Here is how it begins. An older couple – not elderly as yet, but old enough for their kids to worry that they’re losing it – are walking up the road from a cul de sac in a lovely suburban street at twilight.
The half-ring of houses in the cul de sac are topped by a glowing sunset arch of curdled sky; highlighter yellow near the horizon, then cherry pepper red and kelpy purple in the folds of the clouds. It’s getting just dark enough to start imagining things.
The man and woman walk close to each other, without touching. The man takes a final look over his shoulder. The houses in the cul de sac are set like shadowed pulpits in a nave of colored glass. Just as he turns his eyes forward again, a single, soft light flips on in each bedroom window.
It’s not quite dark enough yet for the couple to notice the change. They keep walking up the street, talking through the nonsense of the day as, just beyond their field of sight, the windows light up one by one. By the time they reach the end of the street and turn left towards home, the street looks normal.
It’s still a bit dark the next morning when the man gets up to go shopping. The supermarket is sweaty and crazed, with everyone in masks, and red arrows pointing the correct way to walk down the aisles. They’re sold out of every single premium ice cream except for Hȁagen-Dazs Rum Raisin.
Still, the man spends almost three hundred dollars. He buys a half-ham and a boneless leg of lamb. He buys a half-gallon of buttermilk. This shit lasts forever, he thinks. The plastic bottle is a pretty pale yellow, with a picture of a chubby, rosy-cheeked girl named Kate, same nickname as his daughter.
He keeps his mask on until he is home again, and parked in the driveway. He’s not sure where to leave the mask when he takes it off but in the end he drops it on the empty passenger seat, where it looks like crumpled lingerie.
Finally, he presses the big, black button that turns the engine off, but the truck is still not silent. It feels like there is a larger engine somewhere that is still running. There is a slow, thrumming note behind the foreground sounds of birdsong and the tick of cooling metal.
The whole, round world is beating like a gong.
His wife cleans the jug of buttermilk with a sanitary wipe before it goes in the fridge.
Buttermilk is a good friend to have in your virus pod. It’s a little like having a southern relative staying with you; someone friendly and with a natural competence for biscuits. My buttermilk journey took me on more of a world tour, though, starting with a buttermilk lassi. You probably know these are normally made with yogurt, and tend to be thick as milkshakes. This is a lightweight; icy and refreshing, but still muscular. Top with freshly ground cardamom, but don’t make a special trip to the store just because of my own obsession for resiny spices; use some cinnamon or nutmeg instead.
One classic thing to do with buttermilk is to make ranch dressing. It’s boring and familiar, which may be just what you need right now. It’s easy to make your own, but even a good version will come out about the same as one you make with, say, Penzey’s ranch blend. You bloom some of their powder in water for a few minutes then stir it into half buttermilk, half mayonnaise. Or forget the ranch and add leftover pesto instead. Or guacamole and salsa, if you have enough. Or decide you want a chef’s salad with the flavor of an Everything Bagel.
In a stroke of serendipity so strong it kind of freaked me out, I found a crazy good thing to do with all my buttermilk in the chapter on fuzzy gourds in Elizabeth Schneider’s massive lapful of vegetalia, Vegetables from Amaranth to Zucchini. I certainly wasn’t looking for buttermilk recipes. I think I was on a fantasy break, wondering how she would cook a vegetable that sounds like it could be the host of a children’s show, or maybe a drag queen that refused to shave. The answer was, you cook your fuzzy gourds with shrimp, in a sauce made with buttermilk and coconut. It was an even better fantasy without the fuzzy gourds, which are OK in soup.
