Food Memory Lane

I didn’t know Tim Pedrozo all that well yet, but what I did know was his cheese, and it was exceptional. As a chef and human, cheese is both my passion and my weakness. Farmer Tim raised cows in the central California heat, and I was on a mission to embody the Farm to Table Chef mentality to the utmost. I had to meet the cows, I had to see the cheese cave, and I absolutely had to see how the whole thing went down. 

Dairy Cat in a meadow. Pedrozo Dairy - 2018

Pedrozo Dairy was a specialty direct to customer dairy farm, making all sorts of raw cheeses, Tim’s own styles and varieties. I have yet to discover anything similar, and pine for the dopamine and serotonin his cheeses brought out in myself and my diners. I used Pedrozo cheese in my food truck, and boy was it a hit. 

As things have been shifting into a world fully based in social media for a while now, it was key that I go to the Dairy, and take my instagram followers with me. Meeting the dairy cows and seeing the cheese cave would be checked off my bucket list and I. Was. Thrilled. Off I went, arriving for the evening milking. Marketing tools in my pocket, imagination at the ready. I was a kid about to embark on the field trip of a lifetime. 

In my mind I had something completely different than what I witnessed that day. As a Chef that raised and slaughtered her own meats, I have been the brunt of vegan attacks many times over. The torture of milking cows for their white gold was a tool used to wound me, a repetitive attempt to break me of my milk thieving addiction. I was braced to see cows unhappy with the service of emptying their udders, and put on the stiff upper lip my mother admonishes me to have when the pressure is on. I squared my shoulders, and knocked on Tim’s office door. A small rectangular place, the windows so old the glass had begun to pool at the bottom. His grin greeted me as big as his personality. 

Chatting cheese, Tim walked me to the milking barn, a dingy building with peeling cream coloured paint, flaking away to show the dark wood beneath. His hands gestured broadly as he let me take it all in. The pathways were well worn, the dry soil of California farmlands turning itself to cement under the hooves of the behemoths. The green of the meadow was deep and sideways, the sun lowering itself just enough to turn the light to emerald. Baring its thin leaves at me and smiling a green smile, Tim’s attitude seemed to bleed into the environment around him. I noticed cats wandering the grass, just outside the barn doors. Fat and happy, their coats looked thick as rabbit fur. Smiling now myself, I was trembling with nerves and excitement. I am the type of neurodivergent that requires a full understanding of things, a complete grasp of the operation was necessary for me to feel accomplished. 

The cows stood outside in a huddle, looking expectantly at Tim as he swung the great creaking metal doors outward. The herd funneled in single file, no rushing, and no resistance. Gentle moos and grunts filled the air with their breath and hoof steps. Each going to a stall, and placing her head in the feed bucket placed deep in the bay. Staring quizzically at this well behaved group of bovines, tons of meat and milk lumbering down the breezeway and offering her teats to the sucking plunger like milking unit, I felt confused. What magic was this? I remember asking Tim endless questions, like a five year old at the toy store, I bubbled over with inquisition. 

What I remember more than the cows is Tim and his happiness. His guffaw when I cracked cheese jokes, and his smile as he proudly told me all about his favourite cow, her name was Little. Compare her to the other beasts down the line, and sure she might be classified as small, but her shoulders stood as tall as my head. I smiled back at the man, and we shared some private pastoral joy. Intimate and devoted, he attached the teatcups and checked the Claw. Explaining the manifold and all the many parts, I could see this was not only his life, but his passion. Pride and joy, I believe they call it. 

We stood back to watch the process, and one answer he gave to my river of questions stands out in my memory more than any other wisdom he imparted on me that day. I wanted to know how he convinced the cows to assume the position, did he charm them with a reward after or lure them with special treats, I was squirming with curiosity. How could these massive animals be so demure, so well trained, so willing to give up their life giving fluid with no sign of displeasure or inhibition. They practically flopped their bulging udders into the proper places. 

Nothing, is what he said. He gave them nothing. No treat, no reward. They wanted to be milked. Their udders were full to bursting, swollen and taut. They needed release, they needed to be milked. It wasn’t us needing the milk, but rather the cows needing our assistance. He told me a spoiled cow is a naughty cow, give them treats one day and the next they will demand even more. An angry cow isn’t good for anyone, not Tim, nor the cheese. I was stunned, still am if I am being honest. All this time, I imagined it to be absolute torture. But instead, the beautiful beings stood there with their gifts, calm and cool as cucumbers. 

Wandering to the back of the massive building, Tim brought my gaze up to the piping where it disappeared into the wall. The milk travelled into an enormous vat, chilled and constantly slowing moving. A wide blade turned the fluid, and this was where the cheese process would start. Only minutes passed, the whole procedure didn’t take that long, the milk vacuum sucked quickly and efficiently. Not entirely efficient it would appear, there was a slight loss of milk, the process was not without flaws. But as I watched the felines gather to lap up the drips, I saw why Tim never fixed the tiny leaks. Inefficient, maybe, but adorable and kind? Certainly. The Pedrozo Dairy Cats lived a damn good life, and they knew it. 

There were over a dozen, maybe two dozen kitties, I don’t remember exactly. They switched places, and slinked around over and under each other, vying for the best puddles of still warm, fresh milk. I felt a joy rise up in my throat watching this whole parade of life, thriving and vibrant, a closed loop of excellence and peace. Cats, trusting the Pedrozo family and the herd of dairy cows with their lives, flocked to this property for sanctuary. They helped keep it rat-free, and they tidied up the leaks. What a way to live, I thought to myself. Earning their keep, they were part of the farm family.

Once upon a time I had my own tiny farm, with chickens and goats, and I milked my herd as well. I milked by hand, as there were only two does that needed my assistance with their udders. Goats are far unlike cows though, and my girls had needed all the bribery I could afford. Hence my assumption with Tim and his delightful dairy herd. I hold the memories of my lost farm dear in my heart, locked tightly away in a small brass cage, the key thrown away so that I never open it and crush myself with the weight of the grief kept inside. 

This photo was the last one I snapped that early evening, the cat digesting his feast in the field. Sweetly full after a lovely supper, the warmth that little kitty shared with me when I heard its contented meow goodbye still sits in my soul like lyrics to a song. It breaks my heart again to know the Dairy is no longer, the Pedrozo’s moving on to new and different lives, grandkids and health reasons changing and shifting their route through life. Unexpected of course, and thinking now about that precious time in the barn with Tim, his cows, the cats, and the pulse of the milk transport system, I imagine I know how much it hurt his heart to leave. I imagine I know all too well.