Odd Bits of Travel with Brush and Camera

by Charles M. Taylor

A Dutch Cheese-making District.

A Cheese-making Country—Edam Cheese—A Picturesque Inn—An Interesting Interior—A Thrifty Farmer—At Sunrise—In the Cow Stable—The Pretty Maid—Stall and Parlor—The Cheese Room—The Process of Making Cheese—“I Have Listened and Listened”—A Trip to Volendam—A Fine Country Road—A Charming Day—Muzzled Dogs—The Only Street—A Multitude of Children—Gay Decorations—A United People—As a Hen and Her Brood—Their Wealth is Health—In Sunday Dress—Stalwart Men and Sturdy Women—A Higher Type—“I have enough”—Fishermen—The Anchorage—A Volendam Suit.

O-DAY we take the train for Edam, of world-wide fame as a cheese-making centre. This town, situated about five miles north of Monnikendam, abounds in beautiful old trees which protect it from the heat of the sun, and render it very attractive. All of these towns seem to possess individual interest, and the traveller is constantly surprised in this region by new and unexpected scenes: but the imprint of truth and honesty upon the faces of the dwellers in every town, village and settlement in Holland is observed as the common bond of union, and leads us to understand the happiness and prosperity for which this region is justly celebrated.

It is hardly necessary to say that many cheese factories are scattered throughout this section of the country. At one of these factories, located on the bank of the canal, we see a large barge being loaded with five thousand of the delicious Edam cheeses, intended for foreign markets. We stop for rest and refreshment at one of the many inns on the way. This house is a fine subject for an artist. The room in which our meal is served is in itself a masterpiece. The floor, composed of large stone flags, is spotlessly clean, and the walls are covered with odd pieces of china, evidently associated with family history: the woodwork is as white as soap and sand can make it, and the windows are as clear as crystal. In a corner stands the old Dutch clock, with the moon, now nearly full, represented above its time-worn face, and on one side is the dark dresser, rich in ancient plates, and other quaint old-fashioned crockery. The table at which we sit is covered with a snowy cloth of homespun linen, and the blue and white dishes with the stories upon them which have been thus told for unknown ages almost charm us into forgetfulness of our luncheon itself, until a healthy cheerful country girl appears, and with deft movements and smiling face places before us the appetizing cheese, delicious bread, freshly churned butter, and new milk as well as buttermilk. For this but a trifling charge is made, but we feel that a glimpse into this quaint old Dutch interior, the sight of these brass-bound chests and claw-footed chairs, and the picture of the cheerful Holland maid are worth many times the cost of the meal.

We are much entertained by our visit to a thrifty farmer whose home is about a mile from Monnikendam. This well-to-do personage owns a large dairy farm, and learning that we are interested in this subject, invites us to be present at sunrise to witness the process of cheese-making. An early hour finds us on the way, and in good time a rap on the door of the farmhouse brings us into the presence of a bright middle-aged Dutch vrow, who with a cherry “Goeden morgen” bids us enter. We are first ushered into the parlor, which is a room of considerable size, immaculately clean, with comfortable chairs and sofas placed in various corners, and a supply of delft ware and shining brass candlesticks that fill our hearts with longing. In a few moments we are invited to the adjoining room, which we suppose to be the kitchen or dining-room, but to our surprise find ourselves in the cow-stable, a spacious, well lighted apartment, about seventy feet long and fifteen feet wide. A row of stalls runs along one side of the room, and here stand as many of the genuine, full blooded Holstein cattle. They are handsome creatures, looking as sleek and clean as those which take the premiums at the state and county fairs at home. Here they stand, patiently awaiting the appearance of the milkmaid; not however the milkmaid, “all forlorn” of nursery rhyme, but in truth

The pretty maid with dress so clean, With shining pail and face serene, Who milks the cows with happy smile, And sings her joyous songs the while.

The stalls are as sweet, clean and orderly as is the parlor which we have just left, and snowy curtains hang above the windows over them, the only apparent difference between the stable and the parlor being that the cattle stand upon fresh, fragrant straw, instead of a clean carpet. From the stable we are conducted to an adjoining building, which is the cheese factory, and to the room in which are assembled the farmer, his wife and two servants. Everything is in readiness: the fresh milk is poured into a huge iron kettle which stands upon the floor, and which is capable of holding about twenty gallons: a small quantity of rennet is put into the milk, and in perhaps twenty minutes a kind of sieve is passed quickly to and fro through the curdled mass. These sieves or curd-knives have handles by which they are held while the blades are drawn from side to side, cutting the curd into myriads of tiny cubes. Then the farmer’s wife rolls up her sleeves, exposing to view a pair of round, shapely arms which would be the pride of a city belle, and dips both hands and arms deep in the floating mass. She presses, and kneads and rolls this thickening body until it assumes the consistency of dough: the whey is bluish in color, and as thin as water. This is drained off, and water is poured over the mass several times, until the cheese is thoroughly cleansed of all the floating particles. It is now ready to be placed in five pound moulds made of wood: the moulds are put into a powerful press which shapes the cheese, and extracts any lurking remnants of water. After about eight hours in the press, the cheeses are salted and placed on shelves to dry. Now for a month it is necessary to turn them every day, and after that, every other day for a month. They are also sponged with lukewarm water and dried in the open air, and the final process is a thin coat of linseed oil. It is a tedious operation; great care is necessary to keep the chamber in which they are shelved perfectly clean and dry, and of an even temperature. At last the articles are ready for shipment to all parts of the world. This is an enormous industry: in North Holland alone, we are informed that twenty-six million pounds of cheese are produced per annum.

The portion of the process witnessed by us occupies about an hour and a half: these cheeses are worth from the farmer’s hands fifty or sixty cents apiece.