My great-grandparents lived on and ran their own dairy farm for 40 years. Now, I don’t remember much about them myself; so most of what I’m about to tell you is based off what my mother told me of her experiences and of the last time I ever saw my great-grandmother.
My great-grandparents started their own dairy farming venture immediately following their wedding. This was not like the big factory farms used today with metal floors and big automatic milking machines; their farm was two barns, a large lush grazing area, and a two story house that doubled as the initial processing facility.
They started out with four cows and just the two of them did all the farm work, processing, sales, and delivery for about 4 months; which is when my great-grandmother, Rose, first realized she was pregnant. At that note, my great-grandpa Morris took it upon himself to take out a loan, buy a few more cows, and hire some help to prepare for his coming family.
Now, being a man of great chivalry he refused to let Rose do almost any work, even before she started showing. She tried to open the large heavy gate to let the cows graze, Morris would run up and help her. She tried to leave and make a last minute delivery, he’d insist on driving it himself. She couldn’t even take out the garbage without her husband complaining about how he can do it for her until she is well enough.
But there was one farm chore that he conceded to letting her still perform, churning the butter.
Since great-grandma Rose suddenly found a lot more free-time on her hands from her normal non-stop work days she took to baking with the fresh butter she made. Everything she made was simply divine and she soon found herself entering local baking fairs and taking home every single blue ribbon she was gunning for! Her most famous dish was her butter cookies and she became the envy of bakers from rival counties and quickly made a strange assortment of local ‘friends’.
My grandpa remembers, as a child, one woman even tried to bribe him into giving her my great-grandma secret for butter cookies, to which he responded “just use good butter”. He knew from an early age that their farm’s butter was special. Though he never knew exactly why or how, maybe it was the cows or maybe just the wooden butter churn itself, but Rose refused to mass produce it for sale and only shared it with her family.
Morris and Rose ended up selling dairy farm during my mother’s senior year of high school. They were ready to retire anyways and wanted to help pay for my mother’s college tuition. Great-grandma Rose saved the very last of her butter to make cookies for my mother’s high school graduation party. She remembers crying while eating them as this day marked a big change in their lives and the beginning of her adulthood. She graduated college in 4 years and soon after got married and had me.
The family got together for every major holiday and as far back as I can remember my great-grandma would bake us butter cookies and great-grandpa would tell the kids stories about the farm while all the parents commented on missing her old recipe with her original homemade butter. I didn’t know any difference, being only a few years old greedily gobbling up any cookie I could get my hands on, and thoroughly enjoyed every morsel.
Our family got together the spring I was 6 years old, this time it wasn’t for a holiday but because my great-grandfather Morris had gone missing 3 days prior. It was me, my mother, and my grandfather that arrived first. I remember great-grandma Rose looking more tired than I had ever seen her, she probably hadn’t slept a wink since his disappearance, but she still was excited to see us!
“I’ve got some cookies cooling for you, they’ll be ready soon,” she said. I could smell them immediately and felt my stomach growl for the treat. My grandpa and I sat in the living room with the television on, obviously trying to distract me from the intensity of the situation. My mom briefed me on the car ride over not to ask where her grandpa was and that I needed to be extra nice that day. I noticed a picture of my great-grandpa was sitting on the mantel of the fireplace, his old age belied by the chubbiness of his features due to years of indulging on fresh baked pastries, and right next to it was a burning candle slowly dripping yellow wax the color of butter.
My curiosity was about to get the better of me and when I was just about to pipe up and ask where great-grandpa was, great-grandma Rose entered the room with a glass of milk and a plate of butter cookies! Oh my face lit up immediately and I was already grabbing my first cookie before she had a chance to set them down on the table. I could faintly hear my mother speaking on the phone in the kitchen, she sounded very worried but my 4 year old mind couldn’t pay much heed to her as I was more concerned with what was in front of me. Grandpa managed to sneak one off the plate and commented loudly.
“Mom! These are so good! They taste just like the ones you made on the farm!” She smiled.
“I found a new source of butter. I didn’t want my great-grandchildren to grow up without knowing what I was once famous for.” She sat down next to us on the couch and patted my head as we watched television together.
My mom popped into the room a few minutes later.
“They’re sending a detective over now and asked if we had any files of past business associates that Grandpa may have kept in contact with.” My mother looked very worried so I silently offered her a cookie as to not disturb their conversation.
“I think his old files are still in the closet next to the cellar door,” Rose responded while gesturing towards the back of the house. My mom took a bite as she began to walk away she also exclaimed how reminiscent of the far this batch was.
Mom told me, only recently may I remind you, of what she found in that house.
She walked through the kitchen and down the small hall that led to the closet with the door to the basement on the wall adjacent. She dug through some old boxes and found his business address book. She turned around to bring it back into the living room and it slipped from her hand and landed on the floor next to the basement door. She bent down to pick it up and noticed something dark red splattered on the floor. She touched it with her hand and it rubbed off in grimy flakes. It looked like more was leading under the door.
Something in her gut told her to follow the trail. She opened the door and saw the faint splatters had turned into a large streaking mess of red and brown dried onto the stairs leading down.
She flicked on the old light and made her was cautiously down the creaky stairs. Something smelled absolutely metallic as she reached the last step. In front of her she saw her grandma’s old butter churn but noticed the handle was also stained with the same color as the trail. The end of the trail was leading to the deep freezer plugged up in the corner, the stark whiteness of the appliance was smeared in red hand prints.
She wanted to run back upstairs and shut the whole thing out of her mind but felt a cold hand push her gently from behind and swore she heard her grandfather’s voice mixed in with the tremble of the old copper pipes whisper ‘help me.’ She walked up to the freezer and slowly pulled the up and open.
What she saw would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. Inside was my great-grandpa Morris! His body was cut into pieces, skin and muscle peeled back, barely recognizable, and completely eviscerated. She covered her mouth and screamed quietly into her hands in disbelief of the carnage. She looked around the horrible room, the situation piecing itself together in her head. “Oh no!” she exclaimed as she bolted up the stairs as fast as she could.
She ran into the living room and saw me pulling another cookie to my face and slapped it out of my hand. I looked at her with a scowl before I realized how horrified her face was. She picked me up and held me close to her chest, eyes never leaving my great-grandma.
“What’s wrong, dear?” said the once loving old woman.
“Dad, you need to call the police,” she said holding back sobs.
“Isn’t a detective on the way?” asked Grandpa standing up to embrace us both.
“Grandma,” she said looking at Rose, “where did you get the butter?”
Rose sighed.
“I couldn’t rightly make it the way I used to without the cows. But he had eaten so much of it over the years, I knew some was stuck to the old bones of his.”
My grandpa gagged and knocked the plate off the table in disgust. My mom rushed me out of the house and I never saw that woman or that house again.
The most disturbing part of it all? Those were absolutely the best cookies I had ever eaten in my life, and I still crave them.