A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton (18 page)
“Does it tell about cheese?” I asked.
“I’m looking … here it is,” said Katie, turning the pages.
She bent down to read for a minute.
“It says, ‘Take the inner membrane of the fourth, or digestive stomach of a young mammal living on milk, preferably a young calf—’ ”
“Ugh!” I said. “How are we going to get a calf ’s stomach!”
Katie kept reading. “ ‘Dry the stomach lining in salt, then, when needed, soak in water. The resultant liquid will contain the fermented enzyme, rennet, which has the property of curdling milk. For basic cheese preparation, heat three gallons of fresh milk to approximately 140 degrees …’ ”
She stopped and looked over at me. “How can we make cheese if we don’t have this rennet thing and the calf ’s stomach?” she asked.
“Now that I think about it,” I said, “I think I remember something about using thistles or nettles too.”
“We could find plenty of those!” said Katie.
“But maybe your mama has a dried stomach skin around here someplace.”
“I don’t even like to think about it! And I haven’t seen anything like that.”
“I wonder if we could get anything to use at Mrs. Hammond’s store.”
“I don’t know,” said Katie, looking at the book again and reading to herself. “It also says you need salt and cheesecloth. We forgot to get salt last time we went to town.”
“Do you have any cheesecloth?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe we should go to town and see if we can get what we need at the store.”
Thinking of going into town reminded me of seeing Henry in Oakwood. I told Katie what had happened. “I don’t know if I should go with you,” I said.
“I could go alone,” said Katie. “I think after last time I could do it alone if I had to.”
“Or we could go to Oakwood instead.”
“Then we’d have to pay for it,” said Katie, “and I’d rather put it on my mama’s bill at Mrs. Hammond’s so we don’t use up our money.”
“But what about Aleta?” I asked.
“Let me talk to her,” said Katie. “I’ll see what she says to the idea of staying with you.”
The next morning after the cows were out to pasture, Katie and I got the small buggy hitched up and ready for a trip into town.
We walked into the house.
“Aleta,” said Katie. “I need to talk to you for a minute. I have to go into town today. I’ll be gone two or three hours.”
Aleta stared back at her with a blank expression.
“Would you mind staying here with Mayme and Emma while I’m gone?” Katie asked.
Aleta glanced over at me.
“Would you tell me a story, Mayme?” she said.
“If you’re nice,” I answered with a smile, “I might even tell you
two
.”
“Then I don’t mind staying,” said Aleta.
“Good,” Katie said, smiling. “I’ll get back as fast as I can.”
Katie got up and she and I walked outside. Aleta followed us.
“Is there anything else we need, Mayme?” Katie asked as we went.
“I was just noticing that we are getting a little low on oats for the horses.”
“I’ll go to the feed store, then, after Mrs. Hammond’s.”
Katie climbed up onto the buckboard and looked down at me and Aleta.
“I’ll try to hurry,” she said, then flicked the reins, leaving Aleta and me and Emma together for the first time. I think Emma was more nervous at the prospect of it than any of the rest of us.
We went back into the house and heated up the irons on the kitchen stove. When they were ready I started ironing some of the laundry. As I worked I told Aleta stories. She sat at the table and listened with great big eyes, not saying a word. Pretty soon Emma was sitting there listening too. It was almost like when I used to tell my own brothers and sisters stories, except that now one of them was white. The time went so fast that before we knew it Katie was back, telling us all about what had happened in town.
She’d gone to the general store first. Mrs. Hammond, as always, had been full of questions.
“Where’s that ugly slave girl of yours?” she asked when Katie walked in.
“Haven’t you heard, Mrs. Hammond?” said Katie. “There are no more slaves. They’re free now.”
“What’s the girl doing, then?”
“She helps us at Rosewood and lives with us.”
“Well, I never,” mumbled Mrs. Hammond.
Katie was getting up her gumption more and more, I thought as she told us about it.
“I was sent into town for cheese-making supplies,” Katie went on. “But I forgot the list. But if you will tell me what I need, I’ll remember it.”
