The hands of a cheesemaker are chapped.
The hands of a cheesemaker are calloused.
They are hands that taste with touch, when milk is ready to be cut, when cheese is ready to eat, how these molecules too small to see have knit and danced and partnered off to create something wholly new.
Hands that see that milk and flour are two mediums for the same purpose: nourishment and art and yes, love’s here too. Hands that cut, hands that fumble, that drop, that curse the waste of time and purpose.
These are the hands of a cheesemaker. These are the hands of one who brushes the tops of wheels and hears whispers of what could be, of meals to come, of happiness shared and shared again.
The pressure to cleave–just enough–first left, then right. The extending of the senses beyond the fingers. The star-shapes of butcher’s twine, nestling eggs of cheese high, high in the air to mature into a better version of themselves.
Stretching. One wingspan and another. Over and over the cheesemaker pulls, her hands burning, the heat of deadly steam still evident through three layers of gloves.
Cleaning. Long hours, hot and silent, fumes rising over a chemical sink.
Salting, oh, yes. Salt, the most important part of life. Salt, the flavor-giver. Salt, the cell-changer, sugar-demander. Beautiful salt. The cheesemaker knows it well. Salt smoothed over the surface of ripening wheels, only moving on at just the right moment, when the feeling of it begins to disappear into the whey.
The hands of a cheesemaker are also the hands of a writer. A writer who taps the keyboard when nothing comes. A writer who finds her hands on the driver’s wheel or at the crafting table more often than she wants to.
The hands refuse to give up. Always moving, never constant. Cheese beneath her palms, scenes in her head. Hands that provide and create, but never quite enough. Hands that move too slow, a body that gives in to exhaustion and five jobs and bills, always bills.
These are the fingers that give up coins for supplies, for commitments and promises. These are the hands that reach too far, that stretch too much but can’t help giving, giving, giving, making, making, making.
Hands that can’t be still, hands that refuse games and idleness. Hands that try, but always seem to come up empty.
Hands that grasp for a dream.
These are the hands of a cheesemaker. These are the hands of a writer. These are the hands of someone who will. not. quit.
They are calloused and chapped, but they are mine.
~~~
Author’s Note: We’ve had some unexpected medical expenses come up and my family has had to take on extra work to make the most basic ends meet. I’m still trying to create through the chaos but it’s slower going than usual, so for now I’m going to give myself a well-earned hiatus from posting commitments as we get our life back on track. This page and reaching all of you means a lot to me, so if you would keep your pledges where they are it would mean the world to my family. If you can’t, with the lack of content, I understand.
I hope to be back and ready to go with some short stories and the rest of TOYMAKER ACT ONE (which is FINISHED) around the beginning of April.
Thank you,
Kim
