A Day to Pick Your Own Cotton

by Michael Phillips

  “I’ll go to the feed store, then, after Mrs. Hammond’s.”

  Katie climbed up onto the buckboard and looked down at me and Aleta.

  “I’ll try to hurry,” she said, then flicked the reins, leaving Aleta and me and Emma together for the first time. I think Emma was more nervous at the prospect of it than any of the rest of us.

  We went back into the house and heated up the irons on the kitchen stove. When they were ready I started ironing some of the laundry. As I worked I told Aleta stories. She sat at the table and listened with great big eyes, not saying a word. Pretty soon Emma was sitting there listening too. It was almost like when I used to tell my own brothers and sisters stories, except that now one of them was white. The time went so fast that before we knew it Katie was back, telling us all about what had happened in town.

  She’d gone to the general store first. Mrs. Hammond, as always, had been full of questions.

  “Where’s that ugly slave girl of yours?” she asked when Katie walked in.

  “Haven’t you heard, Mrs. Hammond?” said Katie. “There are no more slaves. They’re free now.”

  “What’s the girl doing, then?”

  “She helps us at Rosewood and lives with us.”

  “Well, I never,” mumbled Mrs. Hammond.

  Katie was getting up her gumption more and more, I thought as she told us about it.

  “I was sent into town for cheese-making supplies,” Katie went on. “But I forgot the list. But if you will tell me what I need, I’ll remember it.”

  The shopkeeper humphed a little, which it seemed she liked to do every minute or two.

  “Well, all you need is your cheesecloth,” she said, “and something to clabber the milk.”

  “Yes, that’s what we need,” said Katie.

  “What were you planning to use, then? I’ve got dried nettle in my herb supplies.”

  “Is that the best thing to use, Mrs. Hammond?”

  “Of course it’s not the best. The best thing is to use rennet. But your mama knows that. Does she have a dried calf ’s stomach?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You mean tell she wanted store-bought, with all those cows you’ve got out there?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I think she wanted me to get one.”

  “A whole skin! How much cheese is your mama fixing to make?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe just a part of a skin, then?”

  “What did your mama tell you to get, for heaven sakes?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know, ma’am. Just whatever we need to make cheese.”

  “Gracious, but you are a dense one! I’ll cut you off a quarter piece of dried lining. It’s got to be kept in salt until you’re ready to soak it and remove the extract.”

  “How much do you soak at a time, Mrs. Hammond?”

  “Well, I swan! Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to make the cheese for you! Just cut off a little piece and soak it overnight. Heavens, child—your mama knows all that. Why are you asking so many questions!”

  Mrs. Hammond turned and disappeared into another room. When she came back a minute later, she was carrying a little brown paper package.

  “Tell your mama to get this in salt as soon as you get home.”

  “We need some salt too, Mrs. Hammond.”

  “How much—five pounds, ten pounds, twenty pounds?”

  “Uh … twenty pounds, I think,” said Katie. “And the cheesecloth, please.”

  Mrs. Hammond muttered something else about Katie’s intelligence, then went to get the other two items. As she did Katie looked around the store. First she noticed the newspapers and remembered that her mama always bought one every time she came into town. Maybe she ought to get one too. After that the stick candy particularly caught her eye.

  “All right then, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Hammond, setting the salt on the floor and a roll of cheesecloth on the counter, “is there anything else?”

  “I want to get a newspaper, and would you please give me four of these peppermints,” she said, pointing to the glass jar on the counter.

  Mrs. Hammond glanced at her with a curious expression.

  “Four?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. And four of the molasses drops.”

  “Does your mama eat candy, Kathleen?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you going to eat these all yourself, then?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And you want … four of each?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Deciding it was best not to wait for any more questions, Katie bent down to pick up the bag of salt to carry it outside.

  “Oh, I think it’s too heavy for me,” she said. “I won’t be able to lift it up.”

