When I was a kid, growing up on a farm in Kansas, we made our own butter. Now you may think this was back in the dark ages, but it was just in the 1950s.
We had our own Jersey cow who gave a prodigious amount of milk and rich cream, enough for the eight people in the family. She was cream-colored and her name was Cream.
The cream rose to the top of the milk and was so thick that you could stand a spoon up in it. We loved it on our oatmeal each morning. We put sugar or brown sugar on the oatmeal too.
The bulk of the cream went into the glass Dazey churn for converting to butter. Turning the metal handle was assigned to one of the children and after what seemed like hours, the wooden paddles became harder and harder to turn. The cream was becoming butter.
Mom would form it into a lump and rinse it over and over. Fifty years later, I still remember how good it tasted on toast or on mashed potatoes.
(Memory by Virginia Allain, first published on Bubblews, March 2014)