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| Still life with Gertie |
A month prior, I'd responded to a job listing in search of "goat dairy and cheese help" and received a series of truly inscrutable emails from Laini inviting me to "stop by" for an interview, which was an odd way to put it considering I was going to have to either buy a plane ticket or find someone with a car and drive the 7.5 hours to the Northeast Kingdom to meet with her. "Stopping by" felt like a very casual invitation when a full on arrangements were required on my end.
Knowing then what I know now, this was par for the course. Laini is not the greatest communicator.
ME:
Hey there!
I'll be driving up from Burlington
Tuesday morning. Plan on getting an early start ... what time would you
like to meet? Give me a window and let me know where to find you. I'm
driving up with a friend, but if you want to put me to work for a few
hours I'm sure she can find something to do for a bit. Just let me know.
Very much looking forward!
Cheers,
Lauren
Cheers,
Lauren
LAINI:
I have a phone interview at 11:45. it will last about 15 minutes.
someone is putting together another cheese maker book.
I don't need any help but thank you. I will show you around and give you an outline of the hours. I will give you a detail look at production and the time frame for everything. One must be fast and efficient for sure. Can you bring your resume. I have looked at it but I did not print it out and now it will take me too long to find it.....sorry. At 4:00 I have to get into the cheese room to start my overnight set for the next morning.
will see you on tuesday then
I don't need any help but thank you. I will show you around and give you an outline of the hours. I will give you a detail look at production and the time frame for everything. One must be fast and efficient for sure. Can you bring your resume. I have looked at it but I did not print it out and now it will take me too long to find it.....sorry. At 4:00 I have to get into the cheese room to start my overnight set for the next morning.
will see you on tuesday then
My
good friend Liz offered herself as a driving companion and her
boyfriend's car as the mode of transportation. Slowly, we put together a
plan that would involve driving to Burlington on a Monday, staying over
with a friend, then driving the remainder of the way Tuesday morning to
meet with Laini at noon. It wasn't until we hit the road that Liz intimated to me that she was maybe not the best driver/also didn't have her license, just her permit and also had only ever really driven in Europe. This became abundantly clear when we noticed that one of the doors of the car was partially open while going 80 on the highway. There was not a small amount of shrieking.
Somehow, miraculously, we made it to Burlington in one piece, and against all odds managed to find the farm the next morning despite its a) being on an unmarked, "private" road and b) neither of us realizing that due to THE MOUNTAINS there was no cell reception and therefore no Googlemaps access. I remember turning down the long gravel driveway, thinking "this looks like it could maybe be it?" and then seeing the pastures and the barn off to the right and getting a little thrill in my stomach.
We drove up and no one was around, so I popped my head into what I now know to be the cheeseroom and saw two beautiful, dark, curly-haired women with hairnets on, women who I now know to have been Glenn and Rebecca. "Is Laini around?" I asked them. "I think she's in the house," the taller one (Glenn) replied.
Visiting -- not to mention working on -- a farm is a strangely intimate thing, because on scales like Laini's, you're basically, literally IN this person's home. So it was with trepidation that I mounted the porch stairs and wrapped on the door to her little house. She came and invited me and Liz inside -- I haven't been past the threshold of the house since, so I wish I'd taken better note of its decor -- and we sat and we talked. I remember her asking Liz questions about work and work papers and getting VERY indignant about the red tape surrounding labor laws (again, par for the course) and then basically going over the contents of a previous email with me, outlining what a typical week might entail in terms of tasks. She glanced over the resume that I had printed out and brought as instructed and then gasped.
"You've never done any barn work before?"
"Um, no," I said sheepishly, silently wondering if that was a dealbreaker and if perhaps she might've thought to notice/mention that BEFORE I'd driven the 7.5 hours in a borrowed car to come and meet with her.
Her eyes widened and she jumped up to show me around the barn and the cave. She explained the process of milking, and kept interjecting with, "I know, it's a lot to remember" and "It's not easy" and "It's a lot."
FUCK YES. IT IS A LOT.
She told me she was interviewing a few other people, and that she'd be hiring whomever with the understanding that there would be a three month trial period after which time she'd assess whether or not things were working.
Before I left I gave her a wrapped bottle of wine I'd brought from New York. I knew from reading about her that she loved French culture and obviously since she elected to make French-style goat cheese, she'd probably appreciate a nice Vouvray from the Loire, ie base camp for good-ass fromage de goat. "Do you like wine?" I ask as I handed it to her.
"Yep!" she chirped.
