A note about milk.

by goatlove

The sight of fresh milk being poured out of a pail is soothing and beautiful.  It’s thick, creamy, white as bone, moves lazily, and makes warm and comfortable sloshing sounds as it swims in circles.

I work with milk, every day.  In the barn, I’m squeezing milk from the source, an internal network of rivers harbored inside a warm body.  In the milk handling room I’m pouring it through a cloth strainer into a stainless steel pot, careful not to spill a drop.  In the kitchen I’m stirring milk over a flame until it’s hot and steaming, filling my pores.  In the make room I’m submerging milk in a sink of ice-cold well water.  Once it’s cooled, I’m sprinkling buttery smelling culture on top and plopping in rennet.  After a gentle stir, the milk rests.  With time it will separate into parts, rearranging its particles to become a new state of matter.  A transformation.

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