I’m preparing for an advanced cheesemaking class tomorrow in Douglas County by drooling over pictures of our recent tour of Three Rings Farm, a goat dairy and the makers of River’s Edge chèvre.
In my fantasies, I see myself slinging curds and whey like a pro on a little goat farm, a latter-day Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I will live in the rolling hills west of Portland, a stone’s throw from the coast, and I will sleep al fresco in a flowery meadow, and I will be nudged awake in the morning by my goats.
Heidi, my milking machine and all around Girl Friday, will wake at the break of dawn to take care of their udderly needs.
My cheese will come out as beautifully as these ash-coated, bloomy rind cheeses:
Above: Humbug Mountain and Sunset Bay. Below: I’m not sure, but they sure look good.
And there will be no Angel Clare or Alec or any Victorian labor practices or degeneration or class discrimination or murder, and we will live happily ever after, eating cheese.