“You have to be a romantic to invest yourself, your money, and your time in cheese.”~Anthony Bourdain
I found the above quote by intrepid traveler, Anthony Bourdain, who probably tasted much stronger fare than my cheese on his journeys. Here’s to his courage~
The following is an excerpt from a work in progress. I’ll post now an then from it (working title, Braeburn Croft, A Wyoming Homestead Manual and Radical Memoir, Rooted in Place.) Meanwhile, I’m still sending out submissions for THE RIVEN COUNTRY OF SENGA MUNRO.
Making Chèvre, or Goat Cheese.
I learned a neighbor raised dairy goats, and by neighbor, I mean someone within a ten-mile radius. Bonnie Jo and her husband Zack, a boot maker and rancher, keep herds of goats, sheep and horses, dogs and probably cats—though I never see any when I enter their yard. They’re raising their children to care for the animals and to carry on The Life. Bonnie Jo was a classmate of our son and married into one of the ranching families north of us.
She is duly proud of her milking goats, their creamy white milk and, as entrepreneur of all things goat-y, her business card reads Goat Gone Wild. Jeff and I drove up one day last fall to meet her ladies. Apart from a billy’s own promiscuous proclivities, I had read that one in too-close proximity can cause nannies to exude a hormone that will taint their milk. But the old goat (who probably wasn’t all that old) was penned at a distance, while dozens of nannies and their babies freely roamed.
Young kids coax a smile and bring joy. They are that funny. The true comedians of the barnyard.
Bonnie Jo showed us the shed where she milked. She apparently doesn’t need a stanchion, but merely ties the goat and goes a-milkin’ while seated on a stool and it occurred to me that each of us has our passions and preferences. My mind boggled at the prospect of having to milk so many animals twice a day. (That I can sit for hours on end, tapping on a keyboard, would likely draw a similar response by some.) I was thankful we could simply drive up and buy a gallon or a half, though a couple of times the muddy ruts in the twisting dirt road, descending into a back-country valley, had us wide-eyed.
For a nominal fee, she offered to do a demonstration of her favorite cheese-making method and we agreed. We were the luckier ones who took home samples of goat lotion, soap and lip balm. Bonnie Jo uses apple cider vinegar instead of rennet to culture a ricotta-like soft cheese.
I hoped to make something similar to the chèvre, sold in short logs that I’ve bought at the grocer.
After watching a You Tube video on the process, on Food Farmer Earth (How to Make Soft Goat’s Milk Cheese), I ordered liquid rennet and a packet of chèvre culture, a powder that must be kept in the freezer, and something called “butter cloth,”—its weave tighter than cheesecloth. Bonnie Jo had lent me a book on the art of cheese making, and there I found my working recipe. It’s remarkably simple, though all rests on temperature, humidity and attention, three factors that can prove tricky. The goat farmer in the video cautioned her viewers to stir in the culture delicately and, later, to separate the curds with great care when placing them in the butter-cloth-lined strainer.
Last week, I was awarded with four, three-inch logs that had formed well and smelled divine. (Always a good sign.) I wind up with a quart of whey, more or less, for each half gallon of milk. Goat milk has more protein content than cow milk. I mix whey with my muesli overnight.
After stirring in a bit of salt (for both flavor and as a preservative) the new cheese is then ready to age and placed in a container for the purpose, on a slotted tray, to hold the cheese above any whey that may still drip out. At approximately 52 degrees, our root cellar is perfect for this. The cheese should be turned daily, but if you miss a day, no worries. After a week (or longer, if you’re patient), the logs may be rolled in herbs or chopped nuts, or mixed with sweetened, chopped dried cranberries—a treat—or left au naturel, how we enjoy it. It is mouth-watering on French bread with a half-teaspoon of fig preserves.
So far, I’ve only had to return two batches to the Earth for being too strong, gamey or tainted—take your pick. Once, I suspected the milk had been stored long in the fridge and its acid content prevented the culture from working properly. Another time, the smell interfered with our sensibilities. (This is not understated.) Bonnie Jo explained that, occasionally, in the spring, the nannies’ milk can taste strong.
I take the good with the bad. It is a satisfying venture and, one day, I may keep a couple nannies, but for now, owing to travel, I’ll more than appreciate and make do with an intrepid neighbor whose nannies can furnish the amazing liquid.