The shopkeeper humphed a little, which it seemed she liked to do every minute or two.
“Well, all you need is your cheesecloth,” she said, “and something to clabber the milk.”
“Yes, that’s what we need,” said Katie.
“What were you planning to use, then? I’ve got dried nettle in my herb supplies.”
“Is that the best thing to use, Mrs. Hammond?”
“Of course it’s not the best. The best thing is to use rennet. But your mama knows that. Does she have a dried calf ’s stomach?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You mean tell she wanted store-bought, with all those cows you’ve got out there?”
“Yes, ma’am, I think she wanted me to get one.”
“A whole skin! How much cheese is your mama fixing to make?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe just a part of a skin, then?”
“What did your mama tell you to get, for heaven sakes?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know, ma’am. Just whatever we need to make cheese.”
“Gracious, but you are a dense one! I’ll cut you off a quarter piece of dried lining. It’s got to be kept in salt until you’re ready to soak it and remove the extract.”
“How much do you soak at a time, Mrs. Hammond?”
“Well, I swan! Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to make the cheese for you! Just cut off a little piece and soak it overnight. Heavens, child—your mama knows all that. Why are you asking so many questions!”
Mrs. Hammond turned and disappeared into another room. When she came back a minute later, she was carrying a little brown paper package.
“Tell your mama to get this in salt as soon as you get home.”
“We need some salt too, Mrs. Hammond.”
“How much—five pounds, ten pounds, twenty pounds?”
“Uh … twenty pounds, I think,” said Katie. “And the cheesecloth, please.”
Mrs. Hammond muttered something else about Katie’s intelligence, then went to get the other two items. As she did Katie looked around the store. First she noticed the newspapers and remembered that her mama always bought one every time she came into town. Maybe she ought to get one too. After that the stick candy particularly caught her eye.
“All right then, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Hammond, setting the salt on the floor and a roll of cheesecloth on the counter, “is there anything else?”
“I want to get a newspaper, and would you please give me four of these peppermints,” she said, pointing to the glass jar on the counter.
Mrs. Hammond glanced at her with a curious expression.
“Four?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. And four of the molasses drops.”
“Does your mama eat candy, Kathleen?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you going to eat these all yourself, then?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And you want …
four
of each?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Deciding it was best not to wait for any more questions, Katie bent down to pick up the bag of salt to carry it outside.
“Oh, I think it’s too heavy for me,” she said. “I won’t be able to lift it up.”
“Here is your candy, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Hammond, handing her a bag, “and the rennet skin … and the cheesecloth and the paper. You take those. I’ll put the salt in the wagon for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond,” Katie said and followed her to the door.
Ten minutes later, as Katie was sitting in the buggy waiting for Mr. Watson to load in the second bag of oats, Katie saw Henry walking slowly toward her from the direction of the livery stable.
“Mo’nin, Miz Kathleen,” he said as he ambled up.
“Where dat little black frien’ er yers?”
“Uh … she’s back at the plantation,” answered Katie.
“What she doin’?”
“Working.”
“ ’Peers ter me you been a workin’ mighty hard too,
Miz Kathleen,” said Henry, glancing toward Katie’s hands as they sat holding the reins in her lap. “ ’Specially seein’ all dem blisters on yo han’s.”
Unconsciously Katie pulled back her hands and stuffed them into the folds of her dress.
“Uh, yes … it’s hard work for Mama and me.”
“Why, ain’t yo daddy back? I hear’d folks sayin’ dey ain’t seen hide or hair o’ him since da war ended.”
“I don’t know. He just isn’t back.”
“Effen you say so, Miz Kathleen,” said Henry, looking out of the corner of his eye with a bit of a suspicious expression. “But sounds ter me like sumfin a mite peeculiar’s goin’ on.”
Mr. Watson came with the oats and dumped the bag off his shoulder into the back of the buggy, bouncing it up and down a few times.
