A busy weekend has necessitated a break in the cheesing. Instead, it’s all hands (well all two of them) to an early morning rise and shake: it’s butter time!
A goodly portion of double cream had been sitting and ripening gently overnight – not so hot it could get up and walk out on me, but just enough to add a twist and tang. Not having a butter churn, improvisation was required. improvisation in the form of a fruit juicer and cling film.
Then it was time to shake my butt…. er.
About seven or eight minutes of jiggling (and trust me, pre-coffee, at seven am on a Saturday, there were more than just dairy products jiggling) and the butter began to come together, like a ball of glorious and creamy snot congealing in the nose of a moderately sized milk-troll.
I carefully poured off the buttermilk into a serving jug and set the butter in a bowl for washing. Washing butter is a zen-esque activity – slowly pressing the butter with a spoon whilst running cold water through it. Eventually the run-off turns more or less clear and the butter is… butter. Salt and set.
The butter is so much creamier than the mass-produced approximations you’ll find out there. OK, butter might kill you, but when fate tastes so delicious one can simply offer up ones arteries in supplication. The butter gods are benevolent.
And just to add to the glory of it all, the buttermilk (sweeter by far than commercial buttermilk) makes the best ever pancakes. Light and fluffy, but with a richness that is the ultimate in breakfast satisfaction.
Will likely or not be back on to the cheese streets next week, but for now I am basking in the joys of a detour well taken.