Homemade Cheese
Growing up in the middle of Hannibal, Missouri, on one of the busiest streets in town, I lived for the weekends. On Saturday mornings, my family headed for a river camp where we fi shed, swam, and enjoyed life to the fullest. Dinner was caught straight out of the river, vegetables cooked from the garden out back. Life was easy and free. Heaven waited for us on the banks of the old muddy Mississippi. If we weren’t at the river, then we would venture out to my great grandmother’s farm. I fondly remember trips to the hen house to collect eggs; bringing in water, cold and fresh from the well; even trips to the outhouse, guarded by a threatening rooster. These all remain as snapshots of my youth. I waded in the creek, picked apples ripe from the tree, rang the old dinner bell, and found kittens in the hay loft. It was a little girl’s paradise. The proverbial seed was planted
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