A note about milk.
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.