There I was, holding my paternal grandmother’s left hand and on my way to the stable. In my left hand, very tightly by the neck, a bottle of pisco, which was getting heavier and heavier. The road seemed so long to me and my grandmother so tall. In her right hand my grandmother carried a little three legged stool and a bucket.

When my grandmother arrived to the barn, she would take the stool, fill a bucket with soapy water and carefully wash and then rinse the utters of the cow she was going to milk.

I was quick to look at the cow from the front to see if I perceived any change in expression when my grandmother started cleaning her utters with cold water and brush. However, the cow Mariposa never manifested anything visible.

The first milk coming out of the cow was carefully collected in a small glass and the pisco was added. As I drank it, savoring the sweet milk and high alcoholic grade of the pisco, I thought that was the best part of visiting my grandmother. “This is good for you,” she used to say, “the milk keeps your bones strong and the pisco takes care of anything trying to get you”. This apollo (colostrum) was the most delicious milk I had ever tasted. Lukewarm, sparkling with that taste of pisco that fills the nostrils with pure ecstasy.

Gradmother would then milk the cow, fill up the bucket and then take again my hand with her right hand while carrying the bucket on her left, not before saying a proper good-bye and have a nice day to Mariposa. We would carry the bucket and the bottle of pisco back to the cheese room. The bucket was left there to rest.

The cheese room was made entirely of cement with cement shelves and very, very dark, with one little high window, and cold.

The process for making cheese was long but fascinating. Grandmother would pour the milk in a big pot and proceed to heat it, stirring it more or less constantly. Then she would add lemon juice and wait. After half an hour or so, she would cut the curd, and wait again about half an hour. Then she would use a hand beater for a few minutes until obtaining rice-like morsels. Grandmother would then put the curd in a gauze press, without pressing too much for another half hour. She would then take it out of the press, turn it over, and press with double pressure overnight to release the serum.

The next day she would put the cheese in brine and leave it there for the entire day. Then she would put the cheese to rest in the cement shelves in a ceramic container covered with a rack at the bottom to release serum for about 10 to 12 days, turning them daily. They would slowly develop a crust. After 20 or more days, you could eat the cheese. My mother would take one or two home and put it in the refrigerator. According to my grandmother that was not kosher. In fact, she did not say ‘kosher’ but after much research I have come to the conclusion that she had many Jewish traditions when killing animals and cooking food.

Sometimes my grandmother would take me to the cheese room where, after heating the milk, something that looked like white leather had formed on top of the milk. It was cream. I enjoyed seeing her separating the cream from the milk and pressing it between her two big hands. She would pass a piece to me saying “try this, little fox.” It was the most delicious taste. Fresh white cheese, soft mild cheese and very smelly, but tasty cheese, would come out of that room to be consumed, to my grandmother’s delight, at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner time.