Cheese makers

(National Poetry Writing Month, Day 20. I chose to focus on a food I love and hope to make on my own someday)

Cheese makers

To make a basic cheese, start with milk.
Boil it and add an acidic agent: lemon juice, vinegar, even yogurt will sometimes do.
Watch the milk froth over and separate.
All of a sudden you're left with a vat of curds and whey.
Curds create cheese; whey can feed the world -- or at least the world of the farm, if you happen to be a resident of such a place.
Pigs love whey. So do chickens, cats, and humans -- to an extent.
Whey also can balance soil, and help grass family plants like the asparagus break through chilly soil.
Draining whey from curds is anywhere from a six-hour to overnight process,
but the end result is cheese, your own fresh cheese.


Making cheese is simple.
Mastering the making of cheese is an art.
Like anything, it starts out as a simple practice:
Clean your kitchen,
sterilize all cooking vessels, stirring devices, and surfaces.
Wash your hands and change your shirt if you've been outdoors tending to the farm.
Quickly, in its elegant simplicity,
cheese becomes like wine: filled with complex flavors, textures, hues, qualities that are ultimately all about making the same thing different
in a hundred ways.

Like the graffiti tag, the figure skater, the gymnastics routine,
cheese strives to hide its complex underpinnings,
presenting itself to you as a hunk or round of an artfully fermented solid.
In truth, knowing cheese means knowing its main ingredient
is like the human body,
not a lot of fat,
not a lot of protein,
no fiber,
minimal carbohydrate.
Water, simply water.

Knowing cheese is manipulating milk --
The percentage of water extracted from a gallon of milk determines
its type: Feta about 40 percent water.
Chevre: 30.
Cheddar: 25.
Parmesan: Perhaps 10.

Sit someday, like I did one day, and sample an array of cheeses made from the same milk.
You'll discover a stunning insight: all cheeses taste alike.
Every cheese is different.