Buying Raw Milk

The first time I bought raw milk I felt as though I was doing something illegal. It doesn’t take much to make me feel that way, I’m the guilt-ridden type – nervous about turning without a signal. I’d been looking to purchase raw milk for some time and finally through online search found a farm that was suitable: local and carrying a permit to sell – which means that their milk stores and herd are tested for contaminants.

One afternoon, when I was taking my oldest daughter back to school, we took a short detour to the farm, which is only a mile from the college she attends. The driveway leading up to the farm is long, narrow, and lined with tall pines. I pulled into the dusty yard and parked next to a large red barn. I looked around for signage and found nothing indicating that anything was for sale. Chickens clucked away in a dirt yard surrounded by open wood fencing, running after bugs and one another occasionally.

Another car had pulled in ahead of me, the expensive type more at home on Wall Street than a small Mennonite farm in rural Pennsylvania, but the man that emerged from it seemed to know where he was going, so I followed him.

He turned in to the door of a two car garage attached to the farmhouse and I ducked in after him. I blinked to adjust my eyes to the dark and found myself staring at a stack of 5 gallon plastic buckets dusted with hay and feed hulls. Looking straight ahead, there was nothing but odd farm tools and an old white washing machine that looked as if it hadn’t been run since the day it was bought in 1940.

Still unsure of where the man went, I stepped forward and saw movement to my right. I turned and saw the man pulling cartons of eggs from a standard grocery store refrigerator with a glass front and realized I’d hit pay dirt. At the end of a short row of refrigerators was a small card table which held jars filled with unidentifiable liquids, and behind the table stood a lone Mennonite woman in a calico print dress covered with a white apron. Her hair was up and secured in place by a traditional bonnet. The light coming in from the garage door windows behind her almost made her appear sinister. She simply smiled with closed lips and nodded at me.

To the right of her, in the other ‘car bay’ was a Mennonite car; a black buggy drawn by horse and the usual mode of transportation for these folk. Compared to the rest of the garage, it was gleaming black and very clean. It looked as if it had only been parked there the day before … and it probably was.

I turned my attention to the coolers and found what I was looking for: raw milk in gallon containers that looked exactly like the ones I bought pasteurized milk in at the store. I took note of the price, scrawled on paper taped to the glass and grabbed two gallons. There was no label, no expiration date, just creamy white milk inside. Looking further down the row of coolers, I found raw milk cheddar, sold in large chunks wrapped in plastic and grabbed one.

The liquid in the jars on the table was unrefined coconut oil and local honey – filtered and raw. I grabbed a jar of coconut oil and told the woman, who I could now see was a young teen, that was all I wanted. She took my money and made change, not from the ancient register that sat on a table next to her, but from a cigar box just beneath it. I thanked her and left.

I hoisted my treasure into the van and shooed the kids away from the horses they were eyeing up in the barn and drove back down the single lane driveway and out to the usual traffic on the highway. So far removed, yet so close.

The next time I bought raw milk was in a more austere environment at the local farmers’ market and it came in glass bottles with printed caps and cost twice the price plus a 2 dollar deposit fee for the bottle. The milk wasn’t nearly as good and I vowed to go the extra 10 miles for what I knew was the ‘good stuff’.

I did go back, and this time it was laundry day. The air smelled of hyacinth and the old machine was whirring away, suds filled to the brim, while piles of clothing lined the walkway leading to the card table. I grabbed my milk, a jar of raw honey, and went back away, satisfied that I’d found the right thing, and not so nervous as the first time. I’ll be back again, for eggs and milk and fresh air – even if it does make me feel a bit like I’m breaking the law.

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