and particularly the imported cheeses, come from a distributor. Christine was yet another great person to meet and was very helpful in answering my questions despite being in the middle of a busy day of putting together party platters.

Whereas some might take such a vast variety of products and fashion a store that looks like an episode of Hoarders, Christine has designed a store that really looks like an art installation. It's truly fun to walk around in the store, browsing and staring at the giant chalkboard o' cheese. Her business has been open for 18 years and expanded to the larger location a few years ago. From a business perspective, she's been doing everything right and selling gobs of quality products. I've heard that the store can get ridiculously busy with fancy food flying off the shelves at peak times. She also benefits from being the only specialty food and cheese shop in that area of the state, which just happens to be fairly wealthy. Hey, I guess, one man's extravagance is another man's cake sprinkles. 

Like a loser, after each cheese shop meeting, I immediately went to a coffee shop or a bench on the subway where I could jot down every helpful piece of information I could remember. Three lessons I took away from my cheese shop visits: First, cheese people are great! It's like one big happy family of foodies, who are totally willing to help others find their dream. The more people I meet, the more confident I am that I made the right move in my life. Second, I have a lot to get my hands on. I knew my questions would be very basic and perhaps downright stupid. I had no concept of the work or money it took to start such cheese shop shenanigans. I still don't know much, but my questions and understanding are getting more sophisticated with experience. Third, I can totally do this. I was almost scared to ask about what went into the business plans and the financials, mostly for fear that it would be some astronomical feat that would end me. Turns out, it's within my reach with some confidence, conviction, and creativity. I'm sure alliteration helps as well.

Meeting the Cheese Family Part 1: Saxelby's

My Connecticut cheese bucket-list has been sitting around without much action on my part. With only three weeks left, I started making moves. There were several people nearby in the cheese industry that I had been hoping to meet over the summer. I set up several back-to-back meetings and the first stops were cheese stores in the area.

First on the list: meeting Anne Saxelby of Saxelby Cheesemongers in New York. Anne was a former intern at Cato Corner after college and went on to open her own successful (and delightfully cute) cheese store in New York City. Basically she's my hero and did almost exactly what I'm hoping to accomplish in a few years. 

Anne's store is a small cheese counter inside the Essex Market on the Lower East Side. For those not familiar with it or other indoor markets, imagine several small "stores" -- bread, produce, fish, even chocolate -- providing one-stop shopping at what amounts to a grocery shopping mall or a daily farmer's market on steroids. 

Saxelby's has a very focused selection of cheese from American artisanal cheesemakers, primarily from the Northeast. They also have yogurt, fresh cheeses (such as ricotta or mozzarella), and fresh bread from a local baker. It's nothing fancy, but they will whip you up a deliciously simple cheese sandwich with any of the cheeses, fresh bread, and a simple topping like olive oil.  I've had lots of cheese sandwiches before. Still, I had my face rocked clean off by Pleasant Ridge cheese on a small raisin roll that Katrina sent me away with after my visit. It might have been delirium from walking around in the heat all day, but as I sat in the park taking the sandwich out in two bites, I could have sworn it got me drunk.  

When I actually met Anne, we went for brunch in Brooklyn before her cheese radio show. I knew we had bonded when she ordered from the menu exactly how I like to roll. Three meals, share them all:  the fried chicken, the eggs, and the pancakes. It's a hearty giddiness for variety and a refusal to let anything delicious feel left out. (P.S. if you're in NYC go to Roberta's; it rules). 

In the studio with Anne

We cleaned our plates and I had plenty of time to pick Anne's brain about the business and how she got started. Then we headed over to the studio adjacent to the restaurant for her cheese radio show. Oh yeah I didn't make that part up. She has a show on an internet radio station called Cutting the Curd, during which she interviews a different illustrious and interesting person in the industry every week. I sat in as "guest host," a role in which I fear I may have made myself seem far too seasoned upon mentioning that I used to be a college radio d.j. Talking about cheesemaking was not quite the same as popping in Flaming Lips tracks at 3 in the morning for stoned 19-year-olds and pizza delivery kids...or is it?. Embarrassingly, I was not at all familiar with the cheese of the cheesemaker we were interviewing, nor did I know anything about the topic of herd migration and seasonal Alpine cheese production that we were discussing. In sum, I wasn't the best guest host. But I was still ridiculously excited that I was on a cheese radio show with the pros and, like a cheese nerd, thought I was somehow cooler for it.

