Machinery sale day in Kidron.

In the heart of downtown Kidron, on any day except Sunday, there will be an odd mixture people from all over.  Amish and English, locals and tourists, young and old.  Many folks visit Kidron to see the Amish and spend some time in the main attraction - Lehman’s - a hardware store (but much, much more) that is known far and wide for selling non-electric products.  The store parking lot will often have cars and trucks with license plates from several different states of the union, and sometimes from Canadian Provinces.

Today was exceptional though.  Three days a year we have special auctions that bring hoards of people to the Kidron Auction grounds just across the street from Lehman’s.  If you were here today, you experienced Kidron during one of it’s busiest times.  In fact, you may have been surprised by the near impossibility of navigating the two roads leading into-and-out-of our small town.

 

In addition to the sale traffic, we had some excitement this morning when a fire broke out in Gerber Lumber’s mill building.  It seemed like every fire department in the county was there.  Sort of reminded me of a parade.  At one point, there were thirteen fire trucks lined up, prepared for the worst.  There was potential for the mill to go up in flames, and along with it, the nearby buildings.  It could have been a catastrophe.  But thanks to the good work of the firemen, the fire was contained, and the building was saved.

They cut a hole in the roof.

A line of firetrucks from many local departments, standing by.

Today was the first of three annual Machinery sales at the Kidron Auction grounds in downtown Kidron.  On the first Saturday of March, first Saturday of April, and again in August (20th of August this year) there are machinery auctions where local folks (and not-so-local) can bring farm machinery, lawn mowers, cars, trucks, canoes, four-wheelers, bicycles, rabbit hutches, washing machines, lumber, building supplies, well...just about anything, to be auctioned off.  Anything but junk - and that is left up to the discretion of those who are checking in and tagging the offerings.  

Over the years, I’ve sold a number of items there myself.  You take a chance, selling at an auction like this.  You may get a good price, or you may not.

An old farm trailer that I had labored many hours over, rebuilding and repainting, brought fifteen dollars.  You read that right.  Some sellers will be there to bid their item up to the dollar amount that they want.  I suppose that’s wise in one sense, but it always seemed almost unethical to me.  Bidding up your own item just never seemed to me to be a completely honest policy.

Checking out a two-row horse-drawn John Deere planter.

A sea of buggies.

Another time I sold an item that I wasn’t even sure what it was.  When we moved to our mini-farm twenty-five years ago, there was a large contraption left there by the former owner.  It appeared to be some sort of round-bale carrier, but perhaps a design that was used in the infancy of round bales.  It was a gangly beast, all rusty and missing a wheel on one side.  Not being sure what it was, or what to do with it, I made up my mind to locate another wheel for it, de-rust it, paint it bright yellow, and send it to the Kidron machinery sale.  To me it was junk to dispose of, and this was the way to do it.  Amazingly, it brought one-hundred-and-fifty dollars!  Again, you just never know.

Here’s another anecdote from my machinery sale experiences.  I took some brand new sections of rain gutters there to sell one day.  Four lengths of it glimmered in the sun as the crowd moved down the line.  Now picture this.  The crowd is standing shoulder-to-shoulder, surrounding the auctioneer who is describing and selling each item. He chants rapidly as he plies his trade and works the crowd to get the most bucks.  His mouth is moving a mile-a-minute, and his eyes are darting around looking for the bidders.  He doesn’t hesitate long.  Bidders must jump in or get left behind.  “Sold!” he says, and moves to the next thing.

Packed in tight around the auctioneer.

Moving down the line of farm equipment.  And then I saw him.  See the guy with the bright orange cap, and carhart coat.  He looked just like Uncle Si of Duck Dynasty. 

From one item to the next, the auctioneer and the pack of people moved down the line, ever closer to my rain gutters, and I moved along with them.  I wanted to see what my gutters and downspouts would bring.  To my dismay, when the auctioneer got to my spouting, it had been trampled to death by the pack of people who didn’t watch where they were stepping, and it now laid flat and crumpled.  The auctioneer looked sadly at the forlorn rain gutters, and commented that this was perhaps an item that shouldn’t have been brought here.  He couldn’t get a bid, and I don’t blame anyone.  The mistake was mine.  I should have known.  

What do you think?  Is this Uncle Si?  I don't think it was, but he was a good doppelganger.

