A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton - Michael R. Phillips [52]
“I see you’s still hitched up wiff dis frayed bridle, an’ I don’ know why you won’ let yer frien’ Henry—”
“Thank you, Henry. I’ll take care of it another time.”
Katie took the rein and yelled to the horses. Henry let go, and the buggy jumped into motion.
As she bounced along down the street, Katie knew the tall, lanky black man was staring at her as she rode away. But she was afraid to look back.
That night after Aleta was in bed and she was telling me about it, Katie looked at me seriously.
“I didn’t like the look in his face, Mayme,” she said. “It was almost like … he knows.”
MAKING CHEESE
28
THE NEXT DAY WE LOOKED IN KATIE’S MAMA’S book again to learn all we could about making cheese. Katie read the directions again and we both gradually remembered seeing it done. I wasn’t sure whether we’d be able to do it by ourselves. But most of the milk was going to waste anyway, what we couldn’t drink and what we didn’t churn into butter and buttermilk. And we were about out of the cheese that was stored in the pantry. So we had to figure it out pretty soon.
That day we sliced off a few inches from the dried stomach lining Katie had bought and soaked it overnight. We weren’t sure how much to use or how much water to put in. We just put in what looked like the right amount and hoped it would work. We saved up all the milk from both milkings that day and brought it into the kitchen.
The next morning we were getting excited about trying it to see if we could do it. The book said to heat up three gallons of milk to one hundred forty degrees. We didn’t know how hot that was. Katie said she thought it was hot enough that you could put your finger in it for a second without it burning. So when it seemed about right we set it off to the side of the stove, then poured in the rennet water and stirred it all around. Then we were supposed to let it sit for half an hour till the milk started to get harder.
We tried to wait patiently, but all we could do was watch it and wait for the time to go by, with Emma and Aleta asking questions we didn’t know the answers to.
“It’s hardening up,” said Katie, looking down into the pot. “I’m pretty sure at least.”
“What are we supposed to do next?” I asked.
“ ‘Stick your finger in and see if the curd breaks apart cleanly,’ it says.”
“Should I do it?”
“Go ahead,” said Katie.
Timidly I put my finger into the warm white liquid. It had hardened a little but was still mushy.
“I don’t think it’s ready,” I said.
We waited another ten minutes. This time Katie tried it, and instead of mush, the curd split apart and the watery whey filled in the crack.
“I think it’s ready,” she said.
“Now what?” I asked.
Katie went and read in the book again.
“It says to cut it into long cubes with a knife and then cook it again and keep stirring it real gently so the cubes don’t stick together.”
I went and got a long, sharp knife.
“You cut it,” I said, handing the knife to Katie, “then we’ll scoot the pan back over the fire.”
It looked funny, all soft and jiggly, when Katie sliced down into the hardening milk, but the curds held together. As we heated it we stirred it real slow and gentle with wooden spoons. The curds broke apart into big chunks that swam in the clear whey that had filled the pan from the cutting. Gradually the curd chunks got harder. We were supposed to keep it at one hundred five degrees for an hour. Katie said that wasn’t very hot at all, just warm.
This time we tried to busy ourselves with something else for the hour. When we came back, it looked about the same.
“Take a piece out and eat it,” said Katie.
“Why … you mean now?”
“We’ve got to see if it’s ready.”
“How will we know?”
“The book says it will feel squeaky.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll try it.”
I took a little piece that was floating on top and ate it.
“It is squeaky,” I said laughing. “It feels funny.”
“What does it taste like?” asked Katie.
“I don’t know … like warm milk,” I said. “Warm milk that’s a little sour.”
Katie took a piece and ate it too, then giggled at the feel of it.
“Do