You Say "Ricotta," I Say "Get Off My Porch"

     Welcome to my world.  I decided to make ricotta cheese from scratch because I've heard it's better than store-bought, takes no time, and is so easy a monkey could do it with his hands tied to his ears.  Okay, I'm game.  I bought whole milk and heavy cream, which I haven't done since the Bicentennial, squeezed a couple of lemons, and I was off and running.  

     According to my recipe, you combine milk, cream, and salt in a large pot and bring it to a boil.  Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.  So far, so good. While I'm standing there watching the pot, which will naturally never boil, our puppy (did I mention we have a new puppy?????) creates a diversion in another room that cannot be ignored.  The noise suggests it's either sheets being removed from the bed, the entire roll of toilet paper being unwound through every square foot of the house, or the demolition of the powder room we've been thinking of remodeling.  Knowing deep in my soul that I shouldn't, I nonetheless sprint out of the kitchen to repair the damage, do so at warp speed, and sprint back to the kitchen in time to see the milk mixture boiling over onto the stove, the counter top, the cabinets, the floor, and everything else in its path.  It's a veritable dairy volcano.  And while the sight is bringing tears to my eyes, it has just given Puppy a new reason to live.  Edible substances!  On the floor!  Dripping off the counters!  Falling from the sky! 

     Without giving myself undue credit, I believe that a more fragile woman might have cursed, thrown the pot away, cursed some more, and marched out of the kitchen, never to return.  However, having spent the last month adjusting from LIFE BEFORE PUPPY to WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY HAS HAPPENED TO MY LIFE, I steadfastly continue with my instructions, adding three tablespoons of lemon juice, reducing the heat under the pot, stirring constantly, and awaiting the highly anticipated curdling, which is the final triumphant moment in the procedure.  Mind you, I'm stirring nonstop while using one foot on a towel to mop up the milk on the floor and the other foot to try to block Puppy from his impromptu snack.  And possibly cursing.  Just a little.  

     After the two longest minutes in timed history, the milk mixture does indeed curdle, and while still blocking Puppy from his munchies, I one-leg it over to the sink where my cheese-cloth-lined colander awaits.  I pour the mixture into it and while it starts to drain, I drop to the floor to get the rest of the milk there, hop up and mop up the kitchen counter, then spray and wipe down the stove so there is finally -- finally! -- no remaining dairy product left in sight.  And Puppy, now disappointed beyond any speaking of it, finally -- finally! -- lies down.  

     While the ricotta cheese drains, I begin the formidable task of cleaning up the pot that boiled over.  And, oh yes, which accumulated quite a bit of milk product on its bottom, both in and out, and which bears so little resemblance to its former sparkling self that I am tempted to put it out of its misery.  But I persevere.  By the time I finish, the ricotta cheese has drained down to its curds (good news there), so I transfer it to another container for chilling just as Puppy announces that he is ready for his next meal/drink/pee/poop/nap/walkies/all of the above.  

     Now, three hours later, all of Puppy's immediate needs have been addressed, he is heavy into his afternoon nap (can you say "happy days are here again"?), and I have sampled the ricotta, and as much as I want to hate it with every fiber of my being, it's actually quite good.  I would even have to say it's better than store-bought.  

     So welcome to a typical morning in my kitchen these days -- three minutes of ricotta cheese making, fifteen minutes of ricotta cheese cleaning up, five minutes of Puppy reconnaissance, and two minutes of sailor-worthy cursing.  And the ricotta is good, but let me tell you, no monkey with his hands tied to his ears could pull it off!