Milk of Human Kindness
Words by Shawn and Beth Dougherty
Our cows are giving plenty of milk right now, which means, in the event there are no more pressing chores, that it’s cheese-making time. One part of the big adventure called farming is working out ways of storing plenty for times of lack; and one of the most delicious ways of storing plenty is in the form of fermented curds. All of which led to our being here in the kitchen, up to our elbows in whey, stirring warm curds and listening to Mr. Eliot Coleman give a presentation on four-season gardening.
One cannot listen to Mr. Coleman without feeling his gratitude for the generosity of sunlight and soil and rainfall, and for the beauty and deliciousness of good and bountiful gardening. This is especially true when he shares his experiences of winter gardening; one feels his delight in the discovery that we can harvest fresh vegetables even when sunlight and warmth are at their most scarce, and feed our communities by such universal means.
Out of Thin Air
Maybe pop-up advertising is an accurate reflection of the general culture, as Mr. Coleman is a cameo of the mind of the farmer. Breaking into his presentation every few minutes were advertisements, all on the same topic: how, without doing a lick of work, the listener could get rich overnight.
It was a jarring contrast: Mr. Coleman describing the steps, from soil preparation to winter harvest, for growing a crop of cold-season carrots, interrupted every few minutes by a loud sales pitch for some get-rich-quick scheme involving the stock market. While Mr. Coleman shoveled snow off a cold frame in the middle of January to harvest a handful of carrots he’d planted last September, some kid in his mid-twenties was sitting in a comfortable chair, exhorting the public to let him tell them how to grab a bushel of cash for which they have done no work whatsoever.
It got us thinking.
Both broadcasts were on the topic of drawing wealth out of thin air. Mr. Coleman’s work results in a material benefit for his community. He labors; he gives thought; probably even gets dirt on his hands and sweat on his shirt; and his neighborhood receives carrots. People are fed, and the world is richer thereby. Perhaps there is also a value accruing to the world when people play the stock market; if so, it’s not evident to us. But mark this: in the narrative of “play-the-market-and-get-rich,” there’s no suggestion of a product, a durable good, to be generated; no suggestion of benefit to any larger community. On the contrary, this looks like pure individualistic opportunism: be in the right place at the right time and snatch a fortune out of thin air.
The Milk of Human Kindness
Our cheese pot is large, and it’s almost completely full, so we stir carefully. It feels good to have plenty of milk. When, last January, we found ourselves in need of a replacement cow in the dairy, and with none of our own cows due to calve right away, we were forced—very reluctantly—to ration our milk intake. If it hadn’t been for our neighbors, the Sullivans, sending over a few gallons every couple of days, we’d have been in bad shape.
So we began searching for a fill-in dairy cow. We read classified ads and reached out through various media, mostly electronic, with no success. There weren’t many such cows being offered, and they sold quickly. Then our son Luke, who shears sheep for a neighboring Amish community, mentioned our problem to them, and those folks sprang into action. Don’t misunderstand: It wasn’t that any of these farmers was looking to sell a cow; they were motivated simply by the knowledge that another family was in need.
Where classified ads had failed, word of mouth and real human beings prevailed. One after another, farmers called to tell us what they could spare, and a week later we added a beautiful red Jersey named Brigid to our herd. Suddenly we had all the drinking milk we could want (and we want a minimum of two gallons a day), cream for butter-making and coffee, and— as this morning—milk for cheese. From rags to riches overnight— kind of like what those financial planning ads were promising.
Our new state of beatitude extended beyond the cow and her milk to embrace the neighbors to whose kindness we owed them. What a gift to find Christian charity so close at hand, so generously offered. Not content with wishing us well—“Keep ye warm and well-filled”—these good people had made our problem their own, adding to the security of a good cow the further blessing of good neighbors.
Simple Recipes
Today, we’re making a gouda-type cheese: a practical choice for home cheese makers dealing with a lot of milk. Gouda uses a washed-curd method, a traditional process dating back to days when only the wealthy owned metal cooking pots. Cheese was then made in vessels of wood, the contents of which, since the pot couldn’t be set on a fire, were heated by the addition of hot water or heated stones. Today, it’s not difficult to get your hands on a metal pot, but when you’re working with ten or fifteen gallons of milk at a time, it’s easier to add hot water to the pot than to lift it on and off the stove.
The ingredients for gouda are simple: warm milk, rennet, salt. Rather than an actual recipe we use general ratios and guidelines: so much rennet per gallon, approximate timing, temperature ranges. No special tools needed. Cheese making is within the grasp of anyone who has milk. Is the recipe for wealth so simple, so reliable, so universally available? Can it benefit everyone?
Going Up to Jericho
We don’t know what the odds are for making a fortune buying gold—or stocks—or real estate futures. Not too high; there seem to be far more people wishing they could do it, than rejoicing in their success. Maybe for some people to have so much, many more must have much less. Wealth in the economic realm seems to be a relative term, meaning, “More than other people have got.”
Good subsistence farming is different. Wealth of home, food, and fertility can belong to everybody without anyone needing to go short. Biological wealth is the natural result of appropriate management of sunlight and rainfall; since most of the world receives these gifts in adequate measure, no one’s plenty has to derive from someone else’s lack. Kind of like salvation; aren’t we promised that Our Father’s house has many rooms?
Our neighbors must have been thinking of this promise as they searched their herds to find a cow they could share with us. We say, “our neighbors,” although we had never met them before; we knew when we met them that they were our neighbors because, like the good Samaritan, they helped us when we were in need. Money could not find us a dairy cow, but, because of our need, a dairy cow found us. In a way, our need became our wealth.
We’ll hoop this cheese before we go out to do the afternoon chores: feed pigs and chickens, collect eggs, move pasture fence, milk the cows. Since we moved down to the B-n-B, we’ve had some of the issues common when you start making cheese in a new place, like bubbles formed by airborne yeasts; but today’s curds are firm and resilient, and we think this cheese will form up nicely. Maybe in a couple of months, when it has aged, we’ll take some to our kind neighbors up north.
Thy Neighbors
Seems like lots of people these days are longing for a sense of connectedness, of community, of neighborhood. Mr. Coleman was speaking on an overcast day in March to a crowd of folks who stood for an hour in the cold to hear about garden season extension. They were there for something else, too: they were there for the pleasure of being with other folks who shared their interest in gardening, even if that sharing meant cold toes and noses and fingers. Probably they don’t have a lot of neighbors who are sympathetic to their passion for land care and clean, nutritious food.
We all know that to have a friend you must be a friend; maybe to have a friend you must also need one. Independence—financial or emotional—has its attractions, but it doesn’t do much for building unity; people are far more likely to form deep and lasting attachments around a shared vulnerability. This realization has gotten us wondering if all real community does not have to be built around some kind of need—our own, other people’s. Our nearby Amish community takes literally the Biblical injunction to “love they neighbor”—that is, to show charity to those in need—and as a result, it seems they have no shortage of neighbors. Maybe there’s a recipe in there for us.