I found out later she does not drink.
After I left the farm, we drove to Greensboro and then to eat and see a movie in Montpelier. We drove back to our AirBnB under cover of true inky black night (at that point I was still unaccustomed to just how dark the roads are without the aid of streetlights or, like, other cars), and through pockets of mist that Liz convinced herself were clouds though I told her we definitely were not at a high enough elevation for that to be possible. But ok, sure. Clouds.
I didn't know how to feel about it, what to want or hope for. I returned to New York the next day and immediately wrote Laini another email thanking her for meeting with me and reiterating my interest, though at that point I was myself unsure if I was really up to the task. I wanted her to offer me the job, but I also didn't want her to. Because if she didn't, then it wasn't up to me to decide.
A couple of days later I was at Uva, doing my my usual thing of taking long breaks to go buy overpriced green juice, molesting peoples' dogs, playing Crystal Waters on repeat and popping down to the basement to bullshit with Chris Bordeaux (that's his real name) and drink a bottle of ridiculous wine (god I miss good wine) when I saw that I had a missed call. I ran outside to listen to the voicemail, propping my be-skorted behind up against the brick wall of the wine shop as the late afternoon sun sliced its way from the East River onto Bedford Avenue.
"It's Laini. Uhnhhhhhhhh, so I think we'll start you at just 30 hours a week in the cheese room because it will be too crazy this time of year to start you in the barn right away, but I can put you in touch with the folks at Butterworks and you can get some hours there and get familiar with milking, so uhhhhhh. Let me know."
Click.
And that, ladies and genltemen, was Laini's version of a formal job offer.
I called her back immediately, said I needed a day or two to think it over and figure out what all I'd need to do and get back to her. My heart raced and I felt like my guts were about to bubble over and I was happy and excited and nervous and so fucking scared. Because now it was real. And if I said yes, then this was really going to happen.
I started telling people I was doing it before I really believed it myself, and by the time it was time for me to make the actual decision, it was sort of too late for me to back out. I kept thinking that somewhere along the way, something would happen to prevent me from going through with it -- I wouldn't be able to find money to buy a car, or buy a car, or find a place to live, or find a person to sublet my apartment, or physically be capable of packing up my life of 12 years, or kiss my friends goodbye, or rent an SUV filled with boxes filled with books filled with clothes filled with one IRATE-ass feline. I would get into a car wreck or get lost or just lose my fucking nerve and call the whole thing off.
But here I sit, a year after that first visit, and not once did I think about turning back. At least not of my own volition.
In recent months I've been having a hard time here, as I've documented plenty. I've had my share of setbacks and frustrations, and here and there I've found myself getting slightly disillusioned by Laini, who had previously been this untouchable Titan cheese goddess in my heart and mind for so long.
But today, without really even realizing that it was this temporal landmark, I felt things shift. I felt like .... I could stay here. All of a sudden that sinking feeling I've been carrying around with me about needing to leave, about feeling like a fuck-up, like I've been letting Laini down, started to dissipate a little bit. It might be a fleeting feeling, but in the moments when the shroud of anxiety that's been around me has lifted, I've been able to see again the specialness of this place, and this person, and this life I've cobbled together over the last 10 and a half months.
Talk to me in a week and I'll be saying the goddamned opposite of all of this. #bipolar
Today is today. Happy Anniversary to us, Lazy Lady Farm. We've come a long way, baby.
Somehow, miraculously, we made it to Burlington in one piece, and against all odds managed to find the farm the next morning despite its a) being on an unmarked, "private" road and b) neither of us realizing that due to THE MOUNTAINS there was no cell reception and therefore no Googlemaps access. I remember turning down the long gravel driveway, thinking "this looks like it could maybe be it?" and then seeing the pastures and the barn off to the right and getting a little thrill in my stomach.
We drove up and no one was around, so I popped my head into what I now know to be the cheeseroom and saw two beautiful, dark, curly-haired women with hairnets on, women who I now know to have been Glenn and Rebecca. "Is Laini around?" I asked them. "I think she's in the house," the taller one (Glenn) replied.
Visiting -- not to mention working on -- a farm is a strangely intimate thing, because on scales like Laini's, you're basically, literally IN this person's home. So it was with trepidation that I mounted the porch stairs and wrapped on the door to her little house. She came and invited me and Liz inside -- I haven't been past the threshold of the house since, so I wish I'd taken better note of its decor -- and we sat and we talked. I remember her asking Liz questions about work and work papers and getting VERY indignant about the red tape surrounding labor laws (again, par for the course) and then basically going over the contents of a previous email with me, outlining what a typical week might entail in terms of tasks. She glanced over the resume that I had printed out and brought as instructed and then gasped.
