Making Yogurt

Making Yogurt

By Lily Roberson

(Creative Nonfiction)

          I decide while stirring the milk that this moment will be with me forever. My dad stands behind me, his feet shuffling awkwardly as he watches the pot over my shoulder, the milk just beginning to froth even though it’s still lukewarm. He shouldn’t need to strain to see as much as he is. We do not know where I got my incredible lack of height, but my brother, if asked, would say that I should have drunk more milk. Milo will be 6 feet when grown and practically only ate dairy and laxatives as a child. He wastes his height by sitting all day in his room.

          The milk sits on the burner, and we watch it in the way we’ve been told not to our entire lives, waiting for a boil. My dad always worries that it will burn at the bottom but never stirs it. I never worry but always stir. Preventative. 

          My mom is somewhere in the sunshine. I know this because a candle is burning. She has this incredible knack for lighting a candle and leaving. My dad always worries the house will burn down and blows it out. I never worry and never blow it out. Not preventative. Milo always smells the smoke from the extinguished candle and wanders out of his room to say, “I smell burning.” It never fails to drive my dad insane. 

          The batch of yogurt we are making will see this candle smoke exchange before we refrigerate it. The bacterial colonies will need 24 hours to grow in the warmth of the kitchen before we banish it to the fridge. Otherwise, it would simply stay milk.

          There was one night when I did not blow out my candle before going to bed. It is a pine-scented candle living in a ceramic cup my dad claims is too ugly to sell. He always thinks picking out the glaze is the hardest part. Most of his pottery sits naked on the shelves. He would rather they be half-made than fully ruined. The candle burned until midnight, when I woke up from the fire alarm to see the candlelight still dancing in its cup within the darkness of my room. I blew it out immediately, knowing my parents would never let me light another candle if they realized it was my fault. As soon as I blew it out, I realized my mistake. The smoke from the extinguished flame made the fire alarm smell real, and as everyone clamoured into my hallway, I quietly concealed my guilt. My parents told my brother and me—oblivious to the faint smell of smoke—that the batteries must need to be replaced and that we should just go back to sleep.

          Maybe that really was the truth, like the universe finding a way to safely punish me for leaving a candle lit, or maybe it was my fault. Either way, I have still never told my parents the truth.

          I stir the milk again, and my dad watches me watch the pot.

          As much as I enjoy our electric stovetop, I just recently rediscovered the art of the gas stove while cooking at a friend’s house. It has become a new requirement for my future home, added to the list of big windows, wood floors, and only one story. Milo tells me over the dinner table that gas stoves cause cancer. I mull over it and decide that I don’t care. I’m genetically predisposed anyway.

          Finally, the milk begins to boil, which means we put the lid on and turn the heat off. Dad and I wander over to the TV, and he scrolls through Netflix as I check my text messages. He’s in his overalls. I’m in my hiking pants. I don’t think either of us will really go outside, but I suppose there is no one here to judge us now in this quiet moment. Mom waves at us from the window as she pushes the lawn mower through the backyard, and we wave back. 

          Her feet stomp haphazardly through the fallen magnolia leaves, and I remember when I put my foot down and felt a copperhead, soft under my bare foot. Its body gave willingly to my body’s gentle pressure, and it was neither cold nor warm. Startled, I had pulled my foot back. I had thought it had been a pile of more dried magnolia leaves; I had expected a crunch. It stared quietly back, not striking, not even bothering to uncoil and slither away. It looked almost docile. 

          I told my mom what I had done, knowing the consequence but unable to keep a secret from her, and she went outside and chopped its head off with a shovel. I did not ask her to spare it, because I understood her reasoning, and, yet, it didn’t hurt me. It didn’t even want to. 

          Its body kept spasming even after being disconnected, dark, almost black, blood pulsing out with every movement. Preventative.

          The timer goes off. 

          Dad and I shuffle back to the pot of milk and pour it into a gallon jar with a cup of yogurt in it. In some ways, I think adding the store-bought cup of plain Greek yogurt ruins the magic of yogurt making. To know that none of this was truly from scratch. To know someone still needed to drive to the store.

          “What are you thinking about?” My dad asks. His beard is getting grayer by the day, and I’m starting to finally notice my dad will not stay at this age forever. When I was little, I thought growing up just meant getting taller. I didn’t know my parents were doing it too. Their birthday parties felt more like a longstanding tradition than a true occasion. I still remember the sign my mom put up in our garage: “You’re forty, Gordy!” Now he’s almost fifty, and I don’t know where all the time went. That’s something parents should say about their children, not the other way around.

          “Nothing.” I shake my head and watch some of the milk overflow and spill onto the counter. Not quite enough room. I drag my hand through the mess, watching the opaque droplets scatter over the gray granite countertop and cling to my skin. For now, I remember this—my dad, mom, and brother all in the same house doing the same things over and over—but eventually, my memories will pour out of me with a refusal to be contained. Someone else will drag their hands through it, trying to make sense of the scattered mess of names and faces I leave behind. I press my fingers to the side of the glass jar, and the milk is warm through the barrier. I press closer, hugging it to my face, nuzzling almost. It reminds me of my mother calling for Milo and me, throwing the blanket she’s only just pulled out of the dryer onto our tiny happy bodies, and watching us writhe and scream in delight over the warmth of the blanket all over our mess of limbs and laughter. The jar presses against me, and the heat of it through my fingertips is almost like another body trying to touch me back.