“There you are, Miss Clairborne,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Watson,” said Katie. “Well, goodbye … good-bye, Henry.”
“Now jes’ you hol’ on er minute, Miz Kathleen,” said Henry before Katie could start up, while Mr. Watson walked back inside. He laid a hand on one of the reins to hold the horses back. “Is you sho’ dere ain’t nuthin’ you want ter tell yo frien’ Henry?”
As he said it he looked straight into Katie’s eyes.
Katie glanced away nervously. Back in the direction of the livery stable, she saw Henry’s son standing watching.
“You sho’ dere ain’t nuthin’ I kin do fer you, Miz Kathleen?” Henry added.
“Thank you, Henry,” said Katie. “I’ll tell Mama—”
“I ain’t talkin’ ’bout yo mama, Miz Kathleen,” he said even more insistently. “I’m ax’in’ effen dere ain’t sumfin I kin do fer
you.
” “No … no, nothing,” said Katie.
“I see you’s still hitched up wiff dis frayed bridle, an’ I don’ know why you won’ let yer frien’ Henry—”
“Thank you, Henry. I’ll take care of it another time.”
Katie took the rein and yelled to the horses. Henry let go, and the buggy jumped into motion.
As she bounced along down the street, Katie knew the tall, lanky black man was staring at her as she rode away. But she was afraid to look back.
That night after Aleta was in bed and she was telling me about it, Katie looked at me seriously.
“I didn’t like the look in his face, Mayme,” she said. “It was almost like … he knows.”
T
HE NEXT DAY WE LOOKED IN KATIE’S MAMA’S
book again to learn all we could about making cheese. Katie read the directions again and we both gradually remembered seeing it done. I wasn’t sure whether we’d be able to do it by ourselves. But most of the milk was going to waste anyway, what we couldn’t drink and what we didn’t churn into butter and buttermilk. And we were about out of the cheese that was stored in the pantry. So we had to figure it out pretty soon.
That day we sliced off a few inches from the dried stomach lining Katie had bought and soaked it overnight. We weren’t sure how much to use or how much water to put in. We just put in what looked like the right amount and hoped it would work. We saved up all the milk from both milkings that day and brought it into the kitchen.
The next morning we were getting excited about trying it to see if we could do it. The book said to heat up three gallons of milk to one hundred forty degrees. We didn’t know how hot that was. Katie said she thought it was hot enough that you could put your finger in it for a second without it burning. So when it seemed about right we set it off to the side of the stove, then poured in the rennet water and stirred it all around. Then we were supposed to let it sit for half an hour till the milk started to get harder.
We tried to wait patiently, but all we could do was watch it and wait for the time to go by, with Emma and Aleta asking questions we didn’t know the answers to.
“It’s hardening up,” said Katie, looking down into the pot. “I’m pretty sure at least.”
“What are we supposed to do next?” I asked.
“ ‘Stick your finger in and see if the curd breaks apart cleanly,’ it says.”
“Should I do it?”
“Go ahead,” said Katie.
Timidly I put my finger into the warm white liquid. It had hardened a little but was still mushy.
“I don’t think it’s ready,” I said.
We waited another ten minutes. This time Katie tried it, and instead of mush, the curd split apart and the watery whey filled in the crack.
“I think it’s ready,” she said.
“Now what?” I asked.
Katie went and read in the book again.
“It says to cut it into long cubes with a knife and then cook it again and keep stirring it real gently so the cubes don’t stick together.”
I went and got a long, sharp knife.
“You cut it,” I said, handing the knife to Katie, “then we’ll scoot the pan back over the fire.”
It looked funny, all soft and jiggly, when Katie sliced down into the hardening milk, but the curds held together. As we heated it we stirred it real slow and gentle with wooden spoons. The curds broke apart into big chunks that swam in the clear whey that had filled the pan from the cutting. Gradually the curd chunks got harder. We were supposed to keep it at one hundred five degrees for an hour. Katie said that wasn’t very hot at all, just warm.
