We Inaugurate the West Pawlet Salon Season

(My TV Show will resume in the next post.)

It couldn't be simpler. During the winter months, on a predetermined Sunday afternoon people drive up our steep driveway, stomp the snow off their boots, and cram into our living room. There is a fire in the stove, some wine, some dips, some nuts. Then things get quiet, and one of us tells her story--or his--while the rest listen.

The speakers are neighbors and friends, people whom we know but haven't had the chance to really hear in crowded fire department benefits or holiday parties, people with interesting lives and strong passions. There are lots of them around here. There is the world-class glass blower who lives just the other side of our woods. There is the painter/graphic designer/garden inventor who also teaches me yoga. And many others encrusted like gems in these woods and hills.

Yesterday's interesting person is Angela Miller, of Consider Bardwell Farm--see it and sigh here. She showed up straight from the little cafe that she runs on weekends in the antechamber of her barn--a kind of civic gesture on her part so that the citizens of West Pawlet will have somewhere to go. She was carrying an assortment of her magnificent cheeses in an unassuming plastic bag (and I'm not the only one saying that these cheeses are magnificent--I'm merely agreeing with a bunch of national cheese judges).

This is a woman who uses not only the right and left frontal hemispheres of her brain, but the back parts, too. Four days a week she's in her farm, turning cheese wheels, hefting hay bales, dealing with goats in childbed. The rest of the week she's in New York City, being a literary agent. After her talk, I tried to get her to say which world she would rather be in, but it became apparent that she needs both to be happy. And she is.

We passed around little plates with samples of cheese--cow, goat, aged, more aged, each named after a nearby village. We drank more wine. Cheeks grew rosy, and the talk turned to books. Then the sunlight grew dim and people had to go do evening chores, let out the dogs, see to the children, get home before dark. On went the hats, boots, coats and scarves, and the first salon of the 2010 season was done.

And Behold, It Was Good

The cylinder in my cheese press is about four inches in diameter. That means that if you start with a gallon of milk, and it yields a pound of curds, you end up with a nice round cheese about 3/4" thick. But I only had a couple of quarts of milk, given Virginia Slim's petite proportions, which yielded a much smaller amount of curds, so what came out of the press was a very thin cheese.

But good. Very mild, and tasting of rosemary. Next time I'll increase the rosemary, because I love the way its tang livens up the mildness of the cheese.

Today I'll make the same cheese, but flavor it with garlic instead of rosemary. And then it will be time for hot pepper cheese, made with my own amazingly hot peppers.

Thank you, Virginia Slim!

Goat Politics, Continued

I am happy to report that things have calmed down considerably in the goat shed. Virginia Slim cries out only when she hears my voice, which I take to mean that she's bonded to me. And Blossom and Alsiki, have abandoned their nasty ways and only butt her occasionally, to remind her that she's the newcomer.

Did I mention that Virginia Slim doesn't like to be milked? Let me make it clear that I was thoroughly forewarned about this by Virginia Slim's former owner. I could have bought a solid, stolid older doe with a proven record and a patient disposition. Instead, I fell in love with Virginia Slim's good looks, and made brave statements about my patience and my ability to sing any goat into submission.

Did I mention that Virginia Slim is kind of wild and doesn't like to be caught for milking purposes? I was warned about this too, as I made eyes at her.

According to Judeo/Christian tradition, I should be punished for my fixation on mere externals by being saddled with an ungovernable, unmilkable goat. But guess what—Virginia Slim is becoming tamer, sweeter, more milkable by the day. This is not without effort on my part, of course.

If I want her to come inside the shed so I can lead her to the milking room I first have to offer grain to Blossom and Alsiki so they will come into the shed. Since Virginia Slim cannot bear to be separated from them, she comes into the shed as well. I then take her by the collar and lead her to the milking room, where she hops up on the milking bench. There is a stanchion there, and a dish of grain.

I fasten the stanchion and she takes a couple of distracted mouthfuls of grain. I wash her udder in warm water, dry it with a soft towel. Then I squeeze her teats, one after the other, making sure no milk goes back up into the udder. Swish, swish...for maybe a minute or two, all goes well.

But then she realizes, to her horror, that she's being milked. She stops eating, and she sits down. I try to hold her up with one hand while milking with the other. I grab her right hind leg to keep it out of the pail. It's especially important to get the last drops of milk out, or the body will get the signal that it can cut down on production. And it's those last drops that are the hardest, for both of us.

For now, I'm milking her three times a day, as opposed to the usual two. I'm doing this to keep the milking sessions short and pleasant, to get her to eat more grain, and to encourage her body to keep producing. And to get both of us used to each other in this strangely intimate business of milking.

And every drop of that thick, sweet, lovely milk is worth the effort. Right now my first batch of rosemary-seasoned cheese is in the press. I'll let you know how it comes out tomorrow.

Goat Confessions

I've been a bit of a hypocrite here lately, nattering on about paying attention, wanting what I have, doing more with less. The truth is, dear readers, I have been thinking about goats.

Those of you who know my history may give a shudder or a cheer, depending.

Goats and I go a long way back. Back to the heroic 70s, when Ed and I and our two toddlers moved to 1 ½ acres in the then-idyllic Maryland countryside. There was an orchard, and a huge vegetable garden, and berry bushes, and chickens. My mother visited and said “Well! All you need now is a little goat, and you'll be all set.” She said it rhetorically, but that's not how it struck me. A month later, I had two goats, which I milked every morning on my way to my tenure-track job teaching French lit, and often milked well after midnight coming back from funky parties to which I wore very short outfits made out of fringed tablecloths.

The 80s came, life changed, and we moved into various towns and cities where critters were banned. But in the 90s I managed to have goats again. And for the first time, I made cheese.

