Churning Day
A thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast,hardened gradually on top of the four crocksthat stood, large pottery bombs, in the small pantry.After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder,cool porous earthenware fermented the butter milkfor churning day, when the hooped churn was scouredwith plumping kettles and the busy scrubberechoed daintily on the seasoned wood.It stood then, purified, on the flagged kitchen floor.Out came the four crocks, spilled their heavy lipof cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn.The staff, like a great whiskey muddler fashionedin deal wood, was plunged in, the lid fitted.My mother took first turn, set up rhythmsthat, slugged and thumped for hours. Arms ached.Hands blistered. Cheeks and clothes were spatteredwith flabby milk.Where finally gold flecksbegan to dance. They poured hot water then,sterilized a birchwood bowland little corrugated butter-spades.Their short stroke quickened, suddenlya yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white,heavy and rich, coagulated sunlightthat they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer,heaped up like gilded gravel in the bowl.The house would stink long after churning day,acrid as a sulphur mine. The empty crockswere ranged along the wall again, the butterin soft printed slabs was piled on pantry shelves.And in the house we moved with gravid ease,our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns,the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk,the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.
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