EatingAsia

Dreaming

Winter, Anatolia. No filter, un-retouched. 2012 All rights reserved by David Hagerman

Dreaming. Not necessarily of a white Christmas, but of a more Christmas-y Christmas.

Today marks our fifteenth Christmas in Asia (for me, the sixteenth). And except for one Christmas, which we spent working in the Philippine province of Pampanga, it's never felt right. Nor does it today. It's not that Christmas here in Malaysia is bad, it's just that it's not. It's not anything special, it's a day like any other. For us, anyway, for me. It's been no different on Christmases at home in Vietnam, Thailand or China.

They say Christmas is a state of mind. I disagree. Thanksgiving is an American state of mind. It's about food and nothing but food (American-style football too, for some). A week of menu planning, days of shopping, hours cooking, a feast with friends, that you can conjure almost anywhere if you're willing to ignore weather and make an effort. Thanksgiving is a bubble holiday. It's less about what is going on around you than about what you make of it in your own home and your own kitchen.

Christmas is different. The holiday requires a build-up, a general atmosphere, a certain type of environment that extends beyond the boundaries of home. It's more than Christmas trees in public spaces, caroles blasted in shopping malls and an excuse to shop. I hate to use the cliched phrase "Christmas spirit" but it neatly sums up what, for me, makes Christmas Christmas. And what I've never, but for once, felt in all my Christmases in Asia.

We found Christmas spirit one year in Italy, in Piedmont, where we rented a farmhouse on top of a hill outside a small town. There, for ten days preceding the day, you could feel Christmas in the air -- at the outdoor markets we frequented, in the osteria and trattoria where we ate, in the wine shops where we browsed and in the town's piazza where we walked.

On the morning of Christmas Eve we drove down the hill into town to shop for two days' worth of provisions. We went to the butcher's, the baker's, the greengrocer's, the fishmonger's. The streets and shops were crowded and lines were long. But civility ruled the day. Locals strode along pavements toting gold-wrapped panettone, greeting each other with "Buon Natale!". No one pushed, no one shoved. Not a single driver honked his or her car horn.

By the time we got to the bakery, our last stop before lunch, there must have been 35 people in line. Except there was no line, just a crush of shoppers filling every inch of floor space in front of the counter. We despaired of having bread for breakfast the next day. We were living in Saigon that year, and I tried to imagine the logistics of getting waited on in a similar situation there. Or in the United States, where on Christmas Eve day even generally genial Americans can descend into depths of rudeness as the pressure to finish all shopping before heading home to family mounts.

We squeezed in at the back of the shop. All was orderly. When the baker's staff finished with one customer another stepped forward, often at the prompting of fellow shoppers who pointed in his or her direction to indicate to the staff who was next. When a tiny elderly lady hemmed and hawed over her order for a full ten minutes no one sighed, no one muttered loudly at her to hurry it up. It seemed everyone in the shop knew everyone else but when our turn came fingers pointed to the back of the shop at us, the strangers. I ordered in halting, horrible Italian and no one snickered, no one harrumphed. As we left, our backs received a dozen "Buon Natale!" At least half a dozen more greeted us when we walked into a nearby restaurant, where we lingered for two hours over agnolotti three ways, gorgeous cheese plates and a lovely bottle of dolcetto di Dogliani.

Dave and I haven't exchanged Christmas presents since early in our marriage, when we decided that we'd rather pool gift money to buy something for the two of us: a vacation, a couch, a barbecue, whatever. Our farmhouse-for-two-weeks had no Christmas tree, and there was no snow on the ground but that night, as I prepared a Christmas Eve dinner of pasta with walnut pesto, ocean trout stuffed with rosemary from the garden and baked on a bed of potatoes and mushrooms, cavolo nero sauteed with garlic until silky and radicchio salad dressed with good olive oil and curls of parmesan reggiano, it truly felt like Christmas. The next day too, and not just because we woke up to snow falling in big cottonball flakes that didn't slow until late in the afternoon.

We've tried to do a proper Christmas in our homes around Asia. Those failed attempts make for good stories. Maybe I'll share them next year, in a post written from somewhere not here. Somewhere properly Christmas-y. 

