Janet Hurst - Homemade cheese : recipes for 50 cheeses from artisan cheesemakers

Recipes for 50 Cheeses from Artisan Cheesemakers

Janet Hurst

Dedicated to my family: Jamie, Charlie, my mother, and my late father. Thank you for believing in me, for milking a goat now and then, and for tasting lots of cheese.

First published in 2011 by Voyageur Press, an imprint of MBI Publishing Company, 400 First Avenue North, Suite 300, Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

Copyright 2011 by Janet Hurst

Photographs on by Paul Markert. Other photographs by the author and from Shutterstock.

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Digital edition: 978-1-61060-138-2

Softcover edition: 978-1-58923-578-6

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ISBN-13: 978-0-7603-3848-3

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In the beginning, there was a goat, and it was good. The goata marauder, escape artist, and con manate the garden, and it was not good. Such is life and the beginning of my journey: life with goats. I look back and wonder, sometimes, how it all began.

Growing up in the middle of Hannibal, Missouri, on one of the busiest streets in town, I lived for the weekends. On Saturday mornings, my family headed for a river camp where we fished, swam, and enjoyed life to the fullest. Dinner was caught straight out of the river, vegetables cooked from the garden out back. Life was easy and free. Heaven waited for us on the banks of the old muddy Mississippi. If we werent at the river, then we would venture out to my great grandmothers farm. I fondly remember trips to the hen house to collect eggs; bringing in water, cold and fresh from the well; even trips to the outhouse, guarded by a threatening rooster. These all remain as snapshots of my youth. I waded in the creek, picked apples ripe from the tree, rang the old dinner bell, and found kittens in the hay loft. It was a little girls paradise. The proverbial seed was planted.

Years later, as a young mother myself, I began to dream of a piece of landa small farm where I could raise my son and share the wonders of rural living with him. Eventually we found such a place: a few acres, a little creek, a place to call our own. We began to take root.

Gardens were planted, chickens purchased, and eggs hatched. We learned a lotmost of it the hard way. Things looked a lot easier at Great Grandmas house. I found there was a whole new language to learn, distinct verbiage attached to each endeavor: queen bees, worker bees, drones, fungicides, pullets, layers, straight runs, laying mash, oyster shells, scratch grainsthe list went on and on. Behind each new word there were important details awaiting discovery by the greenhorn, wannabe farmer. We had all the experiences one would expect and many we could not have imagined: chickens that drowned, rabbits who refused to mate, dogs that ran away, cats who didnt. Some days it was paradise; other days a nightmare. We persevered.

I readbook after book describing the good life and how to get it. We learned we could build with stone and eat from wooden bowls, dig a cellar by hand, grow our own wheat and make our own breadfrom scratch, literally. I read all the books, magazines, and papers extolling the romantic views of country living. I went after it full force, grew a garden to feed the masses, then pickled, fermented, dried, and canned until the pantry could not contain the stores. Only one thing was missing: a goat.

Goats arrive early in the morning for their daily milking.

As I read back through the magazines of the 1970s, especially Mother Earth News and Countryside, it seems everyone had a Volkswagen, a backpack, and a goat. Without fail, the goats were always smiling, happy-looking creatures, and I decided country life could not possibly be complete without one. Or two. Everyone I knew tried to talk me out of it. My parents shook their heads and wondered where they had gone wrong. After all, I had been raised to be a proper lady, not one wearing overalls and gum boots.

I found my prince one day at a flea market. I pulled money from my well-worn backpack and paid for the rights of ownership for my first goata billy, at that. I tucked him in the back of my Volkswagen bug. He was handsome, a young Nubian buck. I was in love. I named him Amos.

One goat is a lonely goat. Amos cried for companions and girlfriends. I complied with his wishes and purchased an Alpine nanny, in full milk. I named her Dolly Parton for two obvious reasons.

Now, there are lessons to be learned in the goat world. Lesson number one: a nanny sold in full milk is sold for a reason. Nobody is going to raise a goat, feed it all winter, and then sell her when she is in milk unless there is a pretty good reason. There was. Dolly Parton had horrible milk. This being my first goat, I didnt know any better and secretly wondered why everyone was so excited about this milk that tasted so terrible. One thing Dolly was good for was volume. She made lots of horrible milk, bless her soul. I decided to make cheese from it. Lesson number two: horrible milk makes horrible cheese.

I was not to be beaten, so I bought another goat. She gave the best milk I have ever had. It was rich, full of cream. She was another Nubian, the same breed as Amos. She had long, bassett houndlooking ears, a Roman nose, and an udder that swayed seductively back and forth as she pranced through the pasture. No wonder Amos was smitten. His behavior changed the day this lovely creature cycled through her first heat. Amos turned from mild-mannered pest into a sight to behold. He made a little chuckling sound, began to urinate on his legs and beard, and courted the fair maiden in anything but a subtle manner. She was quite impressed by his antics, and nature took its course. Five months later, I found three babies in the barn, little Amos miniatures. They were perfect.