Journal of a Living Lady #150

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

Someone, I forget who, said that a truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour. That is apropos for me as I travel the last segment of my life with a detour for cancer.

This column almost didn’t get written as I have had my head over a wastebasket for two straight days. Virus? Maybe, but most likely some pills are warring against each other. Whatever, my body is not at peace and my mind is in a fog.

I wanted to tell you about the butter, better butter. I am a city girl who was a wantabee farmer. I have gotten a taste of country life with occasional goats, chickens, a couple of horses, and a pig. Buddy and I have had small gardens, but we didn’t go at it as if our eating in the winter was dependent on its success. Financially, I think we would have come out better buying the produce in season at the corner vegetable stand.

I probably don’t know what farm life is really all about. It just sounds so wholesome. I tasted farm butter once and it was one of those tastes that never leaves you. It was so good. Maybe I was so hungry. Nonetheless, I know the subtle difference in taste between butter and margarine.

A friend who owns half a cow brought me a half-gallon of fresh milk she had just gotten from Betsy. Actually Betsy is my guess at the cow’s name. Aren’t all milk cows named Betsy? I told my friend who brought the glass jar of milk that I wanted to make butter from it. She told me to separate the cream from the top and shake until the butter forms.

The very next day I carefully ladled off the cream and put it in a little jar in the refrigerator. I knew it would take a while for the butter to make. I took that big jar of remaining milk and shook. As I was shaking the jar, Buddy reminded me that his mother didn’t make butter that way. She supposedly put milk by the wood stove until it clabbered and made buttermilk. Somewhere in-between or afterwards, came the butter.

I told Buddy I would rather try my way first. So I shook and shook until my weary arms could shake no more.

I put the jar in Buddy’s hands and he shook. About an hour later, he put the jar back into my hands as there were no nuggets of butter forming and he wasn’t doing this silly thing any more. I shook the jar a little while longer. In bewilderment, I called my friend who owns the half cow.

“You are shaking the wrong part,” she explained. “It is the top cream that makes butter.”

Embarrassed, but determined, I took out the small jar from the refrigerator and began shaking it. Though my arms felt like they would collapse, little curds started forming. I shook until almost all the cream was in curds and poured off the rest of the milk that remained. I added a dash of salt.

That night we ate canned biscuits slathered with the homemade butter for supper. It was a satisfying feeling, knowing that I had made that butter. It just tasted so good.

 

nanck@alltell.net            https://www.angelfire.com/ga3/livinglady