Okay, one more auction story.  Way back when my oldest son was a little guy, I wanted to buy him a tricycle.  There we’re several at the machinery sale.  I followed the crowd as it worked it’s way down the line, but it was impossible to see when the auctioneer was selling the trike that I wanted.  The crowd was noisy, and packed in tight.  I was too far back, and it was all over before I knew it.  That was a bit frustrating, so I made up my mind what I had to do.  I moved ahead of the pack to another trike, and literally straddled it, planting my feet firmly on either side.  As the crowd moved nearer, and then surrounded me, I refused to budge.  It took some doing to remain standing, but I managed.  As the auctioneer pronounced the offering of a trike, his eyes were level with mine, staring me in the face from about two feet away.  It was unnerving, but I got the trike, and my little boy was a happy camper.  This experience almost took on biblical proportions when I think of the crowds that often pressed around Jesus, just wanting His touch - His words of hope, and His hand of healing.  I can (in a small way) sympathize with those who were desperate enough to cut a hole in a roof and let a paralyzed man down right in front of Jesus.  Sometimes in a tight crowd you just have to do what you have to do.

A few well-used items.

Father and son checking out a planter ahead of the pack.

Aw shucks, can’t stop yet. One last story.  Many years ago my young son and I were at the Kidron livestock auction on a Thursday afternoon, in hopes of buying our first goat.  At that time, there was no “ring” for selling goats and sheep, and the auctioneer moved from pen to pen.  The old feller doing the auction-cry had likely been okay in his hey-day, but at this point in life his speech had become rather slurred and garbled.  It was next to impossible for me to understand what he was saying.  Some auctioneers have a chant that is loud and clear - pronouncing each vowel and consonant in a way that is completely remarkable for the speed in which they speak.  But not this gentleman.  It was frustrating to me, and my little boy kept pounding my leg and asking, “What is he saying?”  I didn’t know.  Then out of the blue, someone shouted, “I can’t understand you!”  At that, the startled auctioneer glared straight at me, and I realized those words had flown from my own mouth.  I looked at the ground, and then I looked behind me, as if someone back there had said it.  Nope.  It was me, and we ended up going home goatless.  It was not my finest hour.

On auction days like today, there are also vendors around at different places, hoping to make some sales.  Our church has a food trailer which serves the needs of the hungry masses, and at the same time, makes some money to support our mission projects.

A couple happy noodle eaters.

Okay, enough rambling.  Thought you might enjoy a few pictures taken today at the “Amish Reunion.”  (Didn’t mention that before, but that’s what the local people call these events.)  Take a look, you’ll see what I mean.  Read the captions for additional thoughts and observations.

From Kidron, Ohio, the little town in the country, where the men are homely but hopeful, the women are beautiful, and the much-loved children are full of energy and potential.  Let’s remember to treat these little ones with patience and kindness, folks.  Some day they will be our doctor or nurse, paramedic or fireman.  They might be our pastor or tax adviser - even our undertaker.  These little ones thrive on our attention and approval.  They need instruction with patience, sometimes correction with love; a Mommy’s warm hug, and a gentle Daddy holding their hand or wrestling with them on the living room floor.  

Until next time, so long.

How to Tie Your Shoes

For quite a while this has been on my mind, and I’ve wanted to write a few words about something we do everyday--and perhaps even bring some enlightenment to a mundane subject.  Yes, I know, you’ve been tying your shoes ever since kindergarten, so why waste time reading about it.  No problem, keep scrolling and read some more opinions about Trump or Clinton, or maybe watch some funny cat videos on YouTube.  Better yet, go for a walk or read a good book.  But wait, before you go, let me ask you a question.  How many times do you need to retie your shoes during the day?  Or do you double-knot them, and then fight with the knot the next time you want to put them on?  How many of you have simply given up, and gone to slip-on shoes, slip-on boots, or velcro straps.  If that’s you, listen up.

There is a better way.

I know.  There have been articles and videos about this,  so I’m certainly not the first to address it.  And some of you have had a good teacher who taught you the correct method, and your shoes stay tied.   But a few of you may find this helpful.

About twenty years ago, our family was planning a canoe trip to the Boundary Waters of Minnesota and Canada.  The thing is, the Boundary Area is not all about canoeing.  There are portages (some of them long and hilly, or muddy, or stony) between the lakes and rivers, and one must hike those trails while carrying a canoe and/or a large backpack.  The last thing you want is a shoelace coming undone.  And more than that, you want good shoes appropriate for the journey.

