My Weekend At Cheese Fantasy Camp

This weekend I had the chance to go visit my friend Mariella, who is a farmer/cheese-maker intern at the Rock Hill Creamery in Richmond, UT. My husband calls my little getaway "Cheese Fantasy Camp." He told all his clients, "My wife is away at Cheese Fantasy Camp." "Maybe she'll bring us back some great cheese from Cheese Fantasy Camp." Hmmm, maybe she won't if you say it like THAT. But he is right. I do have a secret fantasy about having a little farm where I make cheese, raise chickens, and keep bees for honey. It might even be more than a little fantasy. There is the slight possibility that when I can't sleep at night I lie there planning where the chicken coop will go and what kinds of fruit trees my bees will get the taste of their honey from. I may or may not think about what shade of yellow or green my little farmhouse's shutters will be, and how many sides of the house the porch will wrap around. And it's possible, but not substantiated, that if I lie awake long enough I might even dream about what my handsome, rugged, Nordic hired hand Sven will look like. But back to the cheese. The cheese at the Rock Hill Creamery, at least, is real.

Mariella has been our long-time babysitter, turned grown-up, turned friend. So I jumped at the chance to see just how hard (i.e. fun) working on a dairy farm might be. I drove up in the evening. We had a nice dinner at the one fancy-ish restaurant in Logan, and stayed up late chatting about boys and watching movies about boys (The Ides of March, yum. Incidentally watched ON the Ides of March. Weird.) We slept in her little studio apartment above the cheese cave.

But morning came all too soon, as it does on most farms. (On MY farm, morning won't start until 9am, but other farmers, it appears, are sadistic and like to milk in the dark). So at 6:25 we woke up, I ate breakfast in my sleep, got dressed in my fancy farm clothes in my sleep, and made it all the way to the milking parlor before I began to wake up. (Stripey overalls and rubber waders, how picturesque!)


We shoveled hay into the manger (they actually have real mangers on farms!) and called for the cows. Here you can see the girls eating their hay. All except Ingrid. She was being sassy and made us tromp all the way down into the pasture to make her come eat.
(It's still barely dawn out, and I wasn't about to haul around my tripod, so the pictures are a little blurry.)



Next was the milking. I have to say I was a little intimidated by the size of the cows. You kind of picture them as being about chest high. But in reality they were about as tall as I am or more. And they look at you really suspiciously with their big eyes and you wonder if they might not want to sit on you if given the chance. But since they're such creatures of habit, they marched into the milking room right past me, stuck their heads in the oat trough, and started munching. No killer cows on this farm, thank goodness!



I have to get a little real with you here. It kind of weirded me out to touch their, um, teats. I felt like I should have gotten to know them first, taken them out to dinner and a movie or something. Reaching down there and just grabbing hold made me feel like I was violating them just a little. It was made worse by the fact that their teats are warm and fleshy and pretty much exactly what you'd expect touching someone's teats would be like...only their somecow's teats, not someone's teats, and are 10x the size. STIll, it was a little bit creepy. But that creepiness got me to completely forget my fear of being stomped on while milking. So before I knew it, I had squirted milk all over my foot without even being scared!

(Incidentally, the cows are not milked by hand. They're hooked up to a little four-prong milking apparatus that sucks the milk through some big tubes into the milk cans. Watching it gave me sudden flashbacks of pumping bottles for my babies. The small scrap of self-dignity I'd managed to retain while being hooked up to a breast pump completely dissolved while watching these cows get milked. Yep, I had been a human cow, nothing more.)



After all the rich, creamy milk was extracted from the six cows, Mariella weighed it (I was way too weak to pick up those huge urns full of milk) and poured it into the giant refrigerated vat where it is stirred and kept cold until cheese making day.




I wasn't there for cheese-making day, unfortunately, but I was there for cheese cleaning and turning day. So we showered, donned our special cheese making clothes--aprons, hair nets, cheese clogs (not wooden, sadly) and rubber gloves--and headed to the Cheeserie (not its real name). I got to help Jen the Farmer's Wife turn the feta first. It's stored in these big rings wrapped in cheesecloth. They sit on a big sieve where the whey drips down and goes into a big bucket. (I asked her what they do with the whey, and she said a farmer with a much bigger dairy buys it to feed to his calves. I love how everything on the farm is used for something. Even the manure is bought by other farmers for fertilizer. Nothing goes to waste!) Anyway, the feta cakes have to be turned periodically to allow the cheese to become uniformly firm, and to allow the whey to get out. So we pulled off the rings, flattened out the cheesecloth, flipped the big square cakes of feta over, and re-wrapped them. I was amazed at how solid and heavy they are! And being a big fan of feta, I loved the strong, salty smell.



