The Drop-Off

Before the first drop-off I was a little nervous, not knowing what kind of company to expect. A lot of Birkenstocks? Hemp shirts and handbags? Conspiracy theorists and health nuts, for sure. Anything described as a "drop-off" is going to be a shady operation, and the fact that we were exchanging a substance illegal to consume in many states made me a little giggly. Was I supposed to scuttle in with my face covered and dash away before anyone could recognize me or halt the transaction? The fact that it was happening in the back parking lot of a church added to the weirdness of the operation. Needless to say, I didn't bother to tell many of my friends where I went on Fridays at 3:30.

I was expecting someone to be sitting in a nondescript vehicle, dolling milk out of the trunk. As I drove into the massive parking lot I moved slowly, looking into cars to see if they were occupied. I didn't want to miss my dealer.

It turns out I didn't have to worry about missing the drop-off. There was a large white van with license plates that said "IGOTMLK" and a huge yellow sign on the side that said "RAW MILK DROP-OFF." So much for secrecy. Children cavorted about the parking lot as their mothers dropped off checks and picked up their promised gallon or two. Everyone looked relatively normal, including the farmer family dropping off the milk. If anything, the only unusual quality about everyone present was how happy they were. I avoided the optional taste-test, having already decided to commit myself to raw dairy (go raw or go home!). I picked up the bottle that looked like a bleach container and secured my milk jug with a seat belt, determined not to let it turn itself into butter by the time I got home.

At home I reached the moment of truth. Eventually I had to drink the stuff. I was careful to mix the milk and cream before pouring myself an ever-so-tiny glass.

Turns out the stuff is pretty good.