So we went to an outfitter-type store somewhere north of Wayne County, (can’t remember exactly where) to the shoe section.  I had in mind to buy a good pair of waterproof hiking boots, and began perusing the offerings.  Presently, a large man (that’s putting it kindly, God bless him--he was morbidly obese) ambled over to help.  This wasn’t Walmart.  At this store, the personnel still help with the fitting.  We chose a boot to try on, and he shuffled off to get the correct size.  Soon he was back and with great effort, got to his knees to help me put on the boot.  I slipped my foot into it and he proceeded to instruct me how to lace it up.

Allow me to confess what I was feeling at this point (and shame on me.)  This fellow was about forty-five years old, and looked as if even a short hike might do him in.  So how would he know how to advise me?  What could he possibly know about lacing up boots for hiking?  Truth be told--more than me.  I’ve been grateful ever since that day, and have been ashamed of my quick judgement.  Perhaps as a younger man, this fellow had been an avid hiker, and somehow things had gotten away from him.  Perhaps he had a health condition.  We should never judge a book by it’s cover.  We’ve heard that a thousand times, and it’s still a hard lesson.

Now back to the lacing of the boot.  The man taught me that if I were going to be primarily climbing uphill, there is a different method of lacing and tying than if I were primarily hiking down hill.  And although I’ve used those methods, and they work wonderfully, we won’t get into that right here.  What he taught me of most significance (and you will thank me for this) is how to tie my shoes--you know, the simple knot at the top, the one with bows that we learned how to do when we were five years old.

Most of us have never given a second thought how we do it.  We simply make the first half of a knot, and then the second half.  The second half includes loops of string so the shoe will be easy to untie at the end of the day.  And that’s that.   For a lot of us, the result is a knot that slips, and within a relatively short time, we will be tying our shoes again.

Take a look at your shoe right now.  Do the bows go across your foot or pretty much line up with your toes and ankles?  That’s the test.  If the bows line up with your toes and ankles, you are doing one of two things.  You are tying them several times a day because they come loose, or you’ve resorted to a double knot.  I know this because that was my life until I met the big man at the outdoor sports store.

He watched me tie the boot, and then with a very wide smile he asked the question--actually it was more of a statement.

“Your boots come untied, don’t they.”  

“Yes, they usually do,”  I answered, “so I double-knot them.”

He looked at me knowingly--nodding as he spoke.  “Let me teach you how to tie them so they don’t come loose.”

I was almost offended by his offer, but again, shame on me.

“Do you see how the bows are lining up with your toes and the top of the boot?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a knot that will come loose.”

(Yeah, I already knew that.)

“It’s called a ‘granny’ knot.  What you really want is a ‘square’ knot.  They don’t come loose nearly as easily.”

“What you want to do,” he went on, “is start your knot by doing the first half of it backwards from what you normally do, and then finish the knot the way you normally do it.”

So I tried it.  Sure enough, the bows now went across my foot.

“That’s a square knot,” he said, smiling widely again.  “You’ll like it because your shoes will stay tied.”

And yes, I do like it.  For the last twenty years I have liked it, and never looked back.  If you care to try it, you will like it too.  It might also be good to include here that there are other creative ways to tie a shoe.  I searched the internet last evening, and found several of them.  If you are a long distance runner, you’ve probably  already found some of those methods, but for the rest of us who just want a shoe that stays tied for the day, and is easy to untie at the end of the day, try the method we’ve just described.

Granny knot.  This one will come loose.

Square knot

There’s a lesson in this story too.  Just because we’ve always done something a certain way, doesn’t mean it’s the best way.  Let’s not be afraid to try something new.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Went for a drive again today.  It was nice outside, and people were out working, so we put the camera into action.  Amish farmers are still bringing in corn shocks, and spreading manure.



One Amish fellow rode his bicycle to the filling station at Mt. Eaton for some gasoline.  He was pulling a trailer with two little children in it.

Took a picture of a very poor Swartzentruber homestead.  Most of the Swartzentrubers look a little poor, but this one looks really poor.

Stopped at John Miller’s for some pecan pie and homemade bread.  It’s fun to stop there.  The boys pop out from everywhere.  I asked one of the older boys, William, how many boys are in the family.  “Seven boys and seven girls,” he said. Then I went to the shop to visit with John a little.  He was building a buggy (that’s what he does for a living), and he thought I might like to see a new hack that was sitting outside. (A hack is an Amish truck).  Anyway, the hack had torsion-bar springs for suspension.  He said it will ride nicer and be more stable going down the road.  I told him that was pretty fancy for a Swartzentruber, and he just laughed.  That was a new one for me.  Maybe there are a lot of springs out there like that, I don’t know, but most buggies have leaf springs.  

