My grandchildren introduced me to one of the latest horrors of processed food, a cookie straw through which children suck up milk. The “straw” is lined with a sweetened flavoring (no doubt high fructose corn syrup), and the milk is flavored on its way up from the bottom of the glass. This surreal product was, of course, found in the cereal aisle—one of the places all shoppers should avoid. Once you pass the steel-cut oats at the beginning of the aisle, there is nothing else worthy to be classified as food. (I do not know just how we found ourselves so far down this aisle, unless it was to find the marshmallows we needed for hot chocolate.) But, like any grandmother worth her salt when confronted with the pleading eyes and begging voices of her grandchildren promising that this is absolutely the last time they will ever ask for processed food, I put the box of straws right into my basket and took them home with us.
Shortly after this shameful incident, I was introduced to one of the great pleasures of local food—Oreo milk. No, it is not what you are thinking. Oreo is a cow who lives about ten miles from here. Her owner told me what her breed is, but like all things that don’t really matter to me, I’ve forgotten what he said. What matters is that I can recognize Oreo by her markings (what else, black with a white band all around her stomach) and that she is gentle enough for my grandchildren to milk her (which means I don’t have to be afraid).
I began getting Oreo milk about a year ago. Her owner was sharing milk with a friend of mine, and through the kindness of both of these people, I began to be included in the weekly gallon of whole (4-6% butterfat) raw milk. I still remember my first taste of Oreo milk. It was unlike any milk I could ever remember drinking. It had a creamy texture and rich taste that was completely unlike anything I could buy in a store. I drank glass after glass, and my grandchildren, who usually leave their perfunctory glass of store bought milk at the same level at the end of a meal as I poured at the beginning, drank glass after glass, as well.
Drinking raw milk from a cow like Oreo, whose owners are an “ag” professor and a veterinarian, is not a problem for me. She is a healthy animal; her environs are clean; she is tended well. This is not the case with all dairy animals. I would not drink raw milk from large dairy factories—places where required pasteurization takes the place of the husbandry Oreo enjoys. (See Weston A. Price Foundation for more information about raw milk.)
People living on family farms have been drinking this milk for centuries. It is one of the few kinds of milk that agrees with lactose-intolerant people like me. And if you are wondering where you can buy raw milk, I have bad news for you. You can’t. It is against Louisiana law to sell this marvelous milk. Many other states do allow the sale of raw milk, but Louisiana lawmakers are standing firm in protecting the health and safety of our citizens (as they ride motorcycles, sans helmets, along our highways). For now, you can get raw milk only if you are one of the lucky few, like I am, who has a friend with a cow who is willing to share. My wish for all of you is that you are able to find such a friend.
