Chapter 20 Nellie Today #2
“Wow,” I say, as Mike lists the recipients of their harvests, eateries helmed by James Beard award winners and the like. “That’s impressive.”
“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “The chefs around these parts are next level. Everything is local too. They source their milk from Straus Family Creamery down the road and the oysters from here and cheese from another farm up the way…”
“Yum!” I say, with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. Mike is clearly very proud of this operation and I want to seem suitably impressed, especially because Noah—usually so charming and chatty—has gone uncharacteristically silent.
It is possible he wants to kill Mike.
“You know,” Mike says, stepping toward me and pushing his hat off his head, so that it dangles by the neck strap like he’s a Boy Scout. “I know all the best spots. If you’re in the area for a few days, I’d love to take you to try some of my favorites.”
I chance a glance up at Noah, who rolls his eyes so wide I’m surprised they don’t fall out of their sockets.
“Unfortunately, I’m only here for the day,” I say, letting Mike down easy.
“We’re actually leaving,” Noah says at the same time, placing a hand on my shoulder and nudging me toward the car.
“Too bad,” Mike says. “It could have been great.”
And I will never know if he means us or the food.
We leave with a cooler full of oysters and Noah’s bad attitude.
“That was so unprofessional!” he says, once we’re in the car.
I raise my eyebrows. “Would it have been unprofessional if Mike was a hot lady?”
“Are you calling Mike hot?”
Touché.
The oyster farm had its own shop. And, before we left, I tried to convince Noah to buy himself a hoodie, since he was clearly cold, goose bumps rising on his arms, but he refused. Would not give Mike the satisfaction. Though, as I pointed out, Mike was not likely pocketing the cash.
Noah would not give in.
I myself am regretting my choice of jean shorts instead of proper jeans, fingering the fringe and mourning the loss of their lower half as I crank the temperature on the dashboard.
“What’s better than a heated car seat?” I sigh.
“A hot tub,” Noah says.
Then he steals a glance at me with wide eyes like, did I say that out loud? And I can’t do anything but laugh.
I am high on oysters—or, more likely, a sense of abandon. It feels so good to be out of my usual routine, away from schedules and computers, even social demands.
Next, according to Cara’s notes, we are headed to a small goat dairy farm and creamery, where they make their own cheese.
I turn on the radio as Noah pulls back onto the winding road.
The Dixie Chicks’ “Cowboy Take Me Away” comes blaring through the speakers.
Noah pulls a face, but, when I start belting it out and swaying in my seat, he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face.
“There it is!” I say, and poke him in the dimple.
My mood has improved and maybe his will too.
By the time we get to the farm, the rain has begun again in earnest, so we are immediately shepherded to a nearby barn, standing tall between two pastures.
This is a woman-led operation. So, of course they have thought to have umbrellas on hand. Always prepared.
The wind-stripped barn has a proper red roof and, inside, mile-high ceilings and wooden pens for the animals.
It smells like a barn and it’s lousy with hay. But it takes me about three seconds to forget that and make a beeline for one particular stall, where a warming red light glows. Inside, four baby goats are snuggled together in a corner; others romp and frolic, tails wagging like puppies.
The cuteness is almost unbearable.
“Oh my God!” I yelp, like the cliché I am. “How old are they?”
The answer comes quickly: “They were just born this week.” I glance beside me to find a tall older woman with salt-and-pepper waves, a fleece vest, and a warm grin leaning against the barrier. “Adorable, aren’t they? This stage doesn’t last long. They grow fast.”
Maggie introduces herself to me and Noah as the “steward of this land and head goat,” but I think she is actually the head farmer.
She gives us some background on the property, which I don’t hear because one of her farmhands has entered the pen and picked up a black baby goat and is now transferring it into my arms.
It. Is. So. Cute.
“Bah,” I say to it, speaking in its native tongue. I figure it’s still learning to talk and don’t want to confuse it.
I look up to find Noah also cradling a goat, though his is all white. He has a goofy grin on his face.
“Excuse me for one second,” Maggie says, walking a few yards away to chat with another staff member.
“Bah,” I say again to my goat. It seems to understand. “That’s it,” I add. “I’m taking you home.”
“He’ll need a tough name if he’s heading to New York,” Noah says. “To make it on the mean city streets.”
“I already picked it,” I say. “Humbug.”
“Humbug?”
“Yeah, like bah…”
Noah tilts his head, wearing a doubtful look. “That’s not tough.”
“Yes it is! Like, don’t fuck with Humbug!”
