Enlightenment in the Dairy Aisle

One of my least favorite parts about moving all the time is having to constantly re-establish home base. I usually find the house and the school before we ever leave the last duty station (that has worked remarkably well every time save once) but finding new doctors, dentists, churches, playgrounds, libraries, grocery stores, car mechanics, hair stylists, gyms, and childcare, not to mention figuring out which restaurants are overpriced, which ones might give you E.coli and which ones are the hidden-gem-holes-in-the-wall that only the locals know about...it's exhausting and it feels like as soon as we find a comfortable groove, it's time to do it all over again. Sometimes I get it all right the first time. Our pediatricians have always been top-notch, we usually find a reliable farmers market within the first 2 months. Other searches have required more time. I rarely find a GP on the first try and it usually takes about 6 months to find a hair stylist that doesn't mention bangs at least once. I have found ways to expedite the process. Find the YMCA, an Aveda salon and a Firestone and work out from there. But grocery stores are tricky. Kroger isn't everywhere and even if it is, it may not be the best option. We don't always have access to a commissary, but even when we do, sometimes the produce is over ripe and they run completely out of chicken. Farmers markets are only open in the spring and summer. Some grocery stores are more expensive, some have a wider organic food selection, some have gas points, some have gas points but no actual gas stations to redeem them within 20 miles. I'm very picky about our groceries because we are what we eat and I go to great lengths to buy very little prepackaged foods. So, the whole foods I buy need to be of the best quality and I prefer them not to have made the trip from Chile, or even California, if I can help it.

When we moved to Dutch Amish Pennsylvania, one truth struck me immediately. This was no food desert. We don't live in a town surrounded by farms, we live on land within the farms (and every time they fertilize, we just have to remind ourselves...that's the smell of dinner on the table. Kind of like the sound of jets criss-crossing the sky over our house at Warner Robins was simply the sound of freedom). Our neighborhood backs up to a cornfield. The road my husband drives to work everyday passes the dairy plant and then, a few miles later, rolls past the dairy farms. And every time I drive to the YMCA, I pass a house with a cooler and a sign in the driveway: "EGGS FOR SALE". Take a dozen, leave your cash in the cooler. (In autumn, a house on the way to Hershey displays a surplus of squash and zucchini on a bench in the yard. Same sign, same neighborly honor system.) For months I rolled my judgmental eyes at the idea of buying perishables from someone's Coleman at the end of their driveway. And then I saw someone stop. And then someone else. And someone else. And I quit being judgmental and decided those might be the best damn eggs this side of Philly.

But our house runs on more than just eggs and when the roadside stands and weekend markets closed up shop in October, I needed a new way to meet our family's caloric needs. I have been buying our meat exclusively at a Mennonite-run market in the next town over since I discovered it on the way to Hershey one day last summer. It's fresh from the farm and if they don't have it, you don't need it. You want a leg of lamb? I'm sorry, you'll have to wait until spring. But here is the most delicious looking chicken thighs you've ever seen. And here's a recipe, in case you aren't quite sure what to do with them. And the cashiers just give the whole roll of stickers to Blue for his choosing. But again, the Miller Family cannot live on eggs and meat alone. So I was relegated to the local Weis for the weekly shopping trip. It was fine but it wasn't fun. Shopping was a chore and we slogged through every week, usually with Blue passing out from sheer boredom in the cart.

Seriously, it was so boring. I was tempted to climb right in there with him. Also, this is a cart full of prepackaged foods. But not all of this is for us. Hey Karen, here are the chips I still haven't mailed.

We continued on this way until a couple of months ago when we were entertaining Big Mama and Nana Anna for the weekend. After church, we trekked down the road to Oregon Dairy for lunch. It is a working dairy farm with a restaurant on site, but it is so. much. more. There is also a full-size grocery store, extensive playground and ice cream shop on the premises. There are hay rides available for groups to tour the farm and to celebrate Earth Day, they gave away free dehydrated cow manure to use in flower beds. In June they will celebrate Family Farm Days, which promises to be 3 days of good ole fashioned farm fun with milk tastings, ice cream samples, alpacas to pet, chicks hatching, tours of the barn and a barbeque chicken dinner (the BBQ chicken dinner is a big thing around here. Every firehouse, VFW and church within 40 miles has one at some point during the year). Grocery shopping here is not a chore, it is an event that includes checking on the pig (which is usually sleeping), saying hi to the goats, jumping on the inflatable bounce pad and slipping down the corkscrew slide at least three times. This is all topped off by one scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream in a waffle cone. I'm going to be distraught when it's time to move.

This is not mint chocolate chip. And there may have been more than one scoop.

Our grocery day is Tuesday and for reasons unknown to me, Blue is usually a rollercoaster of emotion on Tuesdays. Maybe Monday was just too Monday. Maybe he's eagerly awaiting Wednesday. I don't have a clue but it seems like one scoop of ice cream is barely reward enough for surviving it. Often I wish they had a bar with boozy shakes. Last Tuesday was no different. We were in the dairy aisle and Blue had already been in the front of the cart, the back of the cart, the side of the cart and was now trying to steer it while holding a stuffed sloth and begging for Dannon yogurt drinks. Exasperated, I muttered something to the gentleman stocking the sour cream about needing an extra helper today. I would come back at 5 to get him. He can be paid in string cheese. The gentleman chuckled and said, "No thanks. We raised 5. I don't know how we did it. We must have been crazy." We stood there, commiserating about the joys and challenges of parenting when he said something that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. He mentioned that he, too, raised boys and said, "My mother told me something a few years ago that I'll never forget. She said boys take in the world with their hands and girls take in the world with their eyes."And that was it. My ah-ha moment in the dairy aisle of the dairy farm. Yes. This is why we can't go to art museums. This is why we can't have nice things. This is why I'm utterly changed simply by being a boy's mom. This makes so much sense. How many times have I said, "Do you have to touch EVERYTHING??"  and "Put that down!" and "Don't touch that!" So. Many. Times. And I thought back to being a wee Ally. I didn't touch everything. I didn't tinker with anything. I didn't press buttons or turn things over to see what was under them or touch something just for the sake of touching it. Was I a broken child? Nope. I'm a girl. So, thank you Oregon Dairy...for the bulk box of Wilbur buds and the bouncy pad and the ice cream, but mostly for hiring people who will stop and share one nugget of wisdom that will change your perspective entirely. And thanks for not having sticky frozen apple juice concentrate. That's pretty huge, too.