The Butter Museum

My name is Emrys, and I am a dairy snob.

I realized the fullness of my condition only a few years ago. We were at the home of friends who had presented us with a meal that included baked potatoes. After we had said grace and begun to eat, our hostess exclaimed that she had forgot to put butter on the table. She returned from the fridge and put a tub on the table saying, ‘Well, it’s actually margarine. I hope that’s OK.’

I remember looking at the margarine and looking back at our hostess and saying, ‘Actually, do you have any real butter?’

I think Sara came close to death by embarrassment that day. I, however, take it as a testimony of how close we were with these friends. (Our hostess did laugh at my comment, after all.) I think Sara took it as a supremely rude gesture: to reject a hospitable offering of food—or at least condiment. In spite of my rudeness and any potential offence, however, we made it through the evening with much joy. And, as it turned out, our hostess did in fact have real butter on hand for this dairy snob.

That’s right, I’m a dairy snob—or, as I would prefer to say, a dairy connoisseur. There is a difference between margarine and butter; between sweetened vegetable spray and whipped cream; between ice cream and ice milk (or frozen yogurt). Don’t get me wrong. I applaud the advances in culinary technology that make these supposedly healthier and cheaper substitutes more tasty. But for reasons real to the palate or imagined in the mind, I strongly prefer the real thing, from a real cloven-hoofed, cud-chewing animal. I’m a dairy connoisseur.

Thus, when we arrived in Cork a few days ago and I saw on the tourist map that the city has a “Butter Museum,” I felt an instant attraction. Sure, I know the basics of butter: derived from milk, produced by skimming and churning, often coloured to look more yellow. But the abundance of cows we passed on the train ride here made me begin to imagine grandiose things for a place called the “Butter Museum.” Among other things, I saw in my mind’s eye loaves of freshly baked bread and wooden tubs of fresh butter (perhaps mixed with a little honey?) for the tasting. Hey, if breweries give you a sample pint, shouldn’t a butter museum give you a sample pat?

So we paid our five euro and went in to learn more about butter than anyone outside of the dairy business has a right to know. For instance, did you know that the dairies of Ireland all constitute a single effective co-op? The brand name is “Kerry Gold,” named after County Kerry, just west of County Cork. And if the temperature of the room in which one is churning butter is too warm, the butter will not “break,” or congeal in the churned cream. (Until folks paid attention to the temperature, this failure in churning was attributed to fairies. So they might nail a donkey’s shoe to the bottom of the churn in order to ward off the troublesome sprites.)

Alas, they didn’t offer us any free samples of Kerry Gold butter. I suppose if I want that we’ll have to visit a creamery, but so far I haven’t heard of any offering tours in the area. I reckon visiting creameries is not as popular a tourist activity as visiting breweries. Being a diary connoisseur does not seem to be as in vogue as being a beer connoisseur. But I’m not changing. I’ll enjoy any beer that passes my way (especially if someone else is paying), but I’ll pay top dollar for the real McCow and snub my nose at the rest. That’s right.

’Cause I’m a dairy snob.

~ emrys