Official Farmer Status

Fence is life

If there's one thing I've learned in my time as an aspiring farmer and cheesemaker it's that it's not a matter of IF you will fuck something up, it's a matter of when. Obviously this applies to me in goddamned spades, as the first, oh ... three years of my journey on this dusty, goat-poop-strewn path have been positively LITTERED with mistakes great and small, from the time I nearly killed Rocky the goat my first week at LLF to the MANY months I cut the curd incorrectly and messed up the draining on the Pyramides to the half dozen times I accidentally sanitized the graduated cylinder we used to measure rennet at Twig and wound up basically neutralizing the enzymes required to coagulate the curd to ... I mean I'd need probably eleven to fifty-five weeks to list all this shit. And no one wants to read about that. 

Yawnsville.

After a string of days of feeling improbably good and confident and competent (and of being bestowed with welcome and cherished praise from my co-workers and employers, which was frankly  a goddamned SHOCK to my system), it seemed as good a time as any for me to fuck up royally. I have a reputation to uphold after all.

 Let me break it down for you:

Wednesday was our audit, which from my understanding went incredibly well (YAY), but threw a wrench in the normal cheesemaking schedule. Hence, the creamery did not extract the milk they would normally extract from the bulk tank on Wednesday, instead pushing it to Thursday. Because one kink in the otherwise well-oiled machine is simply not enough, our boiler has been on the fritz, which meant that we had to run the wash cycle for the pipeline later than anticipated and wound up having to start milking almost an hour later than usual. Because we were frazzled and our usual rhythm was thrown off a bit, Mark left me alone to start milking so he could finish up chores. But having only observed the protocol for sanitizing the bulk tank once, I neglected to remove the sanitation tool from the bulk tank opening, which I only noticed at the end of the night when I went into the milk house to clean up and noticed it was still STRAIGHT CHILLING inside the tank.  I hollered for Mark, and we set about trying to figure out the best way to remove the sanitation wand from the tank without all the milk rushing out like Niagara Motherfucking Falls. We ultimately realized there was no way around it and figured we'd just have to resign ourselves to losing a little milk before we could get it capped.  I prepared to pull the thing out while Mark got the valve and screw cap ready. On the count of three I pulled and he capped, but we both noticed that there was no violent rush of milk, which worried us. We peaked into the top of the tank to see that it was, in fact, empty. It had leeched out slowly over the course of the milking because the sanitation wand did not/does not create a perfect seal. Four hundred fifty pounds of milk down the literal fucking drain.

Fuck my life forever. 

Angela was gracious as ever about it when I called her on the phone to let her know what I'd done.

"We've all done it. I've done it."

This sentiment was echoed by Laini when I went to see her at the Montpelier Farmer's market on Saturday.

"Laini, you'll never guess what I did. I fucked up at the farm so bad! I --"

"You let the milk outta the bulk tank."

"How did ..."

"We've all done it. I've done it."

I guess I'm in good company.

I had a marathon hang sesh with Ms. Fondiller, with whom I have forged an improbable ... I hesitate to say friendship, as I still feel towards her the way I might feel about a beloved pet, which is to say, a creature whom I only barely understand but feel simultaneously extremely protective of and affectionate towards. It's bordering on familial, but as there is not currently an adjective that I know of describing "having the characteristics of a kooky aunt slash cat" (GET ON THAT OED), I am at a loss. 

We gabbed as I watched her shill her cheeses, joking with her regulars and barely acknowledging the first-timers as she was more intent on pumping me for the latest gossip than explaining which cheese was which (fair). I presented her with my offerings of croissants and cheese and za'atar, which she she'd expressed no small amount of curiosity about ever since hearing about it on Splendid Table. In turn, she bequeathed me with what will henceforth be one of my most prized possessions: a print of the watercolor a friend of hers did of the photo I took of Rip Torn, which Laini loved so much she made it her business cards and her market banner. 

"You can frame it!" she exclaimed excitedly.

After packing up her stall in the manner of a NASCAR tire changer (typical), we went off to gab more over lunch, where she consumed a formidable quantity of food while revealing some very tender insights into my tenure at her farm, which I cannot share as they are somewhat slanderous of other individuals. We capped off our large lunch with ice cream because she has a wooden leg and/or is basically a grown up version of Pippi Longstocking. And I ... I'm just into ice cream, evidently.

Back on the farm, Sam marveled at the fact that I had so many clean shirts to wear in the parlor. I explained that all of my clothes, with the exception of some dresses that I suspect are no longer age-appropriate, have become de facto barn clothes. There are no "nice shirts" and "barn shirts" anymore. All the clothes I own lead double lives, which is why I basically have rips and bleach stains on every item that I own. 

I'd be bummed this reality undermined my "real farmer" status (I still don't own any fucking Carhartt overalls and I'm honestly PISSED about it) if not for the fact that yesterday I was charged with running the farm effectively on my own and NO ONE EVEN DIED. I just low key moved pasture, fed all the bebes, milked largely by myself, unless you count the darling 16 year old intern I was tasked with training and a surprise appearance from our food safety manager and Angela. Having never yet been in a position where I have had to teach anyone anything, as most often I've been the trainee over the last several years, I was happy to realize that I do, in fact, know some shit. And being that my own learning is still so fresh and front of mind, I think I'm perhaps a little more adept than someone who's been doing it for a thousand years at explaining things that a more seasoned pro might assume is obvious. Our intern was super patient and surprisingly un-annoying for being a teen. 

I'm fascinated by the way not just a larger farm operates, but the various and sundry working styles of the people I've encountered and worked with over the last year or so. I think in terms of work ethic/fastidiousness/meticulousness I am, as with most things in my life, distinctly average, having been exposed to truly some of the most psychotically hard-working people that may exist and some much more laid back folks, who still manage to do their jobs well but firmly maintain and prioritize their own wellbeing above the requirements of their job. 

My term here has been extended a month, but my future is unclear after that. I am strongly considering saying FUCK IT to any hope of ever partnering with a human male and procreating and taking a job in the middle of no-where California caring for some sheep and goats on an off-the-grid farm while I grow out my Chia-pits and write that goddamned book I keep threatening to write. I have to improve my plumbing and carpentry skills first, but it is distinctly pastabowl that in a matter of months I will WILLINGLY place myself even further into the human-less void than I previously thought I could tolerate. Because YOLO, and we all die alone anyway right? Might as well start preparing for it now.