  “Here is your candy, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Hammond, handing her a bag, “and the rennet skin … and the cheesecloth and the paper. You take those. I’ll put the salt in the wagon for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hammond,” Katie said and followed her to the door.

  Ten minutes later, as Katie was sitting in the buggy waiting for Mr. Watson to load in the second bag of oats, Katie saw Henry walking slowly toward her from the direction of the livery stable.

  “Mo’nin, Miz Kathleen,” he said as he ambled up.

  “Where dat little black frien’ er yers?”

  “Uh … she’s back at the plantation,” answered Katie.

  “What she doin’?”

  “Working.”

  “ ’Peers ter me you been a workin’ mighty hard too,

  Miz Kathleen,” said Henry, glancing toward Katie’s hands as they sat holding the reins in her lap. “ ’Specially seein’ all dem blisters on yo han’s.”

  Unconsciously Katie pulled back her hands and stuffed them into the folds of her dress.

  “Uh, yes … it’s hard work for Mama and me.”

  “Why, ain’t yo daddy back? I hear’d folks sayin’ dey ain’t seen hide or hair o’ him since da war ended.”

  “I don’t know. He just isn’t back.”

  “Effen you say so, Miz Kathleen,” said Henry, looking out of the corner of his eye with a bit of a suspicious expression. “But sounds ter me like sumfin a mite peeculiar’s goin’ on.”

  Mr. Watson came with the oats and dumped the bag off his shoulder into the back of the buggy, bouncing it up and down a few times.

  “There you are, Miss Clairborne,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Watson,” said Katie. “Well, goodbye … good-bye, Henry.”

  “Now jes’ you hol’ on er minute, Miz Kathleen,” said Henry before Katie could start up, while Mr. Watson walked back inside. He laid a hand on one of the reins to hold the horses back. “Is you sho’ dere ain’t nuthin’ you want ter tell yo frien’ Henry?”

  As he said it he looked straight into Katie’s eyes.

  Katie glanced away nervously. Back in the direction of the livery stable, she saw Henry’s son standing watching.

  “You sho’ dere ain’t nuthin’ I kin do fer you, Miz Kathleen?” Henry added.

  “Thank you, Henry,” said Katie. “I’ll tell Mama—”

  “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout yo mama, Miz Kathleen,” he said even more insistently. “I’m ax’in’ effen dere ain’t sumfin I kin do fer you.

  ” “No … no, nothing,” said Katie.

  “I see you’s still hitched up wiff dis frayed bridle, an’ I don’ know why you won’ let yer frien’ Henry—”

  “Thank you, Henry. I’ll take care of it another time.”

  Katie took the rein and yelled to the horses. Henry let go, and the buggy jumped into motion.

  As she bounced along down the street, Katie knew the tall, lanky black man was staring at her as she rode away. But she was afraid to look back.

  That night after Aleta was in bed and she was telling me about it, Katie looked at me seriously.

  “I didn’t like the look in his face, Mayme,” she said. “It was almost like … he knows.”

  M
AKING CHEESE

  28

  THE NEXT DAY WE LOOKED IN KATIE’S MAMA’S book again to learn all we could about making cheese. Katie read the directions again and we both gradually remembered seeing it done. I wasn’t sure whether we’d be able to do it by ourselves. But most of the milk was going to waste anyway, what we couldn’t drink and what we didn’t churn into butter and buttermilk. And we were about out of the cheese that was stored in the pantry. So we had to figure it out pretty soon.

  That day we sliced off a few inches from the dried stomach lining Katie had bought and soaked it overnight. We weren’t sure how much to use or how much water to put in. We just put in what looked like the right amount and hoped it would work. We saved up all the milk from both milkings that day and brought it into the kitchen.

  The next morning we were getting excited about trying it to see if we could do it. The book said to heat up three gallons of milk to one hundred forty degrees. We didn’t know how hot that was. Katie said she thought it was hot enough that you could put your finger in it for a second without it burning. So when it seemed about right we set it off to the side of the stove, then poured in the rennet water and stirred it all around. Then we were supposed to let it sit for half an hour till the milk started to get harder.