The last time I had goats was in Vermont—beautiful Nubians who drowned me in milk, a single goat producing a gallon every day. Keeping up with the output was a trial, and I learned a lot about making cheese, but in the end I had to let it go. The goats were too big, required too much hay, produced too much compost, and way too much milk--all good things with which I couldn't cope.

But I missed them, my lovely does, warm and deer-like and smelling of hay and milk and manure. Then one day recently, on the internet, I learned about Nigerian Dwarfs. Despite their name, these are perfectly-proportioned, tiny goats, 17” high at the shoulder. They have been bred for dairy use: they average 1/3 the weight of large-breed goats, eat 1/3 as much, but produce ½ as much milk. No wonder Nigerians were the breed of choice for the Biosphere Project.

Nigerian Dwarfs sound like the breed of choice for me...should I have no choice but to have goats. But what about those mornings when “milk comes frozen home in pail,” as Shakespeare said. What about the hand-fed babies who need a bottle every couple of hours. What about the need to find them good homes. (To get milk from a goat, you have to breed her, which means babies to dispose of every year.)

But then there is spring, and goats grazing on the new grass, and gorgeous high-butterfat sweet milk, and cheese spiced with home-grown rosemary or hot peppers.

I've asked my family, my friends, and the universe for guidance, but they all say “it's YOUR decision....”

Goat Nostalgia

I've been missing my goats. In this cold, terrible weather, I've been missing my goats.

The last time I had goats was just over a year ago, in Vermont. I had two lovely Nubian does—long, elegant bodies, refined necks, pendulous ears, distinguished Roman noses, and “textbook” udders.

Parsley and Sage were twin sisters who had never been apart from the moment of conception. They were fabulous milkers. And that was the problem. Although I bred only one of them each year, which meant only one of them was milking, I got a gallon of sweet, high-butterfat milk a day, seven days a week. That is a lot of milk, especially for a household of two.

So I made cheese. Lots of cheese: fresh cheeses flavored with garlic and rosemary, mozzarella, and even a farmhouse cheddar that had to be aged for months in our basement and turned out amazingly well. Cheese was a handy thing to have. Not only did we eat it, but our friends liked it. When people dropped in I had something more than peanuts to offer them. And homemade cheese makes the best hostess gift in the world.

But seven gallons of milk a week was a lot to keep up with. I was always in a race to dispose of the milk in the fridge before the next milking. I fed milk to the dogs and the chickens. I gave milk and cheese to the local food bank. And I poured the leftover whey from cheese making into the vegetable garden (which in turn produced huge yields of veggies).

Then one terrible day Sage strangled herself to death, and Parsley went crazy with sorrow and loneliness. Goats are herd animals, and are miserable living alone. If I was going to keep Parsley, I needed to get another goat immediately, and hope that they would get along. On the other hand, there was a good woman nearby who dearly wanted a milker of Parsley's line. And so, in sorrow and exhaustion, I let Parsley go.

Being without goats is not unlike being without a dog. A goat that has been bottle-fed from birth thinks that you are her mother, her friend, her love. She will come and rub herself against you. She will climb on your lap if you let her. She will follow you everywhere. I used to take Parsley and Sage on walks, leading them to the hedgerows where their favorite stuff grew, but no favorite berry or thorn bush would hold their attention if I disappeared from view. The minute they lost sight of me they would scream like lost toddlers in a supermarket and come after me as fast as their legs would carry them.

In winter I would take them hot water spiked with cider vinegar. They would leap up as soon as they heard me coming, more eager for my rubs and scratches than for the grain and hay I delivered. After their meal they would settle down to ruminate, Buddha-like, and I would sit with them and try to emulate their serenity.

In spring I would take them out to the field, where they would get drunk on new grass. I would sit and watch them eat and feel utterly content. There is nothing more calming than sitting in a field with a couple of grazing animals. It is no wonder that our spiritual literature is full of sheep safely grazing and pastures where we may rest.

Then came dandelion day, when I would go out to the yellow-dotted field with a gallon jug to collect dandelions for making wine. I would let the goats come with me and they would eat until I thought that their entire insides must be a glowing yellow. It took two hours to gather a gallon of blossoms. By the time I finished the goats were full to bursting, and waddled off to their stall to digest in peace.

Parsley and Sage were born herbalists. They knew exactly what to eat and when to eat it. As soon as the St. John's Wort bloomed, they were on it like they hadn't eaten in a month. This would go on for three or four days. Then, while to me the plant looked as good and fresh as ever, they would turn away from it as if it were poison. For a while, when the moon was waxing or the planets were in syzygy, they would gorge on clover. And then suddenly they would refuse to touch it.

Spring culminated in the birth of babies, a nerve-wracking, exhausting, wonderful time. My sheep- and goat-herding friends, who coolly oversee dozens of births, must have laughed at my anxiety. But in these things, as in killing chickens, practice makes perfect, and I hadn't had a lot of practice.

So a couple of weeks before the due date I would set up the baby monitor in our bedroom, and make vain sorties before dawn sure that the birth was in progress, but it would just be the goats munching, or grunting as they ruminated. Sooner or later, however, I would hear the unmistakable sounds of birthing, and I would rush out bearing iodine and vaseline, and string and scissors for the umbilical cord, yelling to Ed to come with towels, lots of towels.

I would stand there talking softly to the laboring mother, giving a few empathetic grunts myself, and when things looked like they would go on forever, a weird, skinny, shiny thing would slither onto the hay. I would sweep it up immediately and after much rubbing and iodine dipping and colostrum sucking the most amazing little creature would emerge, all new and lively and ready to take on the world.

Like I said, I miss my goats.