The magic of a family cow...

Steam rises from the pail as the rhythmic jets of milk splash against the stainless steal.  It's 7:00 am and 24 degrees.  The bag balm was pretty stiff, this morning, so I tried to warm it between my fingers before lubing Maxine's teets.  We're just getting to know each other, after all.  It'd be kind of rude to just slap the frigid, sticky goop on her under carriage without warning.  She's warmed up now, and the milk flows in gushes, frothing the surface in the pail.  I squat in the stall, and my back complains, as I am out of milking shape.  My forearms are starting to come around on this, the fourth day.  The first day was rough.  Spending the rest of it riding the broad fork didn't help, or perhaps it did...  Maxine is tricky to get into the stall, but she's a statue once she's there.

My last step-cow, Scarlet (Scarlet Cowhansen, because she's so darn pretty), was just the opposite.  When she saw me coming with the pail and her breakfast, she would meet me at the gate and mug me all the way to the milking stall.  She'd load in with no problem, but once I'd start milking she'd shift her passenger side leg into my way, kick the bucket, dance around trying to chase some kernel of sweet mix around the feed trough, and generally be a bother.  She was at the end of a long run, having failed to get pregnant at the desired time.  She was a year in milk, and recovering from mastitis in the front passenger side quarter, so only yielding a gallon a day, but it was almost half cream.  That is how she came to be our step-cow that first spring, on the farm.  She, like Maxine, is a herd member over at Eagle Canyon Farm.  My brother Jake, over there, is a raw, hand-milked, jersey dairy farmer.  He keeps 4 to 6 girls in production at any given time.  A low producing cow, or one that's a pain in the ass, makes the huge chore of milking six cows infuriating.  If the problem child has value in her production window, he sometimes lends them to me, for a spell. 

Having a full grown dairy cow on farm is a challenging blessing.  She brings mountains of fertility, and buckets of milk.  She takes bails of hay, then acres of pasture, and a geometrically greater level of commitment.  Over the winter, the farm quiets to a whisper.  All the broiler chickens are in the freezer, along with the rest of the seasons meat animals.  The only hungry mouths are the breed stock, and young cattle, who were fine on a bale over the fence in the morning, and a top-off of water every other day.  Since November, my morning chores have taken about 10 minutes, and evening chores entailed little more than a walk through to make sure the goat isn't in the shop building a time machine, or something.  With Maxine here, the trough gets filled twice a day, feeding happens twice a day, and there's a minimum of an hour of milking chores, first thing.

The reason Maxine is on spa retreat at HawkTail Farm is behavioral.  Not only is she a pain to catch and load in the stall, but she had a bad habit of adding fertility in the middle of the milking process.  If you have a line out the door of ladies waiting to be milked before getting breakfast, this is a problem.  Not only do you have to stop and re-clean her udder, but once she's done being milked, you have to clean out the stall before loading the next cow.  Raw dairy requires meticulous care.  Contamination of the workspace is not acceptable, so for Jake's operation, Maxine was a monkey wrench.  I'm trying to work with her, over here.  The first morning, I loaded her in the trailer with a full tank in the udder.  Forty minutes drive later, I unloaded her with a lead on her halter.  She got to know the rest of the crew while I gathered and dusted off all my milking gear.  Pail, check.  Milk can, filter cone, filters, check.  Teet wipes, iodine, bag balm, check.  Once I was ready, I thought I'd just stroll out there with some sweet mix, and she'd be in my hip pocket.  Wrong.  I had to corner her and lunge for the lead, after about twenty minutes, then drag her to the stall and wrestle her head into the stantion.  She's halter trained, but also stubborn, and almost a thousand pounds.  We got that far, and the milking went well, except for my atrophied milking muscles.  The bumpy trailer ride didn't turn her milk to butter, as I'd feared.  I unhooked her lead, and set her loose to goof around with the other critters, and moo around about cow stuff.

The second day, I hoped she'd be more comfortable, and would let me hook her up while they ate.  Wrong.  My plan was to milk after breakfast, rather than before, hopefully avoiding the whole shitting in the milking stall rudeness.  I feed the troops, and squatted down with them so Maxine could see Ginger, Gus, and Bucky licking my face and getting scratches, and realize just how cool I am.  Not so fast, farmer dude.  She remained quite skittish, and I spent an hour walking behind her, around the corral, until one of my bull riding bros showed up and helped me flank her.  I didn't want to rope her, or chase her down, for what should be obvious psychological reasons.  My hope is to establish a gentle rapport with her, and return her a reformed cow with the disposition of an angel.  It'll take some time, but we are already making progress.  The last two days I have snuck the lead on her while feeding the first handful of hay over the fence.  I tie her off, and let her eat (and have her morning constitutional).  After half an hour, I take her to the stall, tugging only slightly on her halter, when needed.  I spend some time talking to her, and rubbing her down.  I explain that it would be best to just put her head in the thing, and let her try it and pull out without trying to slam the yolk on her.  We do this a few times, then I slowly pull her in, and slowly lock her head in the trough.  The first two days, she wouldn't eat while I milked her.  These last two she has.  Progress! 

Every cow has a personality.  All of this is why I got Ginger.  My smokin' hot wife bought her for me as a birthday cow.  I wanted a bottle calf.  A bottle baby will bond to you like a dog.  She's my little girl, and will be a sweetheart of a milker.  We'll nap together in the orchard shade, and her milk will be sweet as ice cream.  Also, she was a fraction of the cost of a mature cow.  The down side is one must wait (and feed) over a year to breed, and nine months more for milk.  Thank God (and Jake) for step-cows! 

While Scarlet Cowhansen was here, Barb and I quickly got spoiled on fresh cream, butter, and cheese.  There is a bit of a milk management "level-up" with Maxine.  A gallon per day means you can make cheese every other day.  Three gallons a day means you have to do something with it everyday, lest you end up swimming in it like some mouse in a sorcerer's hat!  Jars fly off the shelves of the pantry, the refrigerator shelves groan from the weight, and the dishwasher is always running.  The quickest process is to make some yogurt.  Just stir a spoonful from the last batch into the still warm milk and slip it into the oven with just the light on and take it out five hours later.  To improve the yogurt, and reduce the volume, strain it in butter muslin for half an hour to make Greek yogurt.  Feed the whey to the pigs (dogs, chickens, etc.). Next easiest is to skim the previous day's cream.  Feed the skim milk to the pigs, because... skim milk (gah).  The pigs are pregnant, so the extra protein helps them make bacon.  When the cream shelf starts filling up, leave it on the counter for the day to warm up and lightly culture then make butter.  (Warm cream for butter, cold cream for whipped cream).

Eventually, I start doing ridiculous things with all the surplus.  Imagine ice cream made with all Jersey cream and duck eggs, gallons of custards, hollandaise sauce on all the things, and an entire chicken confit in clarified butter.  And then there is the cheese, but we'll save that for next time!

When all is considered, owning your own cow is a constant, relentless responsibility that anchors you to the farm.  Finding a farm sitter to feed and water a few critters is one thing.  Finding a daily dairymaid is another.  With this commitment, however, comes a cornucopia of the best things in life.  Nothing makes me feel wealthier than having quarts of cream and stacks of butter.  Arriving at social occasions with raw cream for coffee, fresh raw butter, and a boule of warm sourdough builds major social capital.  Milk a cow everyday, for a month, and that hefty price tag for the raw milk share offered at the farmer's market will seem like a bargain, because it is!

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