Two Lovely Ladies

The election is exactly a month away.  I should be writing about the important political choices we will soon make which will decide America’s future.  Instead I bring you a vivid account of two amazing females who have entered my life.

Last Tuesday I was introduced to Guinevere and Lainey.  I’d been hoping to meet them for a month and my anticipation had grown considerably.  It was a special moment for me.  They on the other hand seemed unimpressed.  It doesn’t matter.  I’m connected with them now and it is wonderful.

I am intrigued by their names.  The most famous Guinevere, from olden days across the sea, was the wife of King Arthur.  She fell hopelessly in love with Sir Lancelot, one of the King’s most trusted knights.  You might remember Lancelot from the round table. Lancelot returned Guinevere’s love madly.  Their affair did not end well.  Made for a great story though.

The name Lainey doesn’t carry the same cachet.  It’s a formalized nickname of Elaine, as far as I can tell.   If there is a Lainey with a back story, I don’t know her.  But hey, not every being can have a name as exotic as Guinevere.  She even had a song written about her by Crosby, Stills and Nash.  The tune runs through my head as I type this.

The day I met Guinevere and Lainey, I walked around a small shed and there they were, statuesque, standing behind a fence.  Their big eyes turned towards me.  As they gazed, they chewed placidly.  Guinevere and Lainey are dairy cows, and I drink their milk.  Raw milk, just like the milk I drank the first eighteen years of my life, before leaving the farm. 

Lainey is a Guernsey Jersey cross.  The two breeds are much the same size, with Guernseys just a bit longer and taller than Jerseys.  Guernseys also have pale orange skin around their eyes and orange noses.  Jerseys have black noses and darker more expressive eyes.  Both breeds were developed on small islands that bear their names in the channel between England and France.  Lainey was lucky to inherit that pretty Jersey face with a Guernsey body.

I don’t suppose many see beauty when they look at cows, but I do.  I grew up with Jersey cows, from the day they were born until they were gone.  They filled my days as a kid.  Here’s Lainey.

Isn’t she gorgeous?

Guinevere, taller and more svelte, is a Milking Shorthorn.  Milking Shorthorns are dual purpose cows, bred for both dairy and beef.  Sort of the utility infielders of the dairy world.  They originated in Devon, England.  Not that all domesticated cow breeds are from the British Isles.  But many are that made it to our country.  Here’s Guinevere.

Striking don’t you think?  In this picture Guinevere is nursing a British White calf.  British Whites are another dual-purpose breed, leaning toward the beef side.  That makes sense for this small farm, which sells grass fed beef, along with both raw cow and goat milk, free range chicken, and eggs.

Years ago, after I first retired, I went to Madison Wisconsin with my wife largely to go to the huge Farmer’s Market that surrounds the state capitol building.  I was on the hunt for raw milk there, only to be informed that selling raw milk in Wisconsin is illegal.  It still is today.  But there has been a successful movement in many states to allow the sale of unpasteurized, unhomogenized milk just as it comes from the cow.

Sales of raw milk were approved in Illinois in January of 2016, after a long battle over rules governing sales.  Most controversial was the caveat that raw milk can only be purchased on the farm where it is produced.  I am lucky to be within driving distance of such a farm.  That rule makes it harder for urban customers, and limits widespread sales. 

My farmer sells raw cow’s milk in two-quart jars.  The cream rises to the top.  When those cold containers of milk were first taken out of a breezeway refrigerator and I saw yellow cream taking up the top third of the big glass container it was a sight I thought I would never see again.

When my Mom ran low on milk, she would take a small silver bucket from the pantry and hand it to me.

“Go get us a bucket of milk from the milk house would you please?”

Sometimes she wasn’t that polite.  It depended how big of a hurry she was in.

