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By Root 983 0

but only half of them by noon. Lunch included our queso blanco stir-fried with vegetables, sliced tomatoes with our mozzarella, and mascarpone-filled dates. We tasted, congratulated ourselves, and headed back for the next round. We put our cheddar into a mechanical press to squeeze extra moisture out of the curd, while Ricki talked about aging and waxing as if these really lay ahead of us—as if we were all going home to make cheeses. I’d be willing to bet we all did. At the workshop’s end, everyone gathered in Ricki’s office to order the cultures and supplies we’d need for our next efforts. A few dollars’ worth of packaged bacteria will curdle many gallons of milk. A cheese thermometer costs ten dollars, and the rest of the basics—stainless steel bowls and pots—already reside in the kitchen of any earnest cook. We left with the confidence to strike out on our own. Our friends who’d shared the workshop went back to their homes in Virginia, New York, and Boston. They all called me within the week with exciting cheese updates.

Why do we do this? It’s hard to say. Some are refining exquisite products, while others of us are just shooting for edible, but we’re all dazzled by the moment of alchemy when the milk divides into clear whey and white curd, or the mozzarella stretches in our hands to a glossy golden skein. We’re connecting across geography and time with the artisans of Camembert, the Greek shepherds, the Mongols on the steppes who live by milking their horses—everybody who ever looked at a full-moon pot of white milk and imagined cheese. We’re recalling our best memories infused with scents, parental love, and some kind of food magically coming together in the routines of childhood. We’re hoping our kids will remember us somewhere other than in the driver’s seat of the car.

Later in the summer when this workshop and trip were behind us, Steven’s mother came for a long visit. She served grandma duty on many fronts, but seemed happiest in the kitchen. She told us stories I hadn’t heard before, mostly about her mother, who at age fifteen was sent out from her hardscrabble village in the mountains of Italy to seek her fortune in America. In the dusty town of Denver she married a handsome Sicilian vegetable farmer and raised five daughters with a good working knowledge of gardening, pasta, and other fundamentals. She made ricotta routinely, to the end of her life.

Laura was her name, ultimately known as Nonnie, and I suppose she’d have loved to see us on a summer Saturday making mozzarella together: daughter, grandson, great-granddaughters, and me, all of us laughing, stretching the golden rope as far as we could pull it. Three more generations answering hunger with the oldest art we know, and carrying on.

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Growing Up in the Kitchen

BY CAMILLE

In our house, the kitchen is the place to be. The time we spend making dinner is hugely important because it gets us together after all our separate agendas, and when we sit down to eat we have a sense that the food in front of us is special. Growing vegetables from seed and raising poultry from hatchlings obviously makes us especially grateful for our food. But just making dinner from scratch gives us a little time to anticipate its flavor, so we’ll notice every bite.

Cooking in our family helped me cultivate certain food habits that I later found out are a little unusual for my generation—for example, I can’t stand to eat anything while I’m standing up. I sit down, even if it’s just a quick snack, to make sure this will be a thoughtful munching instead of a passive grab. I’ll probably carry that habit through my whole life, and nag my kids about it.

I know plenty of families that have dinner together, and some that cook, but very few that take “cooking from scratch” to the level mine does. I’ve never had any illusions about how unique it is to have one parent who makes cheese and another who bakes bread almost daily. The friends I’ve brought home over the years have usually been impressed and intrigued by the wacky productions taking place in our kitchen. They