Next we went down into the cheese cave (its real name!). Pete the Farmer had made some new spruce planks for the cheese to sit on. They had to be tempered and sealed with olive oil, so I got to do that first. Next I helped Jen and Mariella with the affinage. It's a fancy French cheese word for giving the cheese some TLC. Mostly it means turning and cleaning the cheese wheels. They are massive! Each wheel weighs 13-18 lbs and there are 4 on a plank. The planks rest on two metal bars, one at each end of the plank. There is another rack of bars in the center of the room. So you pull a plank out and rest it on the center bar, then it becomes a sort of work shelf.
It is VERY scary to pull the planks out. They weigh about 60 lbs, and once you slide them past the back support bar, they're like a cheese see-saw! You have to balance them exactly to keep them from tipping and sending cheese wheels rolling in all directions. Once you have the plank balanced on the center bar, however, they are stable and you can begin the cheese cleaning. The Rock Hill Creamery makes natural rind, aged cheeses. This means they use raw, unpasteurized milk and allow it to cure for a minimum of 60 days (but up to 2 years!). They rub it with a special briney wash that causes a certain bacteria to grow and form a rind on the cheese. This seals the cheese in, so to speak. But like all cheeses, in which mold plays an integral part, there are bad molds. So we wiped the cheese with a soft cloth to remove any bad molds, flipped it over and put it back to continue aging. There were a few cheese wheels on which the rind was not yet forming, in the pictures you can see them as a beautiful golden color, like a giant cheesecake. So these we washed with the bacteria wash to get the rind to form.



Jen and Mariella cut, weighed, and wrapped some of the cheeses for sale at local markets and stores next. I was lucky enough that while Jen was cutting the cheese wheels into small chunks she let me sample all the cheeses. Oh my deliciousness! Every one was more yummy than the last. I got to try an Edam, a Gouda, a 1 year aged Gouda, a Tomme, the Red Desert Feta, a Gruyere, and a 1 year aged Gruyere. I thought I liked the Edam best until I got to the 1 year aged Gruyere. When it hit my mouth, it was like my taste buds exploded! (In a good way.) The cheese had such a wonderful flavor--surprisingly sweet, firm, nutty, a little sharp, and there was almost an effervescent effect on your tongue while eating it. I can't quite describe it to you, but if you ever get a chance to try a 1 year old aged Gruyere, do it!!



After all that, we were pooped! So we went with Pete to L.D's for lunch. Picture a greasy, small-town diner where everyone knows everyone and nothing has changed for 50 years and you have L.D's. Within minutes, I was in love with L.D's and everyone in it, especially L.D. himself, who came over to chat with us. He brought over a handful of photos of Pete eating in the diner about 15 years ago. He was younger, with fewer gray hairs then, but he's still just as handsome! The diner looked exactly the same as it had back then and probably since Pete started working there in 1957. Same wood-paneled walls, same kitchy decor. Including this gem:


That was my wonderful day on the farm. It was so fun, and I learned so much. I asked Jen everything I could think of about cheese and cheese making as we cleaned the cheese wheels, and she knew the answer to everything I wondered. Mostly I found out that taking care of cows and making cheese is a lot harder, more back breaking work than I had anticipated. But don't think that has discouraged me from my cheese and bees farm fantasy. Oh no. Afterall, that is what Sven is for!

Foresight is 20/20.

They say hindsight is 20/20. But my hindsight wasn't even close. 20/80 in my left eye and 20/550 in the right. 20/550...ya, you saw that right. Do you know what that means? It means virtually blind. It means serious coke-bottles. It means if you took, say, a TV and put it 550 feet away from someone, they would see it just as clearly as I would see it standing only 20 feet away. It means if you've ever run into me without my contacts, guess what? I had no idea who you were and just waved to be friendly. Sad, huh?

Whenever I have gone in for my eye exams, they'd ask me what the smallest line on the wall I could read was, and I say, there's a wall there? I couldn't even read that giant E on the top with my right eye. Which is why I have always longed for LASIK.

