I make butter

OK, yes, I made butter. It just sounds better to say “I make butter”, like I’m accomplished at yet another task. And after I made goat cheese, I went on to make it many more times, so let’s hope this sticks, too.

For months, we’ve been getting raw goat milk from our friendly, (sort of) neighborhood organic rancher. Hence the goat cheese. Now we’ve lucked upon a source for raw cow milk, too! (Sorry, can’t share. But if/when I can, I will.) This is all very funny, for a family that has for years avoided most milk products like the plague. Both Jan and I have different problems with milk, physically. But I’m here to tell you that the raw milk isn’t affecting us the way that store-bought milk does. It’s hard to say what all is involved in our normal difficulty with milk, because in addition to being raw, the milk we’re using now also comes from healthy, grass-fed animals. No hormones and antibiotics. No need to super-heat the milk to neutralize the nasty bacteria and strain out the pus. Oh yes. That’s store-bought milk for you. Even most organic cattle heards are fed corn and kept in nasty, crowded conditions; and of course the milk is pasteurized and homogenized.

But what I have on my hands is the good stuff. The cream rises to the top of the cow milk, begging to be siphoned off and used to make butter (goat milk is naturally homogenized, btw). So I did. Despite Jan’s desire to buy a churn, I knew I could do the job with a mason jar.  So I took my turkey baster, siphoned off about 2 cups of cream, and got to shaking.

Butter-making, like so many household food and gardening adventures, is an act of faith. You have to believe that this will eventually work. Otherwise, you would feel like a total ass walking around the house in circles shaking, shaking, shaking your jar. I’m here to cheer you on.

First, you’ll see the cream start to foam:

Then, the curds will start to form, in little, pale yellow clumps:

I shook it for just a bit longer, until it looked like mostly clumps with just a bit of buttermilk. Then strain out the clumps, and keep that buttermilk!

Take the back of a big spoon and press the butter against the sides of a bowl. You’re trying to squeeze out as much of the buttermilk as possible. Fold and press. Add a little cold water. Fold and press. Add a little cold water. Fold and press. Until the water runs clear. Then we mixed in a little salt.

Voila! Butter:

Now, if your family is anything like mine, a hunk of butter this size is about enough for one round of toast. That’s the rub. It’s divine, but fleeting. The only way I can imagine making enough butter to get us through a week is if we could buy straight-up cream, without the milk. Which is possible, since many of the milk-buyers out there want skimmed milk. I can’t fathom that. But it’s true.

And with the buttermilk, Ella and I make pancakes:

I took a picture of these particular buttermilk pancakes because this was a monumental step in Ella’s cooking career. She not only helped me mix the batter. She poured, evaluated, and flipped the pancakes, then took them off the griddle onto the plate. Without major injuries. I’m so proud. Soon, I’ll have two cooks in the house, and I can relax. If only I could get them to respond to a little bell.