This is a typical Swartzentruber Amish hack. Looks like the cows are milking pretty good. These are ten-gallon cans, and every drop of milk in them was squeezed out by hand.

And that’s about it for today.  Looks like the weather is going to turn cold next week, and then on Saturday we’re planning to tap the maple trees.  It’s that time again.  Son Mike and I are putting together a reverse osmosis system this year to remove a lot of the water from the sap before cooking it down.  Should speed things up considerably.  We’ll see.

From Kidron, Ohio; where the men are homely but hard-working;  where the women are beautiful, and patient with their men; and fortunately, where the happy, energetic children look a lot like their mothers.  Have a wonderful weekend.  So long.

The Earl I knew. A friend. A mentor. A flower.

I’ve been thinking about my old friend Earl a lot in the last days and weeks.   He passed away last week at the age of eighty-five after a short illness.  Our friendship began when I was a shy eighteen-year-old and Earl was around forty years old, a busy father of seven, with number eight on the way.  Earl was a Mennonite too, but of the Conservative branch.

Meeting Earl.  We lived in Hartville, Ohio, in those days, where Dad was the pastor at the Hartville Mennonite Church.  I had just graduated from High School and was looking for my first full time job.  Dad thought I should apply for work at the F. E. Shumacher Mfg. plant.  I did, and they hired me, putting me with Earl to assemble aluminum storm doors.  I was nervous, beginning a new job, but Earl made it easy for me.  Outgoing and friendly, and generous with instructions, we soon fell into a workable pattern of door production - a team that enjoyed competing to see who could get their side finished the quickest.  

Music.  It didn't take long to figure out that here was a man who loved music.  He loved to listen to it, and he loved to sing.  His tenor rang clear and true as we worked together and harmonized on old hymns.  He also loved to trumpet songs with his lips.  With his eyebrows raised high, and a grin on his face, he produced a sound that clearly rivaled the brass instrument.  Not as much volume, but just as pretty.  It took imagination and practice to do that, and since he didn’t own a real trumpet, he made do with the instruments that God gave him.

Earl soon invited me to his home.  There I met his wife Maggie and their delightful and happy brood, and was sometimes even treated to an excellent impromptu girls trio made up of his three oldest children.

And then the hand saw.  Earl pulled the saw out from somewhere one day when I was at his home, pinched it between his knees, and proceeded to wail out a tune on it.  From that day on, I wanted to do the same.

Faith.  Earl’s faith was front and center.  That was good for me, a young man who was beginning to test the waters.  Having been raised in the Mennonite Church and taught the same Christian faith from a Mennonite perspective, we had a lot in common.  Our branch of Mennonites was less conservative in appearance than Earl’s, and I appreciated that he didn’t try to convince me that I should be a Conservative Mennonite.  He accepted me the way I was, with the faith that I had, and helped build on that by sharing his own life and faith in a way that was transparent and refreshing - a truly childlike faith.  There has never been another person who has been that open with me, not before and not since.  Earl was an open book, and for a shy young man to hear his stories of life, his hard times, his good times, his deep love for his wife Maggie, and his love and concern for his children… that was a gift.  A true gift.

Jokes.  One of the most delightful features about Earl was his considerable appreciation for (clean) jokes and riddles.  It was always great fun to hear a good one and then to share it with Earl.  His immediate and full-blown laughter was a sight to behold - a mirth so complete, so enjoyable to observe and hear, that it often eclipsed the joke itself.  For the last forty-some years, every time I've heard a good one, I've thought of Earl and wished I could tell it to him - often writing them down in the hopes that I might be able to share them with him sometime.

A couple summers ago I bumped into Earl and his daughter Marjorie at the Mennonite Relief Sale in Dalton, Ohio on a Friday evening.  Earl was in his eighties now, and had lost his dear wife Maggie a year earlier.  His walking wasn’t very steady, so we borrowed a wheelchair for him.  While Marjorie headed out for some food, I rolled Earl to the spot where he wanted to sit for the program - the front row on the right - then went to grab a bite for myself too.  It was nearly time for the program to start when I returned to sit next to Earl, and to my surprise, he was sitting there, already having a one-man program of his own, belting out some tunes on his harmonica.  He grinned widely and chuckled as the instrument found its way back into the inner pocket of his straight-cut coat.

