My breath fogs my glasses as I scrub the inside of the steel vat. It’s a heated vat in a hot, humid cheesemaking room. The air reminds me of the time I used to take photos of cruise ships in the Panama Canal, except this is more physical. Even if the air was cool, I’d be hot doing this. Once the vat is clean, we cut the curd, break the curd, turn the curd, and again, and again, and again, then it’s milled, all three hundred kilograms of it. Lastly, we pack the curd into moulds. My arms and shoulders burn with the effort and my back stiffens from the awkward position over the cheese table. It’s my first time making cheese since lockdown. Later that night, prone on the couch, I count the muscles that hurt. It feels great. I’ve had more important jobs, certainly higher paid jobs, but this might be my favourite. It’s physically hard but it has honed me into someone stronger. I make something that makes people happy. And it leaves me the mental energy for my creative pursuits. I’m writing a new novel, one I’m really excited about. I’ve done enough research to know my chances of getting published are low, but I do it because I love it. I used to love photography, but the stress of having a photography business burned me out. I rarely pick up a camera now. Right now, writing is fun, I want to keep it that way. So I make cheese to pay my bills and get physically strong, and I write on my days off, or more often at night when the characters in my head won’t let me sleep until I write down their stories. And life is good.
