22 May 2012

I arrived at the dairy at 7.30 this morning clad in the obligatory green wellington boots (of course mine have giant bows on them) and wondering exactly why I was up so early on a drizzly Irish morning. Growing up in Melbourne, I had never milked a cow before, in fact, my only prior experience with cows was pointing at them from the car window on country drives, or as spaghetti bolognese.  

Milking cows in not as simple as turning up and squeezing an expectant udder. First, I was given a long stick (a makeshift shepherd staff) and led to where three cows were leisurely grazing. One of them mooed at me, to which I replied 'Good morning' - it seemed the polite thing to do. The first job was to herd the cows and coax them towards the dairy. What actually happened was the farmer did all the prodding and herding and I stayed back a safe distance quietly encouraging the cows with my mind. Unlike country folk, I do not possess the ability to whack a disobedient one-tonne bovine with a stick - if they dont want to mooove, just leave them be. 

Bovine behinds

No thanks to me, the cows obediently made their way up the slope to the milking station and took their places. I got to pull and squeeze the udders of Bovine 1 and 3 to check the quality of the milk and then attach futuristic looking suction devices which helpfully did all the milking for me. Bovine 2 presented a small problem. She had recently had a calf and was not too keen on humans getting at her milk.  Because of this, my job was not to attach the suction machine (as I may have been kicked in the head) but to 'distract' the cow by standing in front tof her and patting her head. If you have not ever experienced six minutes of uninterrupted eye contact with a grumpy cow whilst two feet away, I can tell you it is very surreal. A few grouchy moos and a dozen kicks later, the milking was done, the cows were set free, the milk was separated and I was on my merry way. 

Today in the kitchen I made strawberry jam, cabbage soup (no resemblance to the vile slop you may know from the infamous diet which smells as bad going in as it does coming out), and scallion champ, which is mashed potato with spring onions and/or chives. Unfortunately none of these things really leant themselves to pretty presentation, so I really had no choice but to whip up some butter balls. Once you start rolling, you just can't stop! My name is Plumpcious, and I am a butter ball addict ... 

Today in demonstration we learnt to make: Chicken liver pate, Melba toast (no comparison to those tiny  toasts you buy for $2.00 at Coles), White yeast bread, Pan-grilled fish, Sauce Vierge, Fish in fresh fig leaves with nasturtium and parsley butter, Hot mackerel salad with beetroot eggs and horseradish, Horseradish mayonaise, Simple cooked chard, Rocket and cherry tomato salad, Radish cucumber and mint salad and Classic lemon meringue tart.  

I must go now as the Eurovision semi-finals are on (once hilariously described by Terry Wogan as 'rhymes against humanity'). I thought it was bad when Montenegro wheeled a giant wooden horse onto the stage, but the Greeks have just misused the word aphrodisiac, which is a Greek word. Bravo.  

P.S. I would like to say a big buttery thank you to you, dear readers. This blog has now had over 1000 views! And lucky for you, merely reading about this food won't make you fat.