The next day I visited the store and met with Katrina, who was runs the store when Anne isn't there. The retail area is ideal for low overhead because only a couple people at most could really fit back there at any given time.  What the store lacks in bling it makes up for in charm and friendliness. It has the exact unpretentious and welcoming attitude that I would want in my cheese shop. I also love that Anne has direct contact and relationships with all of the cheesemakers she does business with and often visits their farms. The day I returned from New York, I visited an equally awesome store but with a completely different philosophy....

Completely unrelated to visiting Saxelby's, but I was impressed
with the cheese plate offered at McSorley's in the East Village.

Au Lait

I grew up in Kansas, but I did not grow up on a farm. Shocking, I know. I had a picture of a Nebraska farm framed in my office, which a high school friend gave me as a going away gift when I moved from Omaha to D.C. She said it was to "remember my roots." I assume she was being sarcastic, considering most of our crew grew up in the suburbs or in the city limits, a stone's throw away from a SuperTarget. When I told other lawyers in my office that the farmhouse in the picture was not my childhood home, they seemed genuinely confused. "Oh... but this is kind of what your house looks like huh?" Awkward pause. No. Awkward pause. "Well you're not in Kansas anymore! Snark snark snark." Awkward pause. Guess not.

When I arrived at Cato Corner, I had never encountered a barnyard animal that I didn't see from my car, at a petting zoo, or in a pen at the state fair. Getting up close and personal with their mammary glands would be an even more foreign experience for me. But cheese ultimately comes from somewhere, and I'd be a fool if I spent the whole summer at a farm and didn't trace its roots back to the originator.

Last Friday, after the morning cleanup in the cheeseroom, I ventured to the barn-side of farm operations to help out with the afternoon milking. In the late afternoon, someone goes to the pastures and brings the cows down to the barn. I wasn't there for this process, which I didn't mind too much because it was scorching hot that day. Around 3:30 the milking process begins by starting the system for cleaning and sanitizing the pipelines that transport the milk from the cow to the bulk tank. The milkers double-check the names of the cows that need to be milked. From those names they double-check which cows' milk should not be placed in the tank because, for instance, they have been treated with medicine for some ailment. Yes, all the cows have names, such as Dierdre, Kate, and Lili.

The milking parlor is prepped and the necessary equipment is put in place. (I love that it's called a parlor; it makes me think that the process for the cows is sort of like having tea.) Then, the cows with the non-tank milk are tracked down and set aside to be milked last. In groups of four, the rest of the cows are led to the entrance and lined up on the platform. The feisty cows get fitted with a kick guard, which is an expandable curved rod that places slight pressure on a leg muscle to prevent any reflexive wild kicking motions.  The platform has four stalls that the cows instinctively file into. It is divided from the milkers down below by metal a railing and what I call butt plates -- plates strategically built into the railing behind the cows backside to prevent uncontrollable (or perhaps spiteful) spraying of poop onto the milkers below.

The process start-to-finish went something like this: First, the cows back hooves are hosed to keep clean the area where milking pumps come closest. The udders are wiped clean with a wet cloth that is dipped in a iodine dilution. After drying the udder, the cows are hand milked briefly to check the milk for any signs of infection. Then, the teats are dipped in sanitizing solution and the pumping apparatus is attached. The cows generally finish each quarter (a quarter is one of the four teats) at staggered times, so it is important to keep an eye on each part of the pump to make sure none of the quarters are over-milked. When all the quarters are finished, the pump is taken off and the cows are briefly hand milked again to make sure no additional milk has dropped down to the teat in substantial quantities. Lastly, the teats are dipped in an iodine solution to keep bacteria out. Then, the cows go on their merry way for a feeding. The post-milking feeding serves the purpose of keeping the cows on their feet, so they don't roll around in anything that could cause an infection during the udders' brief recovery period.

The mechanical pump is far quicker than hand milking each cow, of which there are about 40. Plus it sends the milk through the pipeline directly to the bulk tank instead of having to collect the milk from each cow. Heather, one of the milkers, suggested I put my finger in the pump to see what it felt like...which initially seemed like a grade-school-type prank. It was not as scary as it looked or sounded. The pumps simulate a very gentle pulsing motion, which feels like a combination between a weak vacuum and the early squeezing stages of a blood pressure test.

Heather and Kim were the milkers that day. They were great at explaining what to do and gracious about easing me into my first milking experience. First, I secretly started by constantly reminding myself in my head not to giggle when someone said the word teat or try to make too many "that's what she said" jokes.

