Making butter is not that big of a deal is it? I mean, why bother when you can pick up a few sticks at the grocery store and you’re all set for some some delicious buttered toast, maybe even with a sprinkle of cinnamon and sugar on it. But watch out, for we all know how unhealthy butter is. We learned this quite a few years ago when the makers of margarine convinced us to use their product.
Well, my friends, we drank that Kool Aid for way too long. I can hardly believe how misled we were. We were somehow sold the bill of goods that oleo margarine was better for us than real butter. And to make matters worse, some folks were even using raw milk to make their own butter!
To think that my caring mother and father were willing to risk our lives by feeding us raw Jersey milk, homemade cottage cheese, and homemade butter--all from our Jersey cow, Pogey, who ate grass and hay, along with some chopped corn and oats. How did we survive?! It’s a travesty, I tell ya.
But wait, my Amish friends still do these things and somehow they are healthy and strong. When Jacob’s family moved to southern Ohio a few weeks ago, they sold their dairy cows because there is no market for grade B milk in that area. Around here there are still a couple cheese factories that will buy it and turn it into delicious swiss cheese. When I asked Jacob what they will do for family milk, he said they hope to buy a Jersey cow. I smiled knowingly. That’s what I grew up on too. It’s the best. Rich with lots of cream for making butter, and plenty of milk for making cottage cheese and drinking, or putting on cereal, or potato soup, or pudding, or...you name it.
Last week when I stopped at Swartzentruber Amish John Miller’s for some baked goods (a pecan pie and a loaf of bread) his boys were out doing work that needed to be done. No one stands around in this family with their head bowed low, eyes staring at a tiny screen, and thumbs bouncing around on letters. Nope. At this farm the fun and games are called “work.” One boy was pitching manure into a spreader, and several others were stacking wood. John was in his shop building a buggy and peering out the window at the englisher walking towards his house. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him looking out the window, so I waved a friendly greeting.
I spoke with the boy who was pitching the manure and asked him what they do for family milk. He pointed toward a doorway at the other side of the barn. “We have a Jersey cow,” he said. Sure enough, there she was peeking around the doorway, curiously watching the proceedings, and hoping for a handout. Not much grass out there this time of year, so she looked a little eager to be fed some hay. I asked the young man if she can give enough milk for the family. Remember, this is a family of fourteen children plus mom and pop.
“Yes, she gives more than we need.”
The wheels started turning in my head. I’d love to get some of that fresh raw milk, and maybe make some butter and cottage cheese like Mom used to when I was a boy. But unfortunately, the allwise powers-that-be have decided that raw milk cannot be sold straight off the farm. Never mind that we know the risks. So what if we don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Nope. We, with our low intelligence and high susceptibility to unwittingly and naively purchase goods that might poison us, must be “protected” by big brother.
Enough sarcasm, I suppose. But it is disconcerting that we cannot be considered intelligent enough to make our own informed decisions. Yes, I know there are ways to get around this. Many families share a cow and share the milk. Others have friends who can be trusted, and the milk can be bartered or sold under the table. But for most of us, it is only a dream to return to healthy raw milk.
Anyway, back to the title. “Making Butter.” A few days ago, I noticed a carton in the back of the fridge that had been there quite a while. One quart of Smith’s Dairy heavy whipping cream. Again, the wheels started turning. I have fond memories of the bright yellow Jersey butter that Mom used to make, and I can still see her sitting on a chair, with a bowl in her lap, and a large lump of butter in the bowl. With a wide, curved, wooden paddle, she’d “work” the lump of butter and push out the remaining droplets of butter milk. At the same time, she’d have salted it, and the working of the butter served to also stir in the salt. Can I tell you how delicious homemade butter is when it is fresh? Some of you know that, and the rest will have to take my word for it. It is amazing on fresh homemade bread or toast.
So what did I do with the heavy whipping cream that now sat on my kitchen counter? First off, I checked the date on the carton. Oops. Slightly out-dated. Expiration date of July 5, 2015. I kid you not! I knew it was in there a long time, but six months! Oh well, what would it hurt to open the carton and take a whiff. I was prepared for the worst. But whadaya know! It smelled as fresh as a daisy, and looked good too. I suppose that was because of words printed on the carton that said “ultra pasteurized.” That’s a process that kills all the bacteria, the good along with the bad.
Now from the reading I’ve done on this subject, ultra pasteurized cream is not what a health nut wants to use to make butter. But opportunity was knocking, and on top of that, I am easily bored with the mundane. I determined that this container of heavy whipping cream was going to be butter, or bust. Juanita wasn’t home to add an element of common sense to the equation, so with enthusiasm gaining momentum, and a quart of heavy cream waiting to morph into something I could spread on hot toast, I barged ahead.
My good wife requested a new mixer a while back, and we decided to go with a sturdy (though expensive) Kitchenaid. This puppy has enough power to do what the cheaper models can only hope for. If you have the right attachments, it can even grind meat and stuff sausage. I suppose if it were rigged properly, it could even be added to a machine shop, and be used as a drill press and boring mill. There’s probably not much it couldn’t do. The point is, though, that it is plenty powerful enough to churn butter.
I put the whisk attachment on the mixer, and poured the cream into the bowl. With the speed set on number four, I settled back into my nearby chair and waited expectantly. Every so often a glance in the bowl would tell me what was happening. After about 12 minutes, the former heavy cream had become a very lovely, pure white whipped cream. I tasted it. Sorta flat. It needed sugar if it were to be used on a pie. But I wanted butter, so back to number four and more waiting. It was interesting to see the whipped cream begin to form into a mass of tiny yellow nuggets, and at the same time a watery substance began appearing in the mix. Nearly done. I switched to a different attachment - the regular flat “beater.” And it didn’t take long. All of a sudden there was a mass of butter on the beater, and a lot of butter milk sloshing (splashing) around in the bowl - some of it finding its way out of the bowl. Not to worry. I am good at cleaning up messes.
 |
| A quart of cream became a pound of butter, and a pint of buttermilk. |
Now I could see in my mind’s eye what Mom used to do. I knew that the butter should be rinsed with fresh water, and worked until all the buttermilk was squeezed out. And lo and behold, a few minutes later, I was the proud owner of a ball of butter that less than an hour ago was a lonesome carton of heavy whipping cream, hidden behind the orange juice and Juanita’s large container of Hazelnut coffee creamer. I was as proud as a peacock.
I called my ninety-seven-year-old Mom and told her all about it. She laughed and laughed, and said, “What are you going to do next?”
“I don’t know Mom, but I guess I’m like you. I love to try new things. It beats boredom. But don’t worry, I won’t be jumping out of an airplane any time soon.”
Now here’s another tidbit. After the butter was in the fridge for a while, I got it out and wanted to spread it on some toast. It seemed harder than store-bought butter. I wondered why. So google came to my rescue. Butter made at home is higher in butterfat. This is because processed, store-bought butter can have the butterfat content reduced with an infusion of water as long as it is at least eighty percent butterfat. Shame on ‘em. I really need to get a Jersey cow!
And that’s all from the lovely land of Kidron, Ohio. Hope your year is starting out wonderfully!
So long.