In the meantime, a Merry Christmas to all who are celebrating, and Happy Holidays to all!

It's All About the (Goat) Girls

If you ever find yourself feeling ignored, unwanted, unloved, under-appreciated ... quick, get thee to a goat farm. I swear, no adulation or adoration in the world can match the intensity of that radiating from a gaggle of girl goats.

We got a dose of it a little over a year ago when we visited New Mexico's South Mountain Dairy. We met owners Donna Lockridge and Marge Peterson at the Saturday Santa Fe Farmer's Market, where they sell goat cheese made from milk sourced from their own goats. We asked if we could visit and watch the process.

What we didn't bargain for was falling in love with the 'girls'.

Unfortunately our timing was off; by the time we arrived much of the cheesemaking was finished. (The drive to Edgewood however, made up for that -- you never tire of looking at those vast expanses of turquoise New Mexico sky and a horizon of nothingness when you live in an Asian metropolis).

When we arrived Donna was cutting curds for chevre, which she would ladle into sieves and leave to drain for twenty-four hours (The whey collected in the process is given to feed a neighbor's pigs; in return, each year Donna and Marge get a whole butchered hog.)

We followed her around as she inspected her 'blooming rind' cheeses -- a brie and Mallapie Mist (above, similar to Humboldt Fog), and painted wax onto a cheese unique to South Mountain Dairy, a Dutch havarti-style semi-soft round called Chevarti (the wax inhibits mold and keeps the cheese moist).

We sampled cabre al vino, a semi-hard cheese soaked in red wine for 48 hours (below, and delicious), sqeaky-fresh goat cheese curds ("an accident," according to Donna, and a tasty one at that), and South Mountain's creamy, mild, and not-too-salty feta, which is handrubbed with salt instead of brined in salt solution.

Somewhere along the line Donna confessed to an aversion to strong-flavored cheeses -- no brie or Mallapie Mist for her.

It's obvious that Donna truly enjoys the cheesemaking, and the being-an-artisan parts of the business, like knowing by touch, rather than measuring PH level, that the Chevarti is dry enough to take the wax without absorbing it.

But she also made it clear where this business' priorities lay: "'We're doing the dairy just so we can keep the animals."

The title of this post, in fact, is also South Mountain Dairy's motto: "It's all about the girls."

The dairy, when we visited, had fifty 'girls' producing about 60 gallons of milk a day. South Mountain started in 2005 with 13, and Donna figured they'd be up to 64 by this year ("That's capacity -- determined by how much our equipment can handle," she told us.)

Like those cheese curds, the dairy was a bit of an accident.

Ten or so years ago Donna and Marge bought a couple of male goats as weed-eaters; later, they decided to raise pack goats.

They bought a couple does to build a herd, bred them, and bottle-fed the kids (they'd learned early in that the best pack goats are fed by bottle).

One problem -- the does produced too much milk for the babies to consume. What to do with the rest? Well -- make cheese, of course. But the milk made more cheese than Donna and Marge could eat, or give away to friends. So... years later, here they are.

After our tour of the product, we went out to meet the milk producers.

"Happy goats make happy cheese," says Donna. If judged by sheer conviviality South Mountain's goats must surely be among the happiest in the world.

As soon as we walked through the gate we were surrounded by curious beady-eyed beings. They teemed, their desire to be near us palpable, but not threatening. Exuding a sort of calm urgency, the girls got as close as they could, touching our hands and legs and arms, nudging but not butting, positioning their heads under our palms so we'd have no choice but to touch them.

 

"They're very sociable," Donna had told us. If anything that was an understatement. The girls didn't want anything from us but to be near us. I've never felt so popular in my life. When it was time to leave we had to tear ourselves away.

It was a pretty wondrous encounter, and we understood completely how owning two lawn-mowing goats could lead to a goat farm.

Not even Donna's sweet hound Butter could match the girls for loveableness.

South Mountain Dairy, 48 Katzima Road, Edgewood NM. 505/280-5210. Donna and Marge sell their cheeses at various farmer's markets around the state. NOTE: In the spring, when farm's bursting with cute little babies, they open up for tours. One dollar buys you a bottle and a chance to feed a baby goat.