Goats and Artistic Cheese

Starting in March, my phone conversations with Tasha often discussed the first snowdrop or crocus to blossom, the return of red-winged blackbirds, or the constant cheeping of spring peepers. As much as we loved the first flowers and flocks of robins, one of the most important markers in the progression of spring was when our goats delivered their kids. Even though we had both kept goats for numerous years, we confessed tidbits of apprehension when we found a doe in labor. Most of the time the births were normal, but now and then, we had to assist the mother as she brought forth twins or triplets. When all the does had birthed their young, our conversations turned to how many kids now scampered in the barn, how well they drank from their bottles, and which female kids would make champion milkers.

 But of course, the spring ritual of goat kids actually began in a different shed where Tasha kept her male goat, nick-named Bucky after Buckminster Fuller, who lived with another goat in a separate shed. While Tasha never accepted my offer to milk her does, she sometimes sent me to fill Bucky’s water bucket and to feed him hay.

During the evening chore time, I would follow Tasha around, assisting in small ways. Milking her does was a cherished task. Her gentle female goats knew who was to be milked first, and without any prodding, the does would walk out of their pen, and jump on the stanchion. They needed no restraint to keep them on the small platform where Tasha stripped them of their milk as they munched on a pan of grain. As soon as one goat was finished, she jumped off, and allowed the next doe, her special moment with Tasha. The only sound was of milk flowing into the metal bucket and the goat’s teeth crunching on her feed. As the Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh wrote, these sounds are the “music of milking”.

Tasha preferred Nubian goats with their floppy ears and broad Roman noses, splashes of vanilla-colored spots shimmering on their brown coats. Nubian does love attention and can be one of the most vocal breeds, bawling about their need for more hay or a small snack from the garden. Because the goats provided a rich manure that Tasha spread on her vegetable and flower garden, so that those plantings yielded bountiful crops, and lush blossoms on her peonies, foxgloves, and numerous roses.

Although I had crafted cheese from cow’s milk for many years, I turned to Tasha for answers about how to perfect my goat cheese. She suggested a French cheesemakers book, The Fabrication of Farmstead Goat Cheese, and also gave me a subscription to Dairy Goat Journal. Tasha also pointed out that cheesemaking is an art that demanded precision, patience, and constant practice. Like the paintings and sketches scattered at the end of her trestle table, Tasha applied these character traits to her simple life and encouraged me to follow her example in whatever artistic pursuit I explored.

Hollyhocks in my Garden

Hollyhocks

Tasha loved hollyhocks. Near the middle of June, I can remember her calling me and asking if my hollyhocks were blooming, because in Vermont’s climate, her stately plants would not open for several more weeks. In the early part of the nineteenth century, hollyhocks were one of those cottage flowers that surrounded homes and even appeared near outbuildings. Their iridescent bell-shaped blossoms shimmer in red, pink, deep maroon, white and yellow. For some reason, Tasha had lost her yellow hollyhocks and had not found any volunteers from which she could pluck a few seed pods until she strolled through a living history village.

“But I just didn't feeling right about taking any seeds,” she confessed, as we sat near her hearth.

“Next summer, I’ll send you some from my plants.” While the canaries sang, I poured myself more tea and nibbled on a slice of flaky pastry that held a thick, sticky poppy seed filling.

We reflected about playing with hollyhock dolls, and how the dolls could hold the flowers as parasols or use them as small boats. Slowly, our conversation drifted away from gardening and onto homestead activities, our baby goats, cheese making and how to create pectin from green apples. While none of those subjects would appear in flashy headlines, they illustrated the daily tasks that shaped Tasha’s life. A remarkable life that still inspires many others to delight in those simple pleasures.

Tasha's June Garden

Winter Gardening Pleasures

Tasha's front porch

Like most gardeners, late winter was the time when Tasha perused seed and nursery catalogs. And because I usually visited during February, our conversations rambled off to our favorite heirloom roses, the heady fragrance of scented geraniums and our favorite colors of hollyhocks. Tasha also confessed her habit of now and then, taking a cutting or a seed pod while strolling through a famous garden. If I remember correctly, her boxwood plants were cuttings from a plant at Mount Vernon. She nurtured the same habit in me by giving me poppy seed pods so that I could splash their seeds around my garden. Every year, their lavender or pink flowers shimmer between the dianthus and clumps of thyme.

When I voiced my frustration over primrose seeds from seed companies that failed to germinate, Tasha explained that the freshest seeds came from the American Primrose Society. She encouraged me to join the group, and described the proper steps for germinating primula. Later that spring, I opened a birthday package sent from Tasha and there glowed a silver-green primula with delicate yellow flowers that I had admired in her greenhouse. Whenever I spy primroses as a nursery, I think of the many different varieties that bloomed in her garden and the small pots decorating her kitchen windowsill.

For Tasha, gardening was another art form with a three dimensional pallet of textures, colors and scents. With her imagination and penchant for design, she shaped flowerbeds that linger in her illustrations and inspire gardeners around the world.

In her greenhouse, Tasha and Carol Lueck

Friends at First Sight

Tasha at the Kalamazoo Public Library with Mary Rife in the background

Friends at First Sight

            In the fall of 1985, my good friend, Mary Rife, who was the head of the Kalamazoo Public Library’s Children’s Room, told me that next November, Tasha Tudor would be presenting during the library’s author’s weekend. Mary had heard me describe my deep love for Tasha’s artwork and how as a child, I had sought out any book that she had illustrated. In fact, before I could read, I pulled picture books from the stacks, hoping to land on one of Tasha’s creations. So following Mary’s announcement, I circled that particular November weekend on my new 1986 calendar and daydreamed.

