Waiting at the bus stop late one night after being out dancing tango, my friend showed me a short documentary. The poetry came from a group of muscular, tattooed, no-nonsense Frenchmen wearing hair nets, marveling at the butter they were making.

A couple of days later, I received a special gift from another friend. Fragrant with cumin, freckled with flakes of sea salt hitting the tongue. The kind of homemade crispbread that deserves better. Better butter, that is.

It doesn’t take much to unleash an obsession. And thus, the quest for perfect homemade butter started with two innocent events the same week.

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