Finally ready to begin. I wash everything. I wash the counters, the stove, all my tools, and really scrub the hell out of my pot. I even wash my hands. I improvise a double-broiler to keep the milk from burning as it gently heats to 90 degrees.
I dismantle my double-broiler almost immediately. Balancing a gallon of expensive milk on a smaller pan is not a recipe for cheese – it is a recipe for disaster. I’ll just be extra careful.
This milk is a blast – there are dollops of cream floating around in it, just like in the Little House books.
I gently heat the milk to 90 degrees, stirring frequently to keep it from burning. Then I sprinkle the top with the flora danica and penicillium candidum.
It sits for two minutes, then gets stirred gently in. I’ve noticed that everything in cheesemaking requires gentleness – gentle heating, gentle stirring, tentative poking. My next project will have to be violent and energetic – all this gentleness is not making me feel very genteel. Maybe I’ll try butchering next. After 30 minutes I add the rennet. I am following three different recipes, all of which call for different ingredients, amounts, temperatures, and times. I throw up my hands, do a quick jig for the cheese gods, and continue. The rennet-ed milk must sit for 90 minutes. I am a prisoner in my own house.
This is the part where the curds form, and the most difficult chapter in this waiting game. I want to poke it SO MUCH to see if it’s setting. I must not poke. I mustn’t. The whey-ting is the hardest part (pun!)
(90 minutes later)
Okay, I admit I couldn’t wait the full 90 minutes. Some of my books say 45, some say 60. At about 47, I poked. Nothing seemed to be happening. I follow my instinct and add calcium chloride, which can be used to encourage curd formation in pasteurized milk. My milk, according to the websites of the dairy, is only gently pasteurized – heated to the lowest legal temperature for the shortest legal amount of time, so I had hoped it would be suitably curdy. Why am I following my instinct when I’ve never done this before? Why is the sky blue? My instincts, like my chances of wearing a size 8 again, are about 50/50. My tomato sauce was fairly gross due to my instincts, but my jam that wouldn’t jell turned out great because I added more pectin, despite never having made jam or used pectin before.
Another 45 minutes later, I check for a “clean break”, in which a knife (or finger) inserted into the curd creates a clear split in the curd, which then fills up with (ideally) clear whey. I dip my (clean) finger into goop. It’s sloshy and unpleasant, like jello. I leave it for another hour.
So I think my break is pretty clean now. It’s hard to tell because my ideally clear whey is very cloudy, but there’s some sort of solidifying going on, so I proceed to set up my molds. I set a cooling rack over a cookie sheet (well-seasoned and therefore grody-looking), place my mats over them, and set the molds on top. I abandoned the dollar store placemats – I’m sure they come with bacteria and mold of their own of which I want no part.
In the interest of science, I use a tin can with no holes, one with holes, my PVC pipe, and a deli container. I have extras just in case. GENTLY ladle the curds and whey into the molds. Now I have to confess I’ve skipped a few steps. Dammit. I was really excited to use my clever molds and didn’t bother to cut the curds or drain most of the whey off, which seem to be really important steps. Halfway through ladling I run a knife through the curds, and the mold I’ve already filled and consider it well and truly cut. The whey will drain out won’t it?
Well I get four molds filled. Whey gushes through the holes in the sides, making me anxious for the solid can. The deli container shoots whey out its sides a milk fountain at the worst wedding reception ever. Whey is everywhere. I start to worry that my cookie sheet does not have a high enough capacity for whey and I should have used something bigger. It reaches the brim. I panic.
I slowly, GENTLY, ease the sheet pan down the counter to the sink and, using my forearm to keep the molds in place, tip it ever so slightly to pour out some whey. This is where usually there is a crash and my husband comes running to see why I’m crying. Miraculously, I do not drop everything. I let the whey continue to drain. I filled the molds to the top, and now they should slowly begin to shrink as they drain. They seem to be shrinking!
According to the books, I should cover these with a clean towel and let them sit for an hour. But the people who write these books do not live in my house and are not the boss of me and probably have stacks of clean towels all over the damn place. They’ll be fine.
Now? More waiting.
illdothedisheslater 