Zacharis lifts the stave from the womb of the cauldron, makes the sign of the cross over the bright circle of the new cheese, smiles out of gratitude before God who has made his work succeed. Filled with awe I forget my camera. Here I discover a kind of vital faith that would do honour to every church. Holy art, the alchemy of cheese-making. Zacharis takes the big perforated ladle from a hook in the wall, makes again the sign of the cross over the cauldron and starts cheerfully to fill the first basket.
Steam rises and the shepherd carefully washes a spoon and a plate in the hot dripping whey.
He fills the plate with a generous ladle of hot mizithra and hands it to me. That's what I have after all this ambrosial, sweet fragrance that's filling the mitato. I wonder if this delicious feeling of well-being in the dark womb of the mitato isn't just bound to awaken the earliest memories of childhood. I told him of my visit in Xeraxyla with Vassilikos where I had eaten warm mizithra, too. One week later I brought him a dish of warm mizithra from Xeraxyla.