The Great Yogurt War

In Bulgaria, where yogurt reigns, making the mucous mixture is so dharmic no one has to think, experiment, or fear the day's batch will come out perfect any more than a woman from China has to sweat if the supper's rice will be dry and fluffy. But Tom Blanchard wasn't either Bulgarian or Chinese. He was a dyed-in-the-wool Australian drover. And drovers deal in fuzzy, not gooey. So why was strapping Tom so concerned about making the perfect batch of yogurt that was native to a country far from him? Because he had to prove to his girl, Sheila, that he was man enough to do anything, even what real men in Australia never did.

Mr. Blanchard, used to being in the saddle all day, found being grounded a problem in itself. Imagine a cowboy dancing jigs on an eight-by-eight floor all the morning with or without high-heeled elevators. Then consider keeping the yogurt mixture the exact temperature or it would either kill the culture or not take at all. Tom, used to being outdoors and doing things well enough, couldn't wait long enough for the boiled milk to cool. He knew the adage that the watched pot never boils, although in his case, the watched caldron never cooled.

Moreover, Shiela's cooking thermometer, the one she used for making candy, was cracked so it didn't gauge the mixture properly anyway, and, as anyone knows, if yogurt isn't the right temperature before it's put to set

it simply won't work.

"What's the difference between a hundred twelve degrees and a hundred eighteen anyway?" the drover complained. "Moreover, who cares?"

When the first batch didn't congeal, Mr. Tom Blanchard, every inch a man in the saddle and on the ranch, knew he had a challenge. Wisely he'd sent Sheila to town so she couldn't see his laboratory technique. And thank God, because he needed more than what he started with. As it turned out, the sheep herder sent his girl to town several times during that momentous day not only to get rid of her but to replenish the supplies he kept running out of.

"How in the Queen's name am I supposed to know if it's going to come out if I can't see it NOW?!" he exploded to himself. "Ya have to wait how-many hours before you know if you've succeeded. Come on, I'm used to whistling and the herd turns right. None of this waiting five hours to know I whistled right and the dogs went left."

Tom didn't spend the day in Shiela's kitchen, he spent two days and nights in-between as well. And even then he still hadn't produced what he considered an edible bowl of yogurt.

While he was waiting to see if his sixth attempt would be successful, boastful Mr. Blanchard got to reading about his nemesis, yogurt. After all, more was at stake than proving to his friend he could do anything; he represented all manhood on the continent -- nay, everywhere -- so he HAD to succeed. In his research he found that yogurt congeals best when the humidity is high. According to experts, just before a rain.

"Now that's not fair," explained the drover. "It means that I'll have to wait two fortnights and a month to boot. This ain't the rainy season."

Naturally he didn't verbalize this in front of Sheila, now that she'd

announced to her female friends that the drover had accepted her challenge. And especially since she'd made batch after good batch regardless of the weather.

"Whoever wrote that old wives tale in a book should be branded," moaned Tom.

When the word got to the other men, Tom knew he was in trouble. It wasn't that he couldn't ram his way through with typical Aussie bravado like, "Who cares if I can't make yogurt? It's a FEMALE thing, you know." It was more that he'd done a damn fool thing by accepting such an undignified, beneath-the-gender, apron-filled, lacy-dacey challenge in the first place. Now all eyes male and female were on the man, just as all male eyes were on themselves. Battle of the sexes? No, that'd been won decades before in Australia. This was an out-right war, a war of pure ego. And by God, he'd win if it was the last thing he did!

The seventh batch bombed as did the eighth, ninth, and tenth. Into the third day Tom was showing signs of battle fatigue. Even shell-shock. He knew he couldn't ask for advice from either side; he was in this alone and had to bear all the responsibility. But while waiting for the twelfth batch to prove itself, the culinary General philosophized. Even if all conditions were favorable --- fresh culture, boiled milk, perfect temperature, proper heat-maintenance and time, no contamination whatever, and the mixture was successful --- would he still have won in anyone's eyes?

True, he would have proven that men were persistent, they always finished a job, no task was too great, but Sheila could produce perfect yogurt EVERY SINGLE TIME. So even if he finally presented the entire outback with a bowl of cream-white custard, what would he really have proven? That WOMEN can make yogurt better than men anyday?

That, of course, wasn't good enough. In the men's mind he not only had

to make a good batch, he had to make the single most delicious yogurt ever made on the island continent. So on the fourth day Tom Blanchard went to town himself, got three books on yogurt making, two new candy thermometers, a fifty-pound bag of non-fat powdered milk, three cases of homogenized, half-and-half milk, four serving sets of custard dishes, more fresh Bulgarian yogurt starter than had been purchased at one time in Australian history, and a ten-pound bag of coffee to keep him awake. This was war beyond war. It was now a matter of SURVIVAL.

Tom spoke to no one. He didn't have to because everyone knew that he was possessed. Besides, if this were a minor fracas, a border dispute or mere skirmish, they'd heard him below. That the warrior was silent yelled more loudly than ever the loudest howl.

Tom spent a week in Shiela's kitchen. The liquid outside the room window had collected so many flies onlookers couldn't see the maggots but they certainly smelled the failures. On and on went the confrontation. It lasted so long the men had to take shifts so someone could be awake to announce the outcome. The whole village was edgy, everyone wondered if the challenger would even survive. Finally, a week and a half after he'd begun, haggard Tom Blanchard staggered to the front porch, barefoot and soggy-aproned, a custard bowl in his outstretched hand. The whole village awoke simultaneously like a flock of geese rising from the water when a hunter shoots. Men lined one side of the porch, women the other. This was the ultimate moment. It would determine for all time the reality of Tom, all men, and Australians in general. The question: Was it REAL YOGURT?

Naturally, Sheila tasted the product since she had thrown the apron-gauntlet down. Without saying a word or revealing a gesture that might give away her reaction, she passed the bowl to her friends. Tom got

another bowl. He handed it to his buddies. Soon everyone on the porch, every member of the primitive village in the outback, was slurping the sample. And, without a single nay, everyone agreed it was not only true yogurt but was, as Tom had striven, the single best-tasting yogurt anyone had ever eaten.

The ladies smiled and nodded their heads. The men stormed the porch and raised their hero into the air. But when they brought him down Tom Blanchard was dead.

From that moment on, every Aussie lass has asked herself about the wisdom of challenging a man, whether Bulgarian, Chinese, or Australian --- on anything. Because to some, wars are real, not just something to win or even save face over.