I will start backwards this time: we are home, it is late, and I just finished Logan's sippy cup of Claravale Farm milk, not wanting a drop to go to waste. I've been home for a few hours, and was going through my photographs, so happy I'd borrowed a great camera while mine's in the shop. I left Ron and Collette feeling so moved and touched both by their kindness and generosity, and the sweetness of the cows and their whole little farm, that I was pretty near to tears. But you can't be a mushpot with little boys in the car, so I kept it to myself. Just looking through the photos I got made me even mushier. But mushy in a good way, all soft and sweet-feeling.
I fell in love with the cows instantly. They're Jerseys, which Ron says give the best milk. Claravale Dairy, in operation since 1927, is one of only two certified Raw Milk dairies in California, and the only one using Jersey cows.
We wandered around a bit. When Ron saw me shooting into the sun, he suggested we move to the higher side of the fence, and he summoned the cows. "Cows. Cows!"
They all looked up and hurried over, with a minimum of conversation. They butted the fence and seemed to plead with their beautiful eyes to be petted. The babies were headshy but the bigger ones came straight to me. I took several pictures of Cow #75 (as her Minnie Pearl label described her), who may well be the prettiest little cow I have ever seen.
The photos tell the story. I don't have pictures of the glass of milk Collette poured us, nor words to describe what made it so much better than any milk I've ever had. It tasted so real. Just like the duck egg I had in January at Manresa restaurant, which was the eggiest egg I've ever had, this milk was the most essential-tasting milk ever. When I thought I could taste the grass, I don't mean it tasted green and bitter. No, I think what we have here is "cow terroir."
The boys wandered, Rowan started acting like a chicken and clucking, and it was hard to turn him back into a boy. Meanwhile, we'd seen the goats and the calves and the cows and the ducks and the hens and the coolest rooster I've ever seen. On the back porch, a brown bag sat, filled to the utter brim with packets of seeds. It was glory. To think they will be planted and harvested--it boggles my mind, the richness of the images.
Collette went inside for a few minutes to make bottles for the calves, and I wandered around with Ron, photographing the grapevines that are going to be bursting with grapes later. His peach trees are already holding fruit: can you believe that? Like everyone else, his apricots were hard hit in the rains, but peaches? Galore.
We watched the baby calves suck down their bottles. Logan didn't seem to make the connection, fortunately, or he might have been, well, bawling like a calf.
Collette took Rowan to gather eggs, which she sent home with us, along with two quarts of the milk, and a heartful of good wishes that I can still feel. I made one more sweep over to the fence, because all the cows were lying down or sitting down, or however you describe bovine relaxation that involves close contact with the grass.
Ron and Collette invited us back. They invited Rowan's class. They said come any time. I will! I need to go back to take cookies and photograph those seeds...and that rooster. He's the king.
It really is the sweetest place.
© 2005 Tana Anderson Butler, all rights reserved, period.
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