So I put it into a Mason jar, capped it and sat on the sofa shaking the jar while the news droned on and on and on about how many gazillions of acres are on fire in California right now.
We have great weather, can grow just about anything and enjoy a long, languid growing season – but we do pay for our pleasures. High taxes, constant drought, money problems both personal and state-wide, AND OF COURSE, a fire season that is like the dress rehearsal for the riders of the Apocalypse, each and every year.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…
One minute, I was shaking this stupid jar full of sloshing heavy cream and thinking to myself that this was a pretty stupid way to be spending my time. I could be finishing the fingers on that second glove (black alpaca, very soft and very warm), I said to myself. Sure, it’s 101 today, but winter she is a-comin’, and you’ll want those gloves…
And the next, the slosh suddenly turned to a thunk-thunk-thunk.
A quarter cup of butter was floating around in the buttermilk.
I felt so clever, you’d think I invented butter-making. I insisted on showing the kids (who gave me a look that clearly said, “And we care because…?”), and then I proudly announced to my husband that I had
You know, out of cream.
Just me, and heavy whipping cream, and a Mason jar.
And then I made buttermilk pancakes this morning.
Which also felt extremely cunning because hey! Look! I made butter, and also I made buttermilk!
I’m so clever, I scare myself…
…no really, I’m kind of freaking myself out here…it’s just butter, made just like we all made back in elementary school at some point during Pioneer Days (or whatever)…and I’m all like, “Lookit me! Pasteurization? Penicillin? Moon landings? Pffffft! Nothing on me, man, I made butter!!!”