            Mary also understood that the best way to provide me with extra time with Tasha was to invite me to help prepare for the author event, because being volunteer would allow me to attend a special tea and even be included in an intimate luncheon. Because I live by the motto that participating is more fun that merely observing, I reveled in being part of the team who prepared for Tasha’s visit. Mary’s main request was for me to recreate the pink and white quilt in A is for Annabelle, because a generous donor had paid for a replica of Annabelle who would be on display in a section of the children’s room. After I measured the doll bed, Mary and I chose a pink reproduction calico and I pieced and quilted the top.

            The day that Tasha arrived, I marveled that my arms carried stacks of her artwork from Mary’s car into the library. The child who had searched for her books now touched original illustrations that attendees could purchase. After everything was in place for Tasha to speak that evening, Mary and I picked up Tasha who lodged at a local bed and breakfast inn so that we could take her to lunch.

            Like any admirer, I babbled to Tasha about how much I loved her illustrations and her lifestyle that reflected my family’s similar values of farming and homesteading. She perked up as I described how John and I had constructed several timber-framed buildings, including our house and a large barn, and naturally, Tasha was interested in my large garden, dairy goats and chickens. Over lunch, Tasha and I continued to discuss beloved varieties of roses, our favorite seed catalogues, and even how John and I powered our home with solar electricity. By the end of the meal, Tasha began hinting that I should come visit her home.

            The next day, John escorted me into a lecture room packed with Tasha’s fans who listened to her tell stories about her life while watching her draw. Because everyone shared a similar love, the audience felt like a gathering of friends, and no one minded when we stood in line for over an hour to have our books signed. We chatted about our favorite books and marveled over how Tasha’s creativity overflowed in so many ways, from her marionettes to her garden, to her old-fashion home. After Tasha signed my books, I was stunned to read her inscription: “You must come visit me at my home in Vermont.”

            A special tea for volunteers and library staff followed the lecture, and during that time, I questioned Tasha about what she had written.

            “Do you really want me to visit you?” To step into Tasha’ world was a gift that I had never imagined and could barely believe that she had offered it to me.

            “Yes, I do, and bring that handsome husband of yours. How did you ever convince him to wear nineteenth century clothing?”

            “It was John’s choice, partly because I could sew all his clothes.”

            “Well, I look forward to seeing both of you next spring.” Then Tasha turned to chat with other guests.

            And on New Year’s Day when I hung up our new calendar, I had already circled the first weekend in June for our visit to Tasha Tudor, the first of several that I made over the next decade.

The Parma Violets in Tasha's Parlor

Opening the door to Tasha’s parlor, I sniffed the scent of spring. Snow flurries sifted outside the windows. But from somewhere in the room, floated the fragrance of violets, as if someone had secretly placed a May basket on one of the tables. I wandered around the parlor, searching for the source of the perfume and noticed a row of three pots on a windowsill. Tiny white, lavender and rosy flowers trailed from plants with shiny heart-shaped leave. Bending my head over the mounds of greenery, I inhaled and fell in love.

                       

   After Tasha woke up from her characteristic afternoon nap, and as we settled near her hearth with a tea tray, I questioned her about the violets.

 "Those are Parma violets, aren’t they lovely? In the dark of winter, one plant can perfume an entire room. They are tender plants and can’t survive the cold like regular violets, but they thrive in a cool place.” Tasha picked up a pink luster tea cup, while reaching for a slice of poppy seed cake.

            Tasha barely heated her parlor, only lighting a fire when we sometimes ate dinner in that room, so it offered the temperatures of early spring. Tucked on an east facing windowsill, the location provided for ample sunlight, yet sheltered them from any bright afternoons.

            “Parma violets were first grown in Italy,” Tasha said. “Sometime in the late nineteenth century, they were brought to England where they were madly popular in small bouquets.”

            “I understand why, they remind me of my small, English violets that bloom in early April on my farm. I love to bury my nose in the plants and fill my lungs with their perfume. On a sunny afternoon, the scent of violets floats from that corner of my garden.”

            “Yes,” Tasha said as she poked at the fire and tossed on two birch logs. Their bark blazed, sending sparks up the back of the fireplace. At her feet, her corgi, Owen, waited for crumbs or for his mistress to offer him a bit of cake. Always ready to talk gardening, Tasha continued, drawing from her years of cultivating plants.

            “When the violets were imported to New York City, they became the rage. Young ladies liked to wear a cluster on their shirtwaist or slip them into a wedding bouquets. I suppose when plant breeders created larger violets, people fell for the showier blossoms.”

            “And ignored the lack of scent,” I added. When discussing seed catalogs, Tasha and I admitted to reading through a plant’s description, searching for and selecting those varieties that could claim, “highly fragrant”.

            I poured each of us another cup of tea and leaned back in the settle, listening to a canary trill. The warmth of the fire flushed our cheeks while visions of next year materialized in our minds. Upon arriving home, I wrote out my order and soon, Parma violets perfumed my kitchen with the fragrance of an April afternoon.