Music and Cats

I have few vivid memories of my first couple of years of grade school, but this is one: my teacher pours some cream into a jar, and screws the lid on tight. She shakes the jar for a few seconds; the cream sloshes. Shifting the jar to her other hand, she shakes it a bit more. She passes the jar to one of my classmates, who shakes the jar a few times, then hands it on to someone else. The jar moves around the classroom, with each child taking a turn. Some kids shake gently a couple of times; others agitate the jar as hard and fast as their six-year-old arms can manage. The cream expands. When it’s my turn, the thickened cream fills the jar, and it doesn’t seem to move when I shake it. A couple minutes later, in someone else’s hands, something changes; there is liquid sloshing in the jar again. Our teacher takes the jar, and shakes it hard for another minute or two. She opens the lid, and drains off the liquid. There’s an irregular lump left in the bottom of the jar. Using the back of a spoon, she presses more liquid from the lump, then turns it out into a small bowl. This does not look like anything I know. She opens a package of saltine crackers, and spreads a small amount of the ivory substance onto a cracker for each of us. We bite into the crackers together. Butter! And we made it!

When I began looking for local foods, I had no luck finding butter that is locally produced, from local milk. But Smith Brothers Farms sells cream from their herd. I could make my own butter, just like in first grade. I ordered a half pint with our first delivery.

I pour the half pint of cream into a pint canning jar, and screw the lid on tight. I shake the jar with my right hand hand, then my left, then both. Then my right again. And my left. Over my head. Up and down. Side to side. Eight minutes later, I no longer feel any liquid shoshing around. I open the lid. Whipped cream completely fills the jar. I scoop out a quarter cup, and replace the lid. More shaking. Several minutes pass slowly, and then the magic happens; the whipped cream begins to separate into butter and buttermilk. A few minutes later, I’m looking at a lump of fresh butter in a pool of buttermilk.

I haven’t eaten a saltine cracker in years. But each time that I spread a bit of this butter on a slice of toast, or melt it in a frying pan, I have a flash of the same feeling that I had almost 40 years ago. Butter! And I made it!

You can learn more about making your own butter without a churn, and see photos of the entire process.

Tags: 11 Comments