So at the crack of dawn, dressed in our jeans and rain slickers, we trekked down to the milking station to get our hands dirty on some utters. Titus was first up, then Justus, Natalie and lastly myself. Silas just got to watch and gurgle encouragements to us.
The professional milk man offered visuals on how it was done along with patient explanations and we were all able to squeeze out a little dairy goodness without looking too pathetic. The sensation was strange, the utter was warm and skin like, the cow patiently standing by as we grappled with squeezing and pulling, repositioning and trying again. It takes practice to get good, but for me, skill is not what matter, crossing off "milking a cow" from my "want to do list" does.
When you see how its really done, you appreciate your milk and cheese more. Once the professional sat down, he was squirting like a machine gun while we'd just been working with getting a dribble. Like liquid music, the thump thump thump of the milk hitting the pail is so consistent that you can actually make farming music from it. The cows were all doe eyed and curious, watching us fumble and laugh. I got to pet a few, their noses much more rough then horses, and their tongues, long and pink. I was licked and slobberyly initiated into some sort of cow clan with great approval because it happened several times. All in all, waking up early to that experience was well worth the lost sleep. . . . now doing it for the rest of my life, well that would depend upon how good the dairy products were and if I could call one of the cows Betsy . . . .
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