Then, I started by simply cleaning the feet of the first few groups of cows. I stepped up to wiping the udders after a while. Cows aren't the cleanest animals and some of the udders needed a good rub down. But having never taken the liberty of wiping down a cow before, I was overly gentle at first, which wasn't very effective at removing the dirt. I figured like any respectable lady they didn't want to feel man-handled and violated. Turns out cows are less genteel than humans. Once I got used to handling the udders, I had my first shot at hand-milking a cow. I figured out the hand motion and was able to squeeze out milk after a couple tries. I was filled with genuine school-kid joy and giddiness to be able to say that I had just milked a cow.

Finally, by about the fourth or fifth group I was able to complete the whole process on a cow start to finish. Lili was the first cow I milked. I will  never forget her. Dingle was the last cow I milked...mostly cuz I liked her name. If I couldn't giggle at teat, I was gonna giggle about something!

Lastly, before clean up, we fed the baby cows with the bottles, which I have described doing before. It's still my favorite part. I'm beginning to think that animal babies are cuter than human babies. There was one baby that was less than a day old. He had some trouble figuring out what was going on with the bottle, so it took a little longer to feed him. Most of the new babies are kept in the pens with their mothers for a while and will feed off their mom's udder. But brand new babies will be bottle fed colostrum, which is milk from a cow that has recently given birth and is rich in antibodies.

Then came feeding time for the rest of the babies kept in the baby pens. I noticed that some of the babies will jerk and head butt their mom's udder or the bottle when the milk isn't coming out fast enough. When I was bottle feeding them, it was somewhat alarming and annoying. But then I thought to myself, I feel them; I get antsy when it takes a while for my food to come out at restaurants. I'll draw the line before I start punching servers in the chest though.

The whole process lasted until about 7:30 pm. I loved every minute and had a great time working with Heather, Kim, and the cows. Yet, milking cows is a twice a day grueling event. The cows are stubborn and on their own schedule. And they're not exactly easy to push around.  It's a lot of work and the end of the process can test your patience. I'm not sure I'm cut out for the farm and animal-care side of a cheesemaking operation. I loved the animals and hope it's not the last time I help take care of them, but I'm not sure I have the aptitude to do it on a daily basis. At least not for now.

After cleaning up the parlor, we took the last of the cows out to the pasture, which was a rather idyllic setting for the end of the day. As the sun was setting, we walked the cows to a wooded area that pretty much summed up the bucolic stereotype of farm life with one glimpse. The only thing that could have ruined the moment was if I heard the phrase "you're not in Kansas anymore" one more time. Thankfully, cows don't talk.

Yeah, hi, I'm here for my milking. K, thnx. 

Hungry babies

Cows being directed to milking
parlor

Pipeline system that pumps the milk to
the bulk tank in the adjacent room (through that door)

Hand milking colostrum from Kate,
who had a baby that morning

Cow mosh pit entering the milking room

As you can see, the cow on the right has a substantial udder.

I'm told that sometimes bustier cows need a cow bra. 

Except theirs employ tarp-like material

and strapping cords used by semi-trucks to carry cargo.

Cow parade after milking
on the way to the pasture

Guest Post: Fresh Meat in the Cheese Room

A week ago my boyfriend, Tad, came to hang out while I worked on a Saturday afternoon and he ended up checking out life in the cheese room. He even came back the next day to help me clean up! (Mostly because he wanted to ensure I finished early enough to watch the World Cup finals with him.) Having someone so close to me come do what I do on a daily basis not only helped me realize how far I've come, but also made what I'm doing feel real. As if now I have witness to say, no really this crazy idea totally doesn't suck! So check it out, cheese rules! 

I’ll start with the obvious: the good folks at Cato Corner make some shockingly good cheese.  No joke.  I already knew I liked the cheese, but I was having a fair amount of trouble conceptualizing just what the people down on the farm do to create such a wildly good product.  Last week, to assist in my edification, and because I think she was tired of having me lay around her house eating a significant dent into her ice cream stockpile while she was at work, Samia offered to let me assist with the cheesemaking for a day.

Before Samia began enlightening me about the process, I didn’t know what cheesemaking entailed at all.  I pictured it to be some sort of hazy amalgamation of various stereotypes I held about artisans.  In most of my inchoate cheese-centric daydreams, these guys worked in a dimly lit wooden room in a medieval workshop.  A guy playing a lute in period costume would sometimes creep into the scene.  And there was an old-school potter’s kick wheel involved in the process.  I think this was used to spin the cheese into wheels, but I’m not sure.  I just know it was somehow needed.