“Yes,” I said to myself, “this delightful man is still the same Earl, and in another day or another time, he could well have been one of those sharing his talents on stage.”  It was a pleasure to sit with him while John Schmid entertained the audience with stories and songs of faith.   Earl thoroughly enjoyed music, and his joy still shone through his smiling face and clear blue eyes.

Wallpaper.  There are many ways to decorate the walls of a house and make it home.  For some, the simplicity of plain pastels are the best choice.  For others, nothing less than beautiful wall paper will do.

In the large dining room of the old farmhouse we occupied for twenty years while our children were growing up, the walls were covered with floral paper.  The background was a light buttery yellow, and the patterns were mauve-colored flowers and gently creeping vines.  There were many times when I'd lay on the soft carpet of the old dining room, worn out from work, or needing a rest from the heat.  A pillow would be tucked under my head, and I'd lay there and think.  The floor is a good place to do that.  Barely comfortable enough to sleep, but good enough to rest while the mind churns with thoughts about life and reflections of days gone by.  While I was staring at the wallpaper one day, it occurred to me that most of us are like the background, and a few are like the flowers.  We need each other to complete the picture, but the flowers are what bring beauty to a space.  And that brought to mind individuals I have known who have brought color and beauty into my life.  Earl was one of them.  He was one of the flowers.  A rare one whose transparent love and hospitality shone like the bright yellow daffodils of springtime, glistening in the morning sunshine.  He bloomed where he was planted in a drab world, making it a better place.  He will not be forgotten.

So long, old friend.

Earl and Maggie.  Together again.

-------------------------------------------------------

As I was out and about today, I observed my Amish neighbors doing some January work.  Some were gathering and chopping corn shocks for bedding, and others were cleaning out the barns and spreading manure.  It was a very mild day today - reaching into the 50’s.  Won’t be long until we’ll be tapping the maple trees.  And then spring time.  

The family dog is following along.  Look behind the right rear wheel.

Gathering in the shocks.  These will be chopped up for bedding in the barn.

A load coming in, heading for the chopper.  The ears of corn were shucked last fall.  These are just the stalks.

From Kidron, Ohio, have a wonderful weekend.

Amish Ice

Finally we have some cold weather.  People are beginning to skate on the ponds around here.  For quite a while it seemed there would be no ice.  We’re not getting any of the snow that is piling high in the northeast though.  Some southern parts of Ohio are getting a nice thick blanket, and (dare I say it?) I’m a little envious.  A good snow a couple times in the winter is really pretty.

Went for a long walk today, and my Stutzman neighbors were back at the pond behind the Jericho Amish school, cutting ice for their ice-house.  I hiked back to watch them for a while and asked if I could get some pictures.  No problem as long as they aren’t in them.  Well, I snuck a couple of them in anyway... from a distance… without faces showing… sort of.  

Last year when I saw them cutting ice, I asked how long it would last.  They said probably until September.  So today I asked them if it really lasted until September last year.  Yes it did.

They have an old insulated truck body inside a corrugated metal building.  The  building is about one foot larger than the body all the way around, and that area is packed with sawdust for more insulation.  It’s a good system for the Swartzentruber Amish.  They have refrigeration for all summer and into the cooler weather of fall.

Mr. Stutzman, the father, was sawing the ice, and his teenage boys were loading it on the wagon.  They were working hard and fast.  I mentioned to them that loading the ice must be making them warm.  They laughed, “Yes,” one of them replied, “The ice makes us warm in the winter and cool in the summer.”  And with that, they kept on loading the ice as fast as they could.  The day was waning, and they really couldn’t burn any more daylight talking with an Englishman.  Good people, they are.  Our short conversations are always a pleasure.

That’s enough for today.  Thought you might enjoy the pictures, so we’ll let them do the talking.

Pulling up to the pond to get a load of ice blocks

Loading the ice blocks while Mr. Stutzman is cutting more of them.

Measuring the thickness of the ice.  It was about eight inches thick.

Beginning the load.

Close up view.  The blocks are approximately 8 x 12 x 12 inches.

Heading up the road with two layers of ice blocks.  Pretty heavy load.

The ice house is the gray building next to the buggy shed.

Closer view.

The ice blocks get shoved on a board that leads into the ice-house.  Another brother is inside stacking the blocks.

The cutting machine.  The two-foot diameter blade has been removed.

A rope is tied to the post in case anyone falls into the pond.

So long from Kidron, Ohio.  Have a wonderful weekend!  

Making Butter

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.