The second batch was better.
Firmer.
Cleaner.
The cook at the boarding house added black pepper and chives to one portion.
Rail workers arrived early.
Twenty-seven hungry men ate sliced cheese beside potatoes, beans, and bread.
The boarding-house owner watched plates.
That was the test.
Not compliments.
Waste.
Almost none returned.
One worker asked:
“Where’s the cheese from?”
The owner replied:
“Local.”
“Good.”
Another said:
“More.”
The cook looked toward the owner.
The owner looked toward the forty-pound wheel on the sideboard.
By supper, twenty-six pounds were gone.
She sent a boy to the homestead with a note.
Bring everything you can tomorrow.
Nine days remained.
The homesteader delivered fifty-two pounds the next morning.
Ten dollars and ninety-two cents cash.
She counted every coin twice.
The boarding-house owner watched.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I trust arithmetic.”
The owner smiled.
“Your grandmother teach that too?”
“Hunger did.”
The owner’s expression softened.
Only briefly.
Then she said:
“I want sixty more.”
“When?”
“Two days.”
“I can do forty.”
“I need sixty.”
“Then forty will disappoint you.”
The woman stared.
Then laughed.
“Forty.”
The homesteader turned.
“Wait.”
She looked back.
The owner held up a slice.
“Can you smoke it?”
The homesteader thought.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Useful.”
“I can try.”
The owner nodded.
“The railroad foreman says the men want food they can carry.”
A smoked firmer cheese could travel better.
The homesteader’s mind began moving.
More salt.
Lower moisture.
Longer press.
Smokehouse.
She had an old meat shed.
Needs cleaning.
Oak.
Applewood if any dry limbs remained.
Another product.
Another order.
Another chance.
The owner interrupted.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“The merchant came here last night.”
The homesteader’s stomach tightened.
“What did he want?”
“To offer cheese.”
“From where?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“You buy?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He wanted thirty-two cents.”
The homesteader laughed.
The owner did not.
“He also told me yours might be unsafe.”
Silence.
“Did you believe him?”
“I’m still alive.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
The owner leaned forward.
“I sent a sample to the doctor.”
The homesteader stared.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“And?”
“He ate it.”
“That’s your test?”
“He is still alive too.”
The homesteader almost laughed.
The owner continued.
“He says properly heated sour milk is not automatically poison.”
“Properly.”
“Yes.”
“I told him how you made it.”