Mother Nature, however, has been toying with me for the last 15 years. Not only was I blessed with being the only child in my family to need glasses, my eyesight has gradually gotten worse and worse every year since I was about 23. About that time, LASIK came into existence. I asked my optimologomitrist guy if I qualified, and he said no. My eyes were not stable enough. But don't worry, he said, they usually stabilize by age 25. At age 25 I asked him if my eyes were stable enough. No, he said. But don't worry, they usually stabilize by age 30. At age 30 he told me that they'd be stable by 35. He said it with such sincerity, even though I know he'd already lied to me twice. At age 35 he finally stopped making up numbers and just shook his head. I figured I was doomed to always need glasses. But then by some miracle, at my next appointment a year later, my eyes had hardly changed. And the next year, again. Finally I was a candidate.

Now, the main reason I have always wanted LASIK, you might be surprised to know, is because of the end of the world. True dat. I mean, ya, it's a pain to put in contacts and stuff. And to need glasses first thing in the morning and at night. But contacts aren't that bad. If I thought they'd always be readily available, I probably wouldn't worry about it. But someday there may be a financial collapse. Or a major pandemic. Or a third world war. Or a run on Acuvue. Or some other reason why society (and the economy) as we know it might cease to exist. And really, the scariest thing I can think of is not being able to see if something should happen to my glasses. REALLY. I would be virtually blind, and that is very very scary.

So last week I did it. I got LASIK. It was not fun. WATCHING people cut open your eyes and pull back the cornea and do stuff with sharp instruments...actually watching it close up, despite the Valium they give you, is just not that fun, even if you can't feel a thing and it's all sort of blurry. BUT it is worth it, oh yes it is. The next day when I went in for my post-op...20/2O in both eyes!!! A week later at my check up, they've regressed a bit, to 20/25 and 20/30. But they may improve again, the doc said. They fluctuate for several months as they heal. But guess what? I don't even care! I can SEE!!!! From here on out, you can just call me "HEY, TWO EYES!"

Arianne Go Bragh

If you aren't familiar with the famous phrase "Erin Go Bragh" that's probably because it isn't that famous and you obviously aren't Irish. I'm not Irish either. At least not that I know of. I know of a lot of European blood is floating around in my veins--Danish, English, Manx, German, Austrian, Hungarian, Czech...probably a few others--but as far as I know, I don't have a single solitary drop of Irish blood. So every year when St. Patrick's day rolls around, I begin asking myself:

Should I decorate?
Is there some classy way to make Kelly green blend in with my decor?
Who is St. Patrick anyhow?
Did he clear Ireland of rats with a flute?
Wait, I think that was the Pied Piper.
What IS a blarney stone?
Why are people kissing it?
Can kissing rocks give you weird lip fungus?
If you get a lip fungus, can you get rid of it with Abreva, like a cold sore?
And does Abreva really work?
And how can that tiny 1" long tube cost $18?!?

So you see how the arrival of St. Patrick’s day causes all kinds of upheaval in my life. I just don't know what to do with this holiday. I do like to dress up the house for the holidays a bit. Halloween is my favorite. I can't get enough of the macabre. Christmas is fun, just for the sheer amount of decor you can put up that is Christmas related (at least vaguely, like anything green, red, gold, silver, sparkly, round, star shaped, covered in ribbon, covered in stripes, covered in polka dots, or even plaid, if it's any combination of red, green, gold, silver, or white.), I do a bit of something like a fun wreath and some sparkly hearts around for Valentine's (another saint I have no idea who he is, but at least he comes bearing chocolates and flowers, so he is deemed worthy of my decorating), some pretty pastel eggs and such go in my apothecary jars for Easter. Even harvest might get some pumpkins and gourds and stuff thrown around (though I can't abide cheesy Thanksgiving items. Turkeys and Pilgrims do not inspire me aesthetically). But what to do for St. Patty’s? I perused the aisles of my local craft/decor store today and took in all the shamrocks, clovers, leprechauns, shamrocks, clovers, and shamrocks and...I just couldn't get inspired. I will do green pancakes and green milk on St. Patrick’s day. I'm not a complete Ebenezer Scrooge. (Misplaced metaphor?) But as far as that tacky green decor...well, what can I say? "Kiss me, I'm Anglo-Austrian!"

November Cannot Come Soon Enough

Can we PLEEASE move the voting day up to, say, February 4th? Please??? Because I'm completely positive that if I have to listen to the whole world debate which Republican candidate is a bigger loser (Newt) for 10 more months, I will blow my brains out. Oh wait. You say I only have to listen to them debate about the Republican front runners until the end of August? And then I get to hear them debate about which candidate for president is a bigger dill hole (Romney)? Oh joy.

P.S. On a more important note than the presidency of the United States, my computer just auto corrected "dillhole" to "dill hole." Who knew my iPad was so smart?!