Turns out, that’s not exactly how it works.  The cheese room is just an exceptionally clean, undecorated room filled with big, uber-sterile cheesemaking equipment.  As I enter it to work, I immediately panic.  I’ve been in this room before, and Samia’s told me what all of this stuff does, but I’m nonetheless intimidated by it now.  I become deeply concerned that I’m somehow going to break something.  I decide to stand very, very still.  It works as hoped – I touch nothing, and nothing falls apart.  However, I look ridiculous.  Others are beginning their cheesemaking duties and I’m standing stock-still, arms frozen by my side, immobile.  I tell myself I probably appear impressive — a focused, unyielding sentry protecting the cheese room against bacterial interlopers.  Due to my awkward, uncertain glances around the room, I look more like a fidgety ten-year-old failing in his audition for a role as a Buckingham Palace guard in a school play.  I gather myself.  Luckily for me, this whole scene lasts about five seconds.  I don’t think anyone notices.  I get to work following orders.

My first big task is to help stir up milk in the milk vat to separate the curds from the whey.  As Samia’s explained before, the milk vat basically looks like a really big bathtub.  If they had cheese vats like this in President Taft’s time, I bet he’d have installed one in the White House, as no big-and-tall gentleman could possibly get stuck in this thing.  This vat’s filled with about two President Tafts worth of hot milk.  My job during this hour, along with the other folks in the cheese room, is to dunk my arms (thoroughly sterilized, of course) in up to my elbows and break the curd up so that we get nice, small, uniform chunks.  This I do with vigor and pleasure.  In all likelihood, I’ll never have the chance to go swimming in a pool of nacho cheese, and I’ll never get to lounge in a Jacuzzi full of milk shake.  I recognize that this stirring duty is as close as I’ll ever get, so I dig in.  The hour passes quickly, and even though I’m full-on sweaty by the end, I’m a bit sad when the task ends.  It’s good fun.

Next came the hooping, which involves dipping into the vat, in which the curd has been separated from the whey, and scooping out as much curd as you can.   Then you drop it into the circular metal molds that give the cheese wheel its shape.  Hooping’s great because it’s like really, really easy fishing.  When I fish, I usually catch nothing and just offend the lake and its inhabitants by upsetting their tranquility for the day.  But I like trying.  So you can imagine my pleasure at hooping.  It’s a fishing-type activity, and the beauty of it is that you can’t fail.  There’s a ton of curd in there, so with every scoop, you catch a lot.  I was pretty pleased.

During the remaining cheesemaking tasks, I mostly stood around basking in the hooping afterglow while the other folks did the work.  With the cheesemaking finished, we cleaned.  What we didn’t clean that day, we went back and cleaned the next.  We cleaned with a vigor that I’ve previously shown only when, flat broke and moving out of my apartment in college in the hopes that I might get my deposit back.  Those jerks just kept my money anyway.  But the folks at the farm were much nicer and seemed to appreciate my efforts to help, even if I was a bit inept in most of my chores.

I had a great time all day long.  I found out that cheesemaking isn’t for the languid.  It’s full-on, hard-ass work that requires precision and meticulousness and a willingness to put in more bona fide physical labor than has ever been required of me as a sapless lawyer.  Next time you see a gaggle of cheesemakers around town – as I’m sure you frequently do – be sure to thank them.  They’ve been toiling away to provide you with a product that will jazz up any day and will cause people to squeal with delight when shared at parties, dinners, beer pong tournaments, etc.  For this they should be celebrated.  Turns out it takes a lot of effort to make something so divine.

by Tad Duree

The Last Cheese Conquered

It's a big day folks. Today I can officially say that I have helped make every variety of cheese that Cato Corner regularly makes. I've seen it all. I feel like I need a lounge chair, a cigar, and a gaggle of children sitting at my feet to regale with stories about conquering almost a dozen cheeses. Not really.  Hell, I don't even deserve a certificate scribbled on graph paper. I'm usually not there for the entire make process, and I still couldn't make any cheese as delicious as these on my own.  But it's still kinda cool to say I have a vague familiarity with so many types of cheeses. Washed rind, blue, swiss style, what have you.

More notable was the realization that a few of the younger cheeses that might be entered in the American Cheese Society Conference contest could come from batches that I helped make. I'll be attending the conference when I head out to Seattle, so I'll definitely feel like a badass secretly in my head....until someone starts talking to me or asking me any questions.  pH who?

The final cheese I experienced today was the Dutch Farmstead cheese, which is a Gouda style cheese. Techniques might differ based on recipe, region, tradition, or equipment, but it was unlike any of the other cheeses I helped make. The basics were the same: add culture, rennet, cut curd, heat, stir, press. But this cheese required partially draining the vat three times and adding hot water to wash the curd twice. For hooping, instead of scooping out the curd as the whey drains from the vat, we drained all the whey until we had created one giant sheet of curd at the bottom of the vat. Then, we took the molds and cut out circles in the curd like giant cookie cutters in a sheet of dough. The "cheese cookie" circles were then lifted and dropped into the molds, and the scraps were piled on top. Mmmm cheese cookie. After hooping, we pressed as usual.