  We tried to wait patiently, but all we could do was watch it and wait for the time to go by, with Emma and Aleta asking questions we didn’t know the answers to.

  “It’s hardening up,” said Katie, looking down into the pot. “I’m pretty sure at least.”

  “What are we supposed to do next?” I asked.

  “ ‘Stick your finger in and see if the curd breaks apart cleanly,’ it says.”

  “Should I do it?”

  “Go ahead,” said Katie.

  Timidly I put my finger into the warm white liquid. It had hardened a little but was still mushy.

  “I don’t think it’s ready,” I said.

  We waited another ten minutes. This time Katie tried it, and instead of mush, the curd split apart and the watery whey filled in the crack.

  “I think it’s ready,” she said.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  Katie went and read in the book again.

  “It says to cut it into long cubes with a knife and then cook it again and keep stirring it real gently so the cubes don’t stick together.”

  I went and got a long, sharp knife.

  “You cut it,” I said, handing the knife to Katie, “then we’ll scoot the pan back over the fire.”

  It looked funny, all soft and jiggly, when Katie sliced down into the hardening milk, but the curds held together. As we heated it we stirred it real slow and gentle with wooden spoons. The curds broke apart into big chunks that swam in the clear whey that had filled the pan from the cutting. Gradually the curd chunks got harder. We were supposed to keep it at one hundred five degrees for an hour. Katie said that wasn’t very hot at all, just warm.

  This time we tried to busy ourselves with something else for the hour. When we came back, it looked about the same.

  “Take a piece out and eat it,” said Katie.

  “Why … you mean now?”

  “We’ve got to see if it’s ready.”

  “How will we know?”

  “The book says it will feel squeaky.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll try it.”

  I took a little piece that was floating on top and ate it.

  “It is squeaky,” I said laughing. “It feels funny.”

  “What does it taste like?” asked Katie.

  “I don’t know … like warm milk,” I said. “Warm milk that’s a little sour.”

  Katie took a piece and ate it too, then giggled at the feel of it.

  “Do you want a piece, Aleta?” she asked.

  Aleta glanced slowly into the pot, then shook her head.

  “How about you, Emma?” said Katie. “It’s good. Come on—try it. Here, I’ll break you off a piece.”

  She did, then handed it to Emma. She chewed it slowly, then kind of grimaced, and both girls smiled together.

  “I want to try it too,” now said Aleta.

  Katie handed her one of the curds and she ate it, with the same kind of reaction as Emma’s.

  “It’s hard enough to pour it into the cheesecloth now,” said Katie. “We’ll need another pan.”

  She went to the pantry, where most of the kitchen things were kept, and came back with another deep pot and set it on the floor. “We need to line it with cheesecloth,” she said.

  She brought the roll and rolled out enough to cover the top of the empty pot, draping it down about halfway into it, then cut it off the rest of the roll with a pair of scissors.

  “Emma,” she said, “can you hold the cheesecloth so that its edges don’t fall into the pot?—Here, hold it like this.”

  When Emma had the cheesecloth in place, Katie and I lifted the cooking pot off the stove and carefully poured the mixture into the new pot. At first the whey came pouring out easily. Then gradually the lumps of curds plopped onto the cheesecloth. When it was empty we set the warm pot aside, then slowly lifted the cheesecloth up with the dripping curds in the center.

  “Is that cheese?” asked Aleta as she watched. She sounded impressed that Katie and I would be so smart to know how to make cheese.

  “Not quite yet,” I said. “But it’s halfway there.”

  “Now the book says to wrap the cheesecloth around it and put a press on top of it,” said Katie. “Oh yes, now I remember—there’s a cheese press. Why didn’t I think of it before! I’ll get it.”

  She ran into the pantry. I could hear her lugging the ladder out of the corner and climbing up to one of the shelves above her head. She came back a few minutes later with a small wood box contraption that I recognized from Josepha’s kitchen.

