The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [29]
Frieda gestured. “There’s the Käsehütte.”
The cheese hut was a small frame building, nondescript except for a gleaming and obviously new coat of white paint. When they all trooped inside, Chloe’s mouth opened. “This is amazing!” The building was frozen in time.
“When I was a kid, Grandma still did her laundry in here.” Martine patted the iron cauldron built into a brick casing.
“Johann and I made cheese in here every day for over thirty years,” Frieda added.
“We’ve started making Emmentaler cheese again,” Martine said. She touched an enormous copper kettle hanging from a heavy beam. “After it cooks here, and we cut the curds, we use that pulley system to haul the curds over to the pressing table.”
Markus ran his hand over grooves in the old table. “These allow the whey to drain from the curds?”
Frieda nodded. “Into a bucket. Nowadays they say that whey has a lot of protein. Cheesemakers can sell it. We used to feed ours to the hogs!”
“A century ago, lots of farms around here had their own little cheesemaking operation,” Martine explained. “Maybe four or five farmers would bring their milk. Most of the little factories were gone by World War II. Gran and Grandpa kept theirs going, even when they just made cheese for themselves.”
“Your cows are Brown Swiss?” Markus asked.
“We’ve only got the two now,” Frieda said. “Years back, we also had some milking shorthorns. But Martine’s thinking about expanding the herd.” Her delight was obvious.
“My dad and his brother, and my older brothers … they have no interest making cheese,” Martine said. “Our farm over the way is completely modern, with a herd of Holsteins. I work there too, but I don’t want to see our family’s heritage lost. Gran and Grandpa and I have been kicking around the idea of keeping the Käsehütte going. The cool cellar where they used to store the cheese is still standing, too. I think there’s a market for cheese made in small batches, Sap-sago and Emmentaler and baby Swiss.”
“Martine is our vessel of tradition,” Frieda said.
“Wunderlicher is more like it,” Martine said, and for just a second Chloe thought she saw something sad flash in her eyes.
But Frieda flapped a hand at her granddaughter, and said to Chloe, “Martine has acted in the Wilhelm Tell Festival since she was a little girl. And she’s learned archery.”
“I compete in Schützenfests. Next up is Volkfest, when New Glarus celebrates Swiss independence. Having women compete probably strains tradition, but I like the challenge.” Martine took her grandmother’s arm. “You’ve been on your feet long enough, Gran. Why don’t we stop the tour here for now.”
“When you come back, I’ll show you my garden,” Freida promised Chloe, as they headed for the car. “And my embroidery.”
Once farewells were said, Chloe and Markus headed back to New Glarus. Several miles passed in silence. Finally Chloe admitted, “I enjoyed that.”
“The Frietags are wonderful people.”
“That green cheese was wild,” Chloe said. “Have you seen that before?”
“It’s still made in Glarus, I think. Probably goes back a thousand years.” He shook his head. “Kids learn in school that the rainforest is full of medicinal plants, but no one thinks to wonder if the cure of some disease might be growing in some old woman’s garden down the road.”
“That’s why we do what we do.” Chloe enjoyed a moment of self-satisfaction. Then she remembered something she wanted to ask. “What does Wunderlicher mean?”
“It means, ‘an odd one.’” Markus scratched his knee, considering. “I suppose Martine meant she likes to spend time with her grandparents, learning to make cheese and Swiss dumplings.”
Chloe wriggled on the seat, tucking one foot beneath her. “Well, I don’t see anything odd about that.”
“You wouldn’t.” Markus laughed. “I imagine any old Glarnese farmer might stop by that farm and feel completely home.” He shoved his hair