He popped out of his side and made his way to the passenger door. Tugging it open, he held out his hand and I slid on out, landing close enough to him that he’d be required to catch me. He lifted his eyebrows, knowing full well what I’d done as he caught me around the waist and set me right.
“Doesn’t matter. You seemed to do okay in my boots last weekend, didn’t you?” He winked and led me around toward the back of the truck. By my hand! “Besides, we’ve always got smocks and hairnets for visitors.”
Hairnets?
Oh yeah, hairnets. Within fifteen minutes of my arrival at Bailey Falls Creamery, which had always sounded quaint and darling and maybe just the tiniest bit Dickensian, I was beginning to realize that cheese making, even artisanal hipster made-by-the-hottest-man-imaginable cheese making, was an industrialized kind of operation with sterile, stainless-steel troughs, drains in the floors, and tables that looked right out of the movie Saw.
The “shed” that I’d observed was huge! Room after room of all kinds of equipment, not to mention several “caves,” where the cheese was aged. Another concept I’d Disneyfied in my mind. Although an actual French Roquefort would only be called a Roquefort if aged in the actual caves where the bacteria is naturally present to create its beautiful, pungent beauty, most cheeses these days apparently are aged in noncave caves: climate-and humidity-controlled environments where cheeses can age and mellow over time, and be turned occasionally by the cheese maker.
And my personal cheese maker had an entire team of cheese makers. A few full-timers, some part-timers that looked like local high school kids, and interns from the Culinary Institute up the road in Hyde Park. Bailey Falls Creamery was quite the operation.
I was given a fifty-cent tour, basically a brisk walk-through end to end, before being brought back to the first room. The enormous stainless-steel trough was waiting for milk, which I’d learned was not only from Oscar’s herd, but from several other dairy farms in the area. Only pasture-raised, only organic, only happy, humanely treated cows got to bring their milk to his creamery.
He watched happily as the milk spilled into the trough. Three women stood at the ready, stainless-steel paddles in hand, waiting for the milk to get to the right temperature.
“Fantastic, I can’t wait to see how the magic happens!” I cried, clapping my hands. I looked around and saw a low bench over by the window. “Should I go ahead and sit over there? Don’t want to get in the way,” I said, starting for the bench.
“Natalie,” a low voice called out softly, and I turned to see Oscar. Holding his paddle. Ungh.
“Yes?” I asked, just as softly.
“Here’s your hairnet,” he said, throwing me what looked like a handful of old hosiery.
“You’re adorable.” I laughed and began to turn away once more when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Put on the hairnet, and the smock, and the boots, and meet me back here in five minutes.”
I blinked back at him. “You’re kidding.”
“You better get a move on,” he warned, not at all kidding. But just when I was about to tell him where he could stick his paddle, I saw the twinkle in his eye.
Country boy tries to show the city girl she can’t cut the mustard. Hmph.
I snatched the smock, and the boots, and the godforsaken hairnet, and met his challenging gaze with a toss of my hair. I’d call his bluff, no problem. “Should I take everything off and just wear the smock, or . . . ?” I looked at him innocently, opening the top button on my fitted black oxford.
“Over your clothes is fine,” he replied through clenched teeth.
I heard the women over by the tub giggle.
“Be right back,” I sang out, heading for the restroom. Inside, I stared at the hairnet.
I’d better get to take home some cheddar . . .
It turns out I look fucking fantastic in a hairnet. I piled all my hair up on top of my head, popped the net on, but off to the side in a jaunty fashion, touched up my siren-red lipstick, and I was ready to paddle some cheddar. I plodded out in my shapeless smock and Oscar’s boots, with a grand smile, and was pleased when I saw him scan the length of my leg now visible beneath the smock.
I had, in fact, taken off the clothes underneath. Because I was hot . . .
“Okay, Caveman, show me how you make your wares,” I announced, rolling up my sleeves and trying to take the paddle away from him.
“Not so fast. You’ll watch first, then you can go to work on that tub over there.”
“Whatever,” I replied, playing along. I stood off to the side with Oscar and watched as the three women worked on the first trough.
“So when the milk is the right temperature, they add the rennet. In this tub over here, they’ve already done that. See how when she slices into it, it almost looks like it’s set up a bit? Now it’s ready for the next step.”
“Which is?” I asked, conscious of his elbow touching mine. He was, too, because he bumped me with his.
“Remember Little Miss Muffet?”