Drill Me

I've been on two cruises now. The first one, on Norwegian in 2004, was my favorite. Great food, fun entertainment, decent cabin, good service. It also contained an emergency escape practice session. It took place a couple of hours after setting sail. We had to get on our life jackets, walk up to the deck with the life boats, and stand in rows at our assigned muster station, where we would go if there was an emergency and we had to abandon ship. We stood there for maybe 10-15 minutes. The crew member assigned to our group of 20 or so went over some safety information, I'm not sure exactly what, and they took roll to make sure we were all there. I found it a bit annoying. We were just settling into our room and getting ready for dinner when the drill took place, and interrupting our cruise for this safety measure cramped my style.

Last year we took our second cruise, aboard the Celebrity Century. A few hours after setting sail we were asked to go to the lounge with about 100 of our fellow passengers. No life vests, just us. We sat and chatted with the people at our cocktail table for a while. Then the single crew member assigned to the lounge went over some safety information, unimpressive enough that I don't even recall what was said. But I know for sure we were never shown our muster station. I had no idea the route to the life boats or which one we were assigned to. And no roll call was done. After a few minutes, we went back to our room. It made me a little uneasy that they had done such a poor job at the emergency drill, but I remember thinking that since we wouldn't likely need that information, I was glad that we hadn't been forced to put on our life jackets and stand out on the deck.

In light of the recent events, where a trained, licensed, experienced captain can run a titanic-sized cruise ship into the ground, a few hundred feet from a rocky shore, despite state of the art navigation equipment, putting the lives of 4000 people in danger, and then fail to sound the alarm for over an hour while people already abandoned ship, and then leave the ship himself, giving no care for the safety of his passengers, I now amend my opinion of safety drills. By all means, I now say, drill me! Put me in my life vest and let me tie it on properly, show me my life-boat up close and personal, let me feel it's smooth hull, check off my name, explain everything in detail. Because even though I will hopefully never need that information in my life, just as I count the rows to the exit on my airplane, every single time, I want to be prepared for the worst.

And thank you, Norwegian, for caring about our lives enough to inconvenience us. Hopefully, from now on, all the other cruise lines will care that much too.

How To Make The Perfect Pillow In Five Steps

Sometimes you need a little pillow surgery to get your pillow just right. Just Right = fluffy, not to high, not too low, fluffable, puffable, moldable.

Step 1: Get an Ikea Goosen Side-sleeper pillow. It has just the right kind of fluffable, puffable stuffing.
Step 2: Get another Ikea Goosen Side-Sleeper pillow, because one doesn't have quite enough of the wonderul stuffing and you will find yourself sometimes, in the middle of the night, with all the lovely fluffable, puffable stuffing at two sides of the pillow and your head in the middle lying on the mattress.
Step 3: Unpick the seams on one of the pillows and cut open the end of the other.
Step 4: Take about 1/2 the stuffing out of the cut pillow and stuff it into the other pillow.
Step 5: Marry someone who is a way better seamstress than you so he can perform the pillow surgery for you.



Voila! The perfect size, shape, and fluffability. Sweet Dreams.

The OTHER Best Thing About Christmas

Yep. There is Jesus. The best thing about Christmas for sure. And then there are Christmas cards in the mail. Really that is a truly awesome part of Christmas. BUT, over the last week I've discovered something that just might trump Christmas cards. Especially now that that Christmas is over and so are the cards: NOT having to drive my kids anywhere. Ever. Or wake them up for school. Or get them dressed in a hurry while shoving toast down their throats. No frantic searches for the other shoe at 7:30 am during which the baby wakes up and is starving and poopy and needs my attention NOW. No hurriedly slapping together a peanut butter and honey sandwich while Daphne has a melt-down about her sock seams and whether or not she gets red Doritos or blue Doritos in her lunch.

I am not a morning person. Never have been, never will be. So getting up in the am with my kids to get them (mainly Daphne) ready for school is a HUGE sacrifice. I would love to tell her to get herself ready so I could keep sleeping. Or to find a school that starts at 10am and keep sleeping. But neither of those is going to happen, so I just have to get up and suffer through that frantic hour before I push her (usually literally) out the door and throw her school bag after her (not literally. She can't catch that well.)

So at this special time of year where we give thanks for Jesus and his birth and life and sacrifice and atonement and Christmas cards in the mail, I also want to give a massive thank you for school vacations and turned off alarm clocks. Haaaa-aa-leluia.