“You could say ‘don’t fuck with’ before basically any name and it would sound at least a little tough.”
“I don’t know. ‘Don’t fuck with Noah’ sounds pretty soft.”
He shoots me a dirty look. “That’s fine. I’m in touch with my softer side.”
I almost let a comment fly about how I was recently in touch with his harder side, but that is definitely the giddiness talking. Would only usher in awkwardness. I can’t remember when I was last this relaxed—but I press my lips closed.
“Anyway,” I say instead, petting my goat’s head. “What’s your goat’s name?”
“That’s easy,” he says. “The GOAT. As in, the greatest of all time.”
“Oh God!” I groan. “You and the sports. So on the nose.”
“Don’t hate just because you know it’s good.” Noah shifts and looks down at his new friend. “Do you think Maggie is ever coming back?”
I glance over at her; she’s clearly still in heated conversation. “Why?”
“Because I’m afraid the GOAT is going to pee on me.”
I can’t help but laugh and then I can’t really stop, which unnerves the farm workers and two come forward to take our goats back to their mothers in the pen.
Noah shoots me a crooked smile, as he leans his forearm on the ledge of the pen.
“They were cute,” I say to him.
“Well, cute knows cute,” he deadpans. And I start laughing again.
For the second time, we have underestimated Cara.
Meeting the baby goats is incredible and we assume that was the special experience connected to picking up the cheese, but there is so much more.
Describing the operations on the farm, Maggie leads us over to the main office past at least one grazing cow.
But “the office” turns out to be a gorgeous modernist farmhouse that blends geometry with authenticity—it’s all original wood but also granite countertops. Windows, windows everywhere.
One entire side of the farmhouse is lined with a sweeping porch.
This is our destination. She gestures for us to sit at a reclaimed wooden table—polished but still with its beautiful knots and imperfections—waiting with two deceptively simple place settings.
Matte ceramic dishware, French blue Madre linen napkins, pristine stemless wineglasses.
Above us hangs a vintage chandelier and honeycomb lanterns.
Globe lights are strung through the surrounding trees and, though it is still daytime, they shed some light beneath the ever-darkening clouds.
It’s pouring now and Maggie ducks her head beyond the porch, looking up at the sky like she doesn’t like it. But I think this is a pretty amazing view—and the air smells like damp earth. Like fresh. Like alive. I have always loved watching a storm from the protection of a porch.
“How long have you had the farm?” I ask her.
“It’s been in my family since before I was born.”
“Wow,” Noah says. “A native Californian. You’re a rare breed.”
She nods, proudly, standing taller in her wellies. “Fourth generation. Of course, things weren’t so polished in the olden days. We didn’t always make goat gouda.” She smiles conspiratorially at us like we’re in on the joke and not part of the bourgie gouda crowd—which we totally are. “Enjoy.”
Members of the kitchen staff, casually dressed in jeans and tees, arrive next with heavy pours of dry rosé and charcuterie trays so bright and colorful that they put the estate’s—which was not so shabby—to shame.
And, as the staff explains, everything is local, from this farm or from West Marin.
There are soft fetas and chevres and harder Manchego-style cheeses.
There is wildflower honey, lavender preserves (and sprigs!), sliced baguette still warm from the oven.
There are salamis and salumi and bresaola too.
There are dried strawberries, fresh apricots, and crisp crackers with sea salt.
And it is all for us.
“Thank you so much,” I say politely to the server.
“Holy fuck,” I say to Noah when she’s gone.
“Holy fuck,” he agrees.
I lose the next few minutes to tastes and sighs. Tart wine, creamy cheeses, sweet fruit. It is a true feast.
When I finally look up, Noah is staring at me.
“What?” I say, wiping at my face.
He shoots me a half-smile. “Nothing. I just like when you like something. And you definitely like this.”
“Of course I do! The presentation, the flavors, the care that’s gone into all of it. It’s a masterpiece!”
He nods, eyeing me and not the food. “It is.”
I’ve had more wine than he has. My edges are blurred. He’s the driver. But he’s looking at me unguarded now, his bright eyes swallowing me whole.
I pick up my glass of wine, lean back in my chair. Take a sip. He watches me lick my lips.
So I lick them extra.
“Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare?” I say.
“Yup,” he answers. And he keeps on staring.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask finally, shifting in my seat.
“Goats,” he says. “Mostly goats.”
“Oh, yeah? What about them?”
“Mostly about how lucky that baby black goat is that you don’t have official naming rights.”