The other day I was with a friend when our conversation came around to my 8 years from He** living on a farm. I shared a few nightmare experiences. I must confess this current heat wave has muddled my brain, so I thought why not reshare one of those episodes. Here it is:
It was the most terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, very forgettable farm folly.
It all began when I was informed there was a goat on the hill behind our house. Said goat, named Hermione Gingold, would need to have a bucket of water hauled up to her daily. Guess who was the designated water hauler? You are right. Not long after Hermione’s arrival a metaphysical phenomenon occurred. Before you could say feta cheese, that lonely goat turned into 21 of the bearded, cloven-hoofed critters. These goats didn’t just mill about, grazing and occasionally bleating. Nope. They were prolific milk producers. Thank goodness I never had to milk them.
Nevertheless, something had to be done with a seemingly endless supply of goat milk. As if I had nothing better to do than take care of a toddler, can all manner of fruits and vegetables and, oh yes, hold down a teaching job, I became the designated disposer of the milk. Some of it went to families whose children were allergic to cow’s milk. The pigs were given as much milk as possible before it crossed the line of cruelty to animals. . The rest filled up our bath tub.
Drastic action had to be taken PDQ.
Predictably, I was the one assigned to make - wait for it – goat cheese! My initial response was *^#>%*!!! While continually muttering under my breath, I gathered up the necessary equipment, which included a book on how to make goat cheese, a large kettle, a thermometer, rennet, cheese cloth and a bottle of banana brandy. Banana brandy? So glad you asked.
Truth be told, I was never much of an imbiber, except for an occasional glass of wine with dinner. Banana brandy materialized when I was charged with the task of planting 8 rows of potatoes on a plot of land the size of an NBA basketball court. No exaggeration. That insane story is for another day.
What I discovered from the great potato caper was banana brandy had mystical powers. Consequently, I kept some around for potential crisis management. Making goat cheese was definitely a crisis in need of management. The brandy doesn’t guarantee a successful outcome. (Would have been great if it did.) It gets you through the process which is what matters.
At the end of the day there was cheese. Lots of cheese. Sadly, it was unfit for human, or inhuman consumption even for those with the least discerning palates or the fewest possible number of functioning taste buds.
The aftermath of this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad experience was that for more years then I care to specify, I have not been able to get within 10 feet of anything that comes from a goat.
Comments are welcomed.