EMBORIOS  for the culture of kasos

Of Curds and Whey
Traditional cheese making in Kasos - Page 1
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Dotted across the hillsides of Kasos there are stone-built shepherds' huts that blend so completely into the rocky landscape that they can be hard to spot. Dabs of whitewash or bright blue paint help to define window openings and doorways on some, while others remain completely undecorated. Once, each island family would have owned and maintained a couple of these “mitata” – one at the western and another at the eastern end of Kasos – but now only about forty families keep sheep and goats on anything approaching a commercial basis. We visited some of them in early May when cheese-making was in full swing.

The road to Liristis winds up through Poli and over the shoulder of the mountain towards Agios Mammas. Fork to the right, and the long, dry-stone walls of the Aspras family enclosures soon appear. Giorgos' and Koula's tractor is standing alongside the wall with a gang of curious (and hopeful) goats gathered around it. Just a little further along, Manoli and Niania can be seen in the distance moving their herd into the fold. Today, as every day, they have made a two-hour trek by donkey to reach the high pastures at the eastern end of Kasos. Since it has not rained lately, there is feeding and watering to be done as well as milking and cheesemaking. Michali has joined his brother and sister-in-law, driving up on his tractor, as this is a busy time of year. Most of the animals have weaned their young, and milk is plentiful. There is no refrigeration in the mitata, so preserving milk or yoghurt is out of the question – the Kasiot stockmen have become expert cheese-makers.

There is a great press of brown and black glossy coats in the fold, and many pairs of amber-yellow eyes turn a distrustful gaze on visitors from within stripey faces. There is something unnerving about being stared at by a goat; the horizontal orientation of their pupils is pure alien. Milking is underway. A stream of white crosses over another as the milk shoots down into the pail. The fold is truly folded. It looks as though a giant hand has taken hold of a long, thin passageway and crunched it into a concertina shape. A series of three chambers winds back and forth with only the narrowest of openings between each. Michali stands at one of these, barring the way. Each animal must get by him if it wants to leave the fold and find its way to the feeding hoppers outside. Some, he lets straight through – they are still nursing young – but most need to be milked, and he grabs each of these in turn by a horn, swinging it round and between his legs in a single, practised movement as he bends over it to point the swollen udders at the pail.

The pail is, in fact, a large recycled Feta tin, with a wooden carrying handle nailed in, across its top. Perfect for the job, it stands wedged into a small opening in the wall (porostasi) created for the purpose. Held securely at the right angle and height, it can't easily be kicked over. In the next chamber Manoli and Niania are milking too, intently observed by the black billy goat, who glares at everyone, and jostles his ladies in a contest for the shadiest spot.

Naturally, he's among the first out to the feeding hoppers when the milking's done. There's a bit of a stampede, and the sound of hundreds of hooves striking the earth blends with two others: the voices of the young calling to their mothers, and the chimes of the bells many of the herd are wearing. The stockmen know their flocks and herds even when they are out of sight over the brow of a hill, or down in a gully, for the particular harmonies created by their own “tsambalia” are utterly distinctive to their ears. Many of the bells are old and have been in the family for generations, their voices familiar and loved. When the herds are moved, each June, in the annual transhumance that allows them access to new pastures (while the old ones recover and are sewn with feed crops), every bell in the mitato is found a wearer, and the moving flocks can be heard, well before they come into view.

With the feeding and milking done, it's time to make cheese. Yesterday's milk is laid out in shallow cooling trays (skafidia), waiting. Overnight the cream (drilla) has risen to the top and can be separated. (Xemonasma) . It will be made into butter, but not before everyone has taken a few minutes to have a coffee and spread some drilla onto a thick slice of fresh bread. The skimmed milk is emptied into a huge copper cauldron and set into the hearth (paranistia). Dried thyme has been lit and the heat is fierce. Stooping low to avoid the worst of the smoke, which catches in the throat and makes the eyes run, Michali takes charge of the milk, watching over it while its temperature rises.

Meanwhile, next door, Manoli has emptied the cream into a stopped-up goatskin bag and is churning it to turn it into “kaouli”. He does a kind of rhythmical bouncing dance (sisimo) on the spot, using his thighs and the weight of the bag to shake and beat the cream. It doesn't take him long to get it to the consistency he is looking for. Before you know it, he is outside again, perched on the step, peering into the skin (touloumi) to check that all is well. And it is – the butter is ready.

		See Manoli in action

Michali is making “Tiri”, a hard cheese that is salty and keeps well. He stirs the milk with a naturally three-pronged stick (taralis) until it is nice and warm and ready for the starter (astera) to be added. This will cause the milk to curdle and solidify. All the skill is in the timing and the temperature. No thermometer is used – Michali doesn't need one. The way the stick moves over the bottom of the cauldron tells him all he wants to know. Look once, and liquid milk is swirling freely round; look again and there is a solid motionless mass with the appearance of yogurt.

Michali works the taralis again, breaking up the smooth whiteness, then plunges both arms in, up to the elbow. He is gathering the curds (solids) together (piriasma) moving his hands deep inside the whey, working gently by feel. Then he places on his knees a deep tray with two white plastic moulds standing inside it, and reaches deep into the watery and slightly green-tinged whey with a small basket (aglitis). It comes up filled with curds which he empties into the moulds. Whey drips back into the cauldron and into the tray. He sprinkles a little salt between layers of curds. Soon, both moulds are heaped and look overfilled. But Michali explains that as the whey drains out, the excess volume will disappear. It is quickly clear that he has judged his quantities to perfection, as he tips out the new cheeses and turns them over in the moulds, imprinting the rough upper surface with the same cut pattern that the lower one already bears.

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