Meet Louise, an enormous black milk cow who'd just given birth to this still-trembling little calf on Saturday morning when we stopped by our small local farm to pick up some raw milk. They're kind enough to sell it to us right from the cow. Well, pretty much. It's legal in New York, but only if you buy it directly from the farm. (It's banned outright in New Jersey, and available at retail in Connecticut.) You'll need to bring your own container—I use big glass jugs. If this recent article in New York magazine is any indication, raw milk is gaining in popularity as people begin to understand more about its nutritional value and appreciate its wonderful taste. (Old-style delivery services will bring it right to your door!) My mother-in-law was absolutely horrified at the idea of us drinking raw milk, and that's a testament to how this country has been brainwashed into believing that industrialized food is cleaner and safer. But in fact, high-heat pasteurization and homogenization do a great disservice to the quality and value of the milk we drink. And most cases of salmonella associated with milk in the past decade have been from pasteurized products. Perhaps, like I did, you shun milk altogether? As recently as a couple of months ago, I was posting about all the alternatives—soy, almond, rice, hemp. Now that I've learned about how the high-heat and chemical extraction processes essentially damage these foods, I really can't recommend you consume any of them on a regular basis. I know, I know, the ground beneath us is always shifting. But I feel much more empowered now that I have begun to do my own research (forever indebted to Sally Fallon of Nourishing Traditions) and really understand the science behind my food choices. Don't despair, there's still plenty of good stuff to eat.

One of the many nice things I've discovered in moving up to the country is that I can do a bit more ruminating. Not in the most literal sense, of course. I've only got one stomach (although sometimes it may look like two). And unlike cattle, goats, sheep, giraffes, bison, yaks, water buffalo, deer, camels, alpacas, llamas, wildebeest and antelope (I love lists), I am not required to chew my cud. But I do find that I now have time to tromp up an abandoned fire road in the rose-colored dusk, side-stepping slick patches of ice; or stare into the fire mesmerized as I absently stroke the cat's underfluff; or lie on the couch in a rare pool of afternoon sunshine, daydreaming of shallot-beef broth with cheese dumplings or buckwheat crepes or lemon soufflé (all three coming soon, I promise). And during those moments, I can turn a few thoughts over in my mind. Like common pebbles in a tumbler, they start to lose their rough edges, give off a greater luster. Maybe. Anyway, one of the things I've lately been runimating on, if you will, is my estrangement from cow's milk.
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