  “There was a cheesecloth bag up there on the shelf with it that I’d forgotten about,” she said. “I guess we didn’t need to buy the cheesecloth after all.”

  “What do you do with that?” asked Aleta, pointing at the box.

  “We put the cheesecloth in the bottom of it,” said Katie. “I remember seeing my mama do it. Then fold it over the top and put the slab of wood over it with weights on top. It will press down on the curds and slowly push all the rest of the whey out of those little holes on the sides of the box until the curds get hard.”

  “Won’t it make a mess?” said Aleta, following Katie outside.

  “We’ll put it outside, on the worktable next to the kitchen,” said Katie. “The whey will drain out through the cloth.”

  “I remember now too,” I said. “That’s exactly how Josepha did it.”

  “I saw her do dat once afore I left too,” said Emma. “Why din’t I eber see you dere, Miz Mayme?”

  “I don’t know, Emma,” I answered. “But I don’t reckon I was up at the big house more than once a year. You must have come after the last time I was there. Where’d you come from before Master McSimmons bought you?”

  “I don’ know, someplace ober yonder. I got bought an’ sold all da time. I reckon dey din’t think I was too full a wits fer a house slave.”

  “Do you know how long you have to leave it?” I asked Katie as Emma and I watched.

  “Let me look,” said Katie, going back to the book.

  “It says to press it for ten hours, then cover it for four days, then turn it over and rub it all down with salt, and then let it sit for six months.”

  “Six months!” I said. “We’ll be out of cheese way before that.”

  “You can eat it anytime, it says, but it gets better as it gets older.”

  “You take the press out to the table and I’ll carry the cloth outside,” I said.

  Twenty minutes later our first slab of cheese was sitting under the press, with clear whitish liquid slowly oozing out the sides of the box onto the table.

  “Now it’s time to clean up the mess we made!” I said as we all walked back inside.

  “We sh
ould make cheese every day, or at least every two days,” said Katie. “Now that we know how to do it, there’s no reason to waste the milk.”

  “And we need it to eat!” I said.

  “Why do you talk about your mama like she’s never coming back?” Aleta asked abruptly. The question took Katie off guard. Neither of us had noticed that we’d been talking more freely than we realized. We also realized that Aleta had more natural curiosity than Emma, and that we’d likely have to answer her questions eventually.

  Katie glanced at me with a concerned look. Then she looked back at Aleta.

  “I’ll tell you all about it,” she said. “Just not today. Can you be patient and let me tell you another—”

  INTERRUPTION

  29

  SUDDENLY WE HEARD A KNOCK ON THE DOOR.

  We all stopped right where we were. Katie and I glanced at each other with wide eyes. The kitchen was silent as a tomb. We’d been so involved in the cheese making that we hadn’t heard any horse or buggy approaching. And we’d been outside just a minute earlier.

  Katie looked at me again, then slowly began moving toward the door. I didn’t know whether we should all scatter and hide or stay where we were and pretend that nothing was wrong. But it was too late to hide anyway—there we were, all messy and with our sleeves rolled up, and there was the figure of whoever it was standing at the window of the kitchen door.

  Slowly Katie opened the door. Standing in front of her was the last person we’d expected to see … Henry’s Jeremiah.

  “Afternoon t’ you, Miz Clairborne,” he said. “My pa thought dat you might be needin’ dat bridle ob yers fixed so it don’ break on you.”

  Still taken by surprise, Katie just stood there for a second or two. From where I was standing on the other side of the room, I saw that he was holding some leather and tools.

  “Is … uh, Miz Mayme here?” he asked.

  I heard the question in his deep voice. I don’t know if he saw me or not, but my heart started beating faster the minute he said my name. I didn’t know why. In the middle of my thoughts, I heard my name again. But this time it was Katie.

  “Mayme … Mayme,” she was saying. “Henry’s son … uh, Jeremiah brought a piece of leather to mend that broken bridle—would you show him where it is … in the barn?”