We shipped Grade A milk to Prairie Farms dairy in Carlinville.  A big tank truck came every other day and sucked the milk from a stainless steel refrigerated bulk tank in a small house separate from the barn.  At the bottom of the tank was a stainless steel valve.  I’d unscrew the heavy stainless cap on the valve, turn the handle, and slowly fill the bucket up to the brim.  Then I would put it on a low white ceramic table, the one we used to put the milking machines together, and carefully clamp the lid on. I still have that bucket.

The bulk tank had a large paddle in the center that constantly turned to mix cooler milk in contact with the water-cooled jacket around the outside of the tank with the warmer milk in the middle.  Cream never rose in that cold tank because of the paddle. 

Back in the house, Mom poured milk directly from the bucket into glass milk jugs, never spilling a drop that I remember, and putting them in our fridge in the house. There the cream separated from the skim milk.  When we used milk, we always shook the jug.

Except occasionally, like when Mom made strawberry shortcake, or some equally fresh and delicious dessert. On those occasions Dad would get a fresh jug of milk and pour the cream right off the top into our bowls of sweet biscuit cake and sugared strawberries.  He liked to eat chocolate cake that same way.  Put it in a bowl and cover it with cream.  If he used up all the cream, he would pour the remaining skim milk down the drain.  Skim milk had no value in his eyes.  No butterfat in it.

We milked Jersey cows, each cow named and valued, in a 24-stanchion barn built in 1941 to comply with new Grade A milk regulations expected to come after the war.  You could sell milk on the Grade B market, at a lower price, for milk products like cheese and butter.  But only Grade A milk could be processed and bottled for drinking.

The farm we lived on was one of two that supplied the village of Danvers, population 800, with raw milk prior to the end of World War II.  They delivered milk, coffee cream, and whipping cream to doorsteps all over town.  No middle man.  Farm to table, just like the raw milk I’m buying today.  That all changed, and finally most small-scale dairy operations went by the wayside.  Mom and Dad sold the herd in the late 70’s.  I didn’t go to the sale barn to watch.  Too painful. 

During all those years, as far back as we knew, there were Jersey cows on that small farm.  They raised their own heifer calves, sold the bull calves when they were days old to be raised for veal, bought good bulls, and improved the herd.  Later they went to artificial insemination which opened the door to even better breeding.

We made our own alfalfa hay from the place, ground our own corn and oats into feed, maintained large pastures.  But in the end small dairies across the Midwest were overtaken by a drop in milk prices and the development of large-scale dairy operations.  Or maybe that order was reversed.  Whatever happened, it was billed as progress, and it forced small dairy farmers like my Dad out of business.

The milk I buy from this farm is a lot more expensive than the milk you buy at the supermarket in a plastic jug.  As it turns out it’s also different in some ways from my Dad’s raw milk.  This farm strives to keep their cows on a grass diet.  They do not feed grain to Guinevere and Lainey when the pastures are lush, and feed only hay in the winter when the pasture is dormant.  During the transition from pasture to hay they feed their cows oats for a short time to help them through the change.

Cows are ruminants.  They are built to turn grass into milk and meat.  Just as grass fed beef is meat produced from a more natural diet, milk from cows whose primary diet is solely grass is said to have a different food value.  I do not know what that difference is, but I know grass is what cows were born and bred to eat.  Grain boosts milk production in dairy cows just as it fattens beef cows more quickly.  Though I don’t know the science behind it, I respect these farmers greatly for going back to basics and creating a very natural product.  I am more than happy to support them in their efforts. It’s delicious milk. 

I buy a gallon a week.  They have a limited supply of milk and I feel lucky to be counted among their small number of regular customers.  I drink less milk than I did when I bought the generic product in plastic jugs.  It’s richer milk, with a higher butterfat content than commercial milk, and it is delicious.  Have I said that? I feel I found something valuable from my past. There is something about knowing exactly where your food comes from and who produces it that is extremely satisfying. 

Credit goes to the farmers, but the real stars here are Guinevere and Lainey.  Thank you girls.

(If you’d like to hear that old Crosby, Stills, and Nash song click Guinevere, outwait the ad, and enjoy.)