"You've never done any barn work before?"
"Um, no," I said sheepishly, silently wondering if that was a dealbreaker and if perhaps she might've thought to notice/mention that BEFORE I'd driven the 7.5 hours in a borrowed car to come and meet with her.
Her eyes widened and she jumped up to show me around the barn and the cave. She explained the process of milking, and kept interjecting with, "I know, it's a lot to remember" and "It's not easy" and "It's a lot."
FUCK YES. IT IS A LOT.
She told me she was interviewing a few other people, and that she'd be hiring whomever with the understanding that there would be a three month trial period after which time she'd assess whether or not things were working.
Before I left I gave her a wrapped bottle of wine I'd brought from New York. I knew from reading about her that she loved French culture and obviously since she elected to make French-style goat cheese, she'd probably appreciate a nice Vouvray from the Loire, ie base camp for good-ass fromage de goat. "Do you like wine?" I ask as I handed it to her.
"Yep!" she chirped.
I found out later she does not drink.
After I left the farm, we drove to Greensboro and then to eat and see a movie in Montpelier. We drove back to our AirBnB under cover of true inky black night (at that point I was still unaccustomed to just how dark the roads are without the aid of streetlights or, like, other cars), and through pockets of mist that Liz convinced herself were clouds though I told her we definitely were not at a high enough elevation for that to be possible. But ok, sure. Clouds.
I didn't know how to feel about it, what to want or hope for. I returned to New York the next day and immediately wrote Laini another email thanking her for meeting with me and reiterating my interest, though at that point I was myself unsure if I was really up to the task. I wanted her to offer me the job, but I also didn't want her to. Because if she didn't, then it wasn't up to me to decide.
A couple of days later I was at Uva, doing my my usual thing of taking long breaks to go buy overpriced green juice, molesting peoples' dogs, playing Crystal Waters on repeat and popping down to the basement to bullshit with Chris Bordeaux (that's his real name) and drink a bottle of ridiculous wine (god I miss good wine) when I saw that I had a missed call. I ran outside to listen to the voicemail, propping my be-skorted behind up against the brick wall of the wine shop as the late afternoon sun sliced its way from the East River onto Bedford Avenue.
"It's Laini. Uhnhhhhhhhh, so I think we'll start you at just 30 hours a week in the cheese room because it will be too crazy this time of year to start you in the barn right away, but I can put you in touch with the folks at Butterworks and you can get some hours there and get familiar with milking, so uhhhhhh. Let me know."
Click.
And that, ladies and genltemen, was Laini's version of a formal job offer.
I called her back immediately, said I needed a day or two to think it over and figure out what all I'd need to do and get back to her. My heart raced and I felt like my guts were about to bubble over and I was happy and excited and nervous and so fucking scared. Because now it was real. And if I said yes, then this was really going to happen.
I started telling people I was doing it before I really believed it myself, and by the time it was time for me to make the actual decision, it was sort of too late for me to back out. I kept thinking that somewhere along the way, something would happen to prevent me from going through with it -- I wouldn't be able to find money to buy a car, or buy a car, or find a place to live, or find a person to sublet my apartment, or physically be capable of packing up my life of 12 years, or kiss my friends goodbye, or rent an SUV filled with boxes filled with books filled with clothes filled with one IRATE-ass feline. I would get into a car wreck or get lost or just lose my fucking nerve and call the whole thing off.
But here I sit, a year after that first visit, and not once did I think about turning back. At least not of my own volition.
In recent months I've been having a hard time here, as I've documented plenty. I've had my share of setbacks and frustrations, and here and there I've found myself getting slightly disillusioned by Laini, who had previously been this untouchable Titan cheese goddess in my heart and mind for so long.
But today, without really even realizing that it was this temporal landmark, I felt things shift. I felt like .... I could stay here. All of a sudden that sinking feeling I've been carrying around with me about needing to leave, about feeling like a fuck-up, like I've been letting Laini down, started to dissipate a little bit. It might be a fleeting feeling, but in the moments when the shroud of anxiety that's been around me has lifted, I've been able to see again the specialness of this place, and this person, and this life I've cobbled together over the last 10 and a half months.
Talk to me in a week and I'll be saying the goddamned opposite of all of this. #bipolar
Today is today. Happy Anniversary to us, Lazy Lady Farm. We've come a long way, baby.
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