Say cheese

Several years ago, when we were living in northern Nevada, Miss Claire took up cheesemaking and began working with raw goat milk. We made the acquaintance of a woman who kept a small herd on the outskirts of town, and the abundance of milk that we were able to obtain meant that through Miss Claire's efforts we were always well-stocked with delicious homemade chevre, fresh mozzarella, and an occasional wheel of aged cheddar. When we moved to Michigan we lost our goat milk source, and I clearly remember feeling downright grief-stricken the first time I had to actually buy chevre at Trader Joe's. It's illegal to sell raw milk in Michigan, so finding a source is probably similar to setting up a drug deal. We had to find a farm that offers goatshares which entitle the owners to a portion of the milk produced, and it wasn't easy. Small farms with dairy goats were a pretty far drive from where we live, so we've continued to exist in a cheese-deprived state for several years now.

Fortunately, a renewed interest in producing homemade food propelled us to do a new search through the interwebs, and we discovered a small family homestead called Sunshine Meadows Farm. It's about 20 miles away, offers a CSA plan for organic produce and eggs, and keeps a herd of dairy goats. Miss Claire has already made several trips there, and yesterday I was finally able to go with her. I wanted to meet the source of the cheese I love so much and thank them for their efforts.

When we arrived at the farm we made our way carefully down the driveway, avoiding chickens, bicycles, and children. As soon as I got out of the car the bleating began - a score of baby goats were running up to the fence and demanding that I come closer. While Miss Claire wandered off in search of her milk I patted little goat heads and watched in amusement as they proceeded to untie my shoes and stick their noses in the pockets of my shorts. One little fellow attempted to pull down my zipper, while another got up on her back legs and gave me a hot-breathed goaty kiss on the nose. I immediately fell in love, and if it weren't for fear of being branded a goat thief I would have put one of the babies in the back seat of my car and taken her home. Finally, I tore myself away so that I could see more of the farm and walked away from the pen to the indignant cries of the doelings.

I enjoyed my quick tour of the farm with it's spacious planting beds, chicken runs, and flowers. I got some ideas of what I'd like to accomplish in my own garden next year, and as we drove away with a cooler full of raw milk and a bag full of goat manure for composting, I was grateful to have glimpsed what is possible with hard work and an appreciation for the land.