A while back our neighbors offered us a couple of bottles of raw milk. Because of complicated laws regulating the sale of raw milk in New York State, consumers who want to buy unpasteurized milk on a regular basis sometimes work around the regulations by joining a buying club or purchasing shares in a herd–essentially subscribing to local milk deliveries on a regular basis. Our neighbors were going on vacation, but the milk they had subscribed to was coming anyway. All we had to do was pick it up and of course wash out the bottles afterwards.
Those milk bottles, with a generous amount of cream at the top, reminded me of the milk of my childhood, but I should say right from the start that milk and I have always had a difficult relationship. I remember that we had three kinds of milk in our tenement: chocolate milk, coffee milk, and plain milk. Chocolate milk had some sort of cocoa powder stirred into it, while coffee milk was made with Silmo Coffee Syrup, a long-gone product that was once a staple in the New Bedford area. Of the three, plain milk was the one I liked the least, although it was the simplest to prepare. My mother would remove the orange cellophane from the top of the milk bottle, rinse the top of the cardboard cap, and give the bottle a vigorous shake. Then she would remove the cap, pour some milk into a saucepan, and start warming it up. Of course when my mother poured the warm plain milk over my breakfast Cheerioats, they immediately turned to mush. Truth is, I didn’t like Cheerioats much either, and changing the name to Cheerios didn’t make them any less mushy. I didn’t know then, and didn’t learn until I was in college, that other people enjoyed their cereal with cold milk.
Today I like Cheerios quite a lot, but I prefer them with lactose-free milk straight from the refrigerator. Yes, milk makes me sick–not terribly, horribly sick, just sickish enough to feel uncomfortable. So, as appealing as those two bottle of raw milk looked, I wasn’t about to pour myself a tall one and drink it down. I knew what I would do. I would make some fresh cheese.
Fresh cheese is an Azorean treat, a simple cheese made with only two or three ingredients: milk, rennet, and sometimes salt. My mother made it often, possibly because she had extra milk in the refrigerator and the milkman was coming the next morning, or possibly because she knew my brother and I liked it. Despite my problems with plain milk served in a glass, I loved most foods prepared with dairy products, especially fresh cheese but also goldenrod toast, cream of tomato soup, and creamed anything. But could my mother have had another reason to include this shimmery white wonder in her cooking rotation? Could there have been another explanation for the popularity of fresh cheese, or queijo fresco, among people of Azorean ancestry in the New Bedford area.
I made my fresh cheese, and I made it again, and when the raw milk was used up I made it with pasteurized non-homogenized milk. I could have used homogenized milk. My mother did after homogenization became the standard, and the cheese tasted just as good, although the texture was a bit grainy. I could have used low-fat milk or skim milk, as those work, too, as does goat’s milk. (Ultra-pasteurized milk would not have worked, and neither would soy or almond milk.) I chose whole milk simply because that’s how my mother made it. After months of experimenting with different types of molds (my mother used a one-pound coffee can with top and bottom removed) and different types of rennet, I finally produced a cheese I was happy with. And while I was testing out variations on my mother’s recipe and hunting down other recipes on the web, I learned something interesting: when the coagulated milk has been spooned into its coffee can or cheese mold and the whey is draining out the bottom, most of the lactose in the milk drains out with it.
My ancestors came from the island of São Miguel in the Azores. I have traveled several times to mainland Portugal and the Azores, and the only hotels where I was served fresh cheese with my breakfast–two different hotels on two different trips–were in Ponta Delgada, on São Miguel. Nowhere else in this country of amazing cheeses was I served fresh cheese, although my hotel in Angra, on Terceira, included the different but equally wonderfully São Jorge cheese as part of its breakfast buffet. I can’t help wondering whether the residents of São Miguel have an especially high incidence of lactose intolerance. I’m only guessing, of course. I’m guessing that my mother, a descendant of Micaelense parents, was lactose intolerant, although the term was not tossed around in those days. I don’t think she knew that when milk is heated some of its lactose is broken down, but she fed me a cup of warm chocolate or coffee milk first thing in the morning, every morning, for years. It seems that whenever she reached for a bottle of milk with one hand, she reached for a one-quart saucepan with the other. And she made fresh cheese often.
Last weekend our neighbors offered us another half gallon of raw milk. The bottle is in the refrigerator right now, a gleaming reminder of what life was like before something as simple as milk from a cow was subjected to commodification and hyperregulation. But what do I know about the dairy industry? Here’s what I do know: If I warm a quart of milk in a saucepan, if I add a small amount of powdered or liquid rennet, if I let the warm milk set for a few minutes, if I transfer the curdled milk into a cheese mold, if I patiently wait for the whey to drain out, if I do all of this and maybe add a couple of optional extra steps, I will have a smooth white cheese about the diameter of a coffee can and slightly more than an inch tall. I will cut myself a good-sized wedge, and I will salt it generously. When I taste it I will think of the cheeses that my mother made, and I will be surrounded by memories that I do not have of ancestors that I never had a chance to meet. The cheese will not stand alone.
I Never Meant To Sail So Goddam Far 