Udder Nonsense
By Larry Floyd. “So, is udder balm just a marketing deal for hand lotion, or what?” asked Dave,
We were greeted
by a relative of
Mahatma Gandhi and…
Jeff Ackerman, Dave Anderson, and myself were returning from the BMW Riders Association rally in Woodstock, Virginia. We had spent the day creeping along Skyline Drive and the Northern section of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We popped off the Parkway at Lynchburg, Virginia, where Jeff wheeled into the parking lot of the Executive Inn, quite a misnomer for the dingy motel with the “rooms to rent by the month” sign in front. We were greeted by a relative of Mahatma Gandhi and, after doing an inspection of the available rooms, accepted the key cards in exchange for a modest credit card charge.
Jeff, being from rural roots, tends to look for motels that exemplify the real America. By that, he means independent establishments that have the appearance of a motel that was constructed about the time that the term “motel” entered the English language. He clearly states that he has stayed in enough chain motels while traveling for work to satisfy a lifetime, and he prefers the individuality and quaintness of a mom and pop type of place. What that means is when you travel with Jeff, you stay in some offbeat places. I am used to this, Dave, on the other hand, is not. His skepticism was clearly mirrored in his facial expression when he first saw his room; but, being a good sport and the new guy to this riding group, he sucked it up and accepted his fate if not cheerfully, at least willingly.
Jeff also looks for overnight accommodations within walking distance of a Mexican restaurant because most Mexican restaurants serve beer. There was one just across the street which met expectations nicely, offering up a superb supper and a pitcher of Modelo Negri.
The next morning we packed the bikes, noticing a sign just a block down the street from the parking lot or our seedy motel which announced, “Country Cookin”’, perfect. We started out with anticipation of a nice, close breakfast stop. When we turned into the driveway, however, it turned out the restaurant was not only closed, but for sale – Bummer.
We proceeded to explore downtown Lynchburg during morning rush, looking for our intended route out of town and also someplace for breakfast, once again in search of the real America.
After dodging school busses and commuters for several miles, there it was, the Country Kitchen. How about that? Another restaurant with “Country” in the title but, this one appeared to be open. You just cannot pass up a restaurant with either “Country” , “Grandma’s” , or “Kitchen” in the title. The perfect homespun eatery would have to be “Grandma’s Country Dinner Bell Farm Fresh Homemade Kitchen”.
This restaurant easily
qualified as a candidate
for Jeff’s search
for Americana.
This restaurant easily qualified as a candidate for Jeff’s search for Americana. It was a clapboard structure that needed paint, obviously built before the dawn of civilization, with a single neon stripe around the tattered eaves that flickered with age. We went inside, shuffling our boots across ancient linoleum tiles, to sit in a plywood booth, dark-stained many years before and polished by countless patrons sliding in and out. The Formica table top was worn where innumerable coffee cups and plates rested, listening to conversations about weather, politics, hunting dogs, and all types of pickup truck repairs.
Our waitress was typical for the environment. She was middle aged, obviously indigenous to the facility, poised and ready with a pad of paper and pencil to take our order. In jest, I mentioned that we obviously were not from around this area as none of us had ordered grits for our breakfast. My cleaver patter went directly over her head as she immediately went into a serious and detailed explanation of the various additives to grits, including the magic of cheese grits. She retired to the kitchen, and then Dave asked his momentous question.
“So, is udder balm just a marketing deal for hand lotion, or what?”
Jeff, not only a farm boy but also an engineer, started on a chemical analysis of udder balm and the physics of milking. He digressed to tell of a friend, a dairy farmer, who married a lady who was also a dairy farmer. Both had herds which would be part of the blended farm family, sort of like the Brady Bunch in bovine form; however, his herd was on a 5AM and 5PM milking schedule and her herd was on an 8AM and 8PM milking schedule. Well, that just would not work. It was almost the end of a happy relationship. I cannot remember if the 5 and 5 herd was adapted to the 8 and 8 schedule or vice versa; however, it appears that the relationship was salvaged and the herds successfully integrated apparently without the need for counseling.
Then I stated that I wondered what would possess a primitive man to go out to an animal standing in the primordial field and grab a teat, thinking that it would lead to some satisfactory outcome. Did a Neanderthal look at the brew in his hollowed out of stone coffee cup and think that a squirt of stuff from an animal would make it better? Why would you think that you could grab the underside of a cow and get something you could actually consume? Jeff replied that it must be instinct, since a baby knows how to nurse. I still think there is a significant difference between nursing and squirting milk into a bucket by hand.
After that, Jeff gave us a visual demonstration of milking. He put his thumb and forefinger together in a circle and demonstrated a squeeze, gentle yank downward, with a rolling of the remaining fingers. A visual model is certainly superior to a verbal description.
Dave opined that the balm must make your hands slick, and if you do milk by hand it must be hard to keep your grip. Jeff commented that it is more for the cow’s benefit than the person doing the milk extraction and reminded us that it’s all done by machine these days anyway.
Thankfully, our food reached the table at that point and we all dropped the discussion in lieu of chowing down on a great county cooked breakfast. Oh, Jeff puts cream in his coffee; I drink mine black.