A Dairy Story, Part II: I promise to stop writing about goats. After this.
15 March 2011
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With six litres of goats milk in my fridge, and nothing else to do after some rooftop yoga (choreography by crazy redhead swiss women, music score by neighborhood construction workers and teenage footballers..) I went home to make some serious amounts of yogurt.
Not having a thermometer makes things interesting, but I managed to keep the milk at a not-quite-boil, and then cool it down to about 110˚. (According to my Bulgarian yogurt-making website, this is when you can hold the tip of your finger in the milk for 15 seconds without wanting to cry. I had many burned fingertips before getting to that point.)
just below boiling point
The incubating part was easy. When it’s 100˚ out during the day, and you spend two hours heating up the kitchen to some ungodly temperature, there’s no need to worry about the fecundity of the bacteria. Just to be sure, I swathed my pots of probiotics in kitchen towels and bedsheets and left my home-made sauna for the night. (Pores cleared, toxins all sweat out.)
Because I am neurotic, I woke up the next morning to thoughts of the previous night’s project, wondering if maybe I hadn’t let the milk cool quite enough, or what if it cooled too much?? Paranoid, I got out of bed (mind you, it’s not even 6am at this point), padded my way to my kitchen that had evidently remained at elevated sauna-like temperatures all night long. I unwrapped the still-warm casseroles, and uncovered the most beautiful cultured creation ever. Paranoia, placated.
successss! (to be enjoyed daily, preferably topped with fruit and honey.)