Of course, it would be helpful if I were able to do all this while simultaneously taking pictures of it. But I'm not some sort of crazy cheesemaking octopus. So just try to imagine the giant cheese cookie scenario I painted for you. I've given you the gift of getting hungry for both cheese and cookies at once. Who can ask for more? 

Return to Cheesy Street & A Short Musing on the Cute Cow Dilemma

Okay okay, I apologize for yet another extended delay in posts. Life in the cheese world has been business as usual, but my time has been occupied with exploring a little more of Connecticut and the surrounding area in my dwindling days here....oh and with playing with the stupidly cute new kittens on the farm.

As an apology, I now provide you with the following information that I hope you will find of use some day:  According to the show Modern Marvels, Garrotxa, a firm Spanish goat's milk cheese, is the most effective cheese cannon ball. Thanks to Holly for the heads up on this bit of info; according to her, it busted through the sail, no problem! If I ever become a black market sea-faring cheese dealer, I know exactly how to protect myself. Someone make sure this doesn't get into the hands of the wrong Somali pirate.

The only new events in the last few weeks have primarily involved the cows. First, the cows received their hoof trimming right outside the cheese house window. Trimming all the cows was an elaborate spectacle that we could view from the cheese house window all day. It involved a large platform restraint that lifted and turned each cow on her side. Then, the pedicure guy came around, wearing goggles and holding a giant curved electric saw. He started shaving off giant projectile pieces of the hooves. As you might imagine, none of the cows were cool with this event. They were all breathing heavy and drooling...which I suppose is a natural reaction to stress in all animals; I did that on a daily basis in my old law firm job. Many of the cows were fidgety, which put them at risk of injuring themselves from flailing about too much. There was one heartwarming moment when cow came around and started licking the face of her restrained cow friend who was getting trimmed in an effort to calm her down. I'm sure the cows needed the trimming and it was done as gently as possible, but I felt bad for the cows. If the woman at LA Nails tried that on my feet, she'd get punched in the face.

A few days later, I saw one of the farm workers pulling one of the young male cows along. "Oh hey where is she taking him," I say, peering out of the window.  Everyone else looks at each other, hesitantly and in unison  a chorus of "uhhhh," followed by laughter. I discovered there was a separate area I had not seen where the young males are kept before they are sold or get sent for slaughter. To be fair, the boys are segregated to keep them from getting fresh with the young girl cows, and not to prepare them for death. Still, it was the first time I came face to face with the idea of eating one of the cute little cows. The farm sells its own pasture raised beef and veal (not the bad kind of veal, but the kind from happy, free, pasture fed young cows). I've eaten plenty of delicious meals from the farm's meat. But I never had to put a face to a burger. Oh well, I know it's the circle of life and not all the male cows can be raised for breeding. Plus, eating small amounts of locally raised meat is way less guilt-inducing and much better for the environment than eating unreasonable portions of faceless mystery meat at a restaurant of questionable repute. Oh and I really like eating meat; huzzah for delicious salty protein.

Both of these events made me confront my conflicted feelings of attachment to cute animals, empathy for living things, and desire to eat a fat steak. I suppose I could pontificate more on that front, but I'd hate myself if I ever pretentiously posited a manifesto on vegetarianism versus omnivorism or militantly demanded that all McDonalds be outlawed. I'm not trying to be a hippie about this. I'll just leave it at the fact that this whole summer has made me appreciate where good food comes from and the importance of trying to incorporate as much locally produced foods and ingredients in your diet as possible

Last Sunday, I visited the farmers market in Coventry, Connecticut. I'm more or less done with working the major farmers markets in my last three weeks (wow! only three weeks!), but I wanted to check out one of Connecticut's biggest markets. It was definitely busy, but a much more picturesque and less claustrophobic event. The whole thing took place on the site of the Nathan Hale Homestead on a far flung stretch of country road, so there were also people dressed in colonial garb...which was...weird.

The last major event was having my boyfriend come experience what a day of cheesemaking is actually like, but more on that later (stay tuned for a potential guest post). The next few weeks will be occupied with cramming as many new experiences as possible into the last weeks. Including, visiting cheese stores in the area....and... milking the cows!

(Exploring Connecticut is pretty)               (Flute and Harp doin' what they do on the farm, which is not much)

(Fourth of July on the farm: we grilled, we drank, we hand-churned our own ice cream)