Feta

A Farm Meet-Cute.

Ellie’s red truck backed up, dodging a tower of pinecones some of the kids made during farm-school. She rolled down her window, a tan arm extending out from her tie-dye t-shirt to give me a wave. “Have fun! Kiss the goats for me!” she said over her already blasting A.C. Her red truck turned and disappeared into the summer leaves hanging over the road. Of the four farms she’d pass on her way home, the one we worked at was by far the most ramshackle––all second-hand fairy lights and lavender polka-dot wooden pens painted by fourth graders as part of our farm arts curriculum. Written on a chalkboard in the feed shed was DAYS SINCE LOST LUNCH BOX and it was always at zero. Our wildflower garden was a hodgepodge mix of whatever left over seeds families donated to us. Eclectic. Loose bunnies. Probably the best place on earth.

Ellie and I swapped which one of us stayed for afternoon goat milking and egg collection after farm school. Most of our chores we did with kids during the day, but our goat herd needed twice-a-days because we’d had two births in a row and more milk than the babies could drink on their own. Ruby’s babies were named after states: Texas and Oklahoma were the color of dry dirt and were going to be very small, but they didn’t seem to know their size, kicking and jumping all over the full adult goats around them. We were still doing a poll for Daffodil’s babies––they were white and spotty with long, heavy ears with the most delicate knees I’ve seen on an animal; they were warm to the touch, especially their little noses. As much as we all loved our farm school students, Ellie and I both agreed that there was something magical about being just you and the animals at evening milking: collecting a blue egg, only the sound of milk plinking into a metal bucket, and the warm, purple smell of wild bergamot cartwheeling in the shushing sound of the wind.

Just as I was gathering the glass bottles of Ruby’s milk to put in the community fridge––a pay what you can, twenty four hour farm stand that we packed with raw milk, fresh mint tea, and whatever snap peas we didn’t end up eating with the kids during harvest––a dusty, light blue truck pulled into the parking lot. Not even the Georgia license plate could have prepared me for the absolute cowboy that popped out: a tall, mustached, freckly blonde in crisp blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and the richest ruby red leather cowboy boots I’d ever seen.

“Hiya,” he said, tipping his head in my direction. He looked like how a farm worker looks in movies: clean, well-tailored pants, sun-kissed hair; I looked how farm workers look in real life: mud (hopefully) tracked up and down my calves, hair in several knots and covered by a faded baseball cap, a bleached, oversized button down shirt and boy’s gym shorts, a sunburn on my forehead.

“Can I help you find what you’re looking for?” I asked, five warm bottles of milk gathered in my arms.

“Um, no” he said, trotting over to me and reaching for a few of the jars of milk, so focused on them that he didn’t even look at my face.

“I got it,” I said, “I do this every day.”

“All the same,” he said, making eye contact. I wiggled two of the jars free into his arms. “Nick would kill me if I messed this up.”

“Who’s Nick?” I asked, walking backwards and pushing the door open to the farm stand, beginning to load the milk into the fridge.

“The best minor league pitcher in Savannah,” the man said, immediately making himself into an assembly line for the milk jars.

“What’s the best minor league pitcher in Savannah doing in Vermont?” I asked.

“First off, he’s jumping for joy because ya’ll have raw goat’s milk here,” he said pointing to the fridge, “and secondly, we’re here to play a series with your very own Vermont Maple Leafs.”

“I don’t know if I can, in good conscience, sell such delicious milk to the enemy,” I said, crossing my arms.

“Oh,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “are you a big baseball fan.”

“Nope. But I know how to root for the home team.”

“Is that a Yankees hat?” he said, pointing to my head.

“Oh,” I said, taking it off and checking, “it is.”

“So, not a baseball fan?”

“Nope, but I’m a huge fan of our lost and found here.” He laughed.

“Is this the best thing you’ve ever looted?”

“First of all, it’s not looting, it’s finders-keepers. And no. Since I’m the lucky owner of very small feet, I once snagged a pair of children’s dinosaur rain boots that almost fit.”

“Those sound amazing,” he said. He lifted one foot up to show me his boot, “A good pair of boots is hard to find.”

“Well…” I said, looking around the shop. “I guess someone who quotes Flannery O’Connor deserves some goat milk.”

“Proud creative writing graduate of Savannah College of Art and Design,” he said, taking a bow.

“Wow, I’m shocked.”

“Why?”

“You seem so…UT Austin, Matthew McConaughey, show up to a Honky Tonk in Daddy’s range rover.” His whole face cracked open into a smile. He pointed to his beat-up blue truck.

“Does that look like Daddy’s range rover?” I tilted my head and squinted.

“Not at all.”

“Phew,” he said. “My dad is, in fact, very Honky Tonk in a Range Rover. But, despite his best efforts, I’m much more of an arts school and beat up truck guy.”

“You’re an…art school jock?”

“Baseball scholarship to a school where all your teammates can sing, dance, and even sew new uniforms. Very underrated.”

“That does sound nice, I went to a very normie school. Ask me anything you want about Connecticut,” I said.

“How do I avoid Connecticut?” he said and I snorted.

“Okay,” I said, “here’s the deal, art school guy. We’re stumped for baby names for our new goats. We like them to have a theme, but we’ve already done all the obvious ones: flowers, gemstones, espresso drinks––”

“––Cheeses?” he interrupted.

“No, we haven’t done cheeses. But if you, as someone creative enough to own those boots, can come up with some solid goat names, I’ll sell you some milk.” I paused for a second, “Wait, did you say cheeses?”

“You know, like a cute little Havarti, or a ughh…a gouda!” he was basically jumping up and down now. Not unlike the new baby goats with their excited energy. “Kraft! Cheddar! Velveeta! Brie––”

“Feta!” I said.

“Please,” he said, making his hands into a prayer shape, “please name a little goat Feta. Preferably one with floppy ears.”

“Feta…” I said, smiling, “and…maybe we could call her brother Blue, like blue cheese.”

“Can I meet them?” he asked. “It might get the creative juices flowing if I saw them.”

“Yes, but I’m already obsessed with the name Feta. You’ve earned the milk,” he almost interrupted me, but I put my hands up to stop him, “but we have to let it cool a bit in the fridge before I let you take it to your team.”

“Hot dog!” he said, clapping his hands. “Nick the world’s best minor league lactose intolerant pitcher can finally have some milk with his cereal.”

“Whoa. Did you just say hot dog? I’m considering changing my mind.”

“I’m trying to bring back grandpa-coded sayings. It’s one of my things.”

“You have a lot of things,” I said, exaggeratedly counting on my fingers, “former art school jock, minor league baseball player, owner of cowboy boots, goat milk procurer, haver of a very southern drawl…”

“I bet you have things,” he said.

“I have four baby goats for you to meet,” I said, leading the way over the pen that we called ‘the pregnancy palace,’ where we kept the babies and expecting goats.

“Oh my god. What should I do?” he said, looking back and forth between the babies, who were standing up and bleating at him.

“You're not scared, are you?”

“No,” he said, crossing his arms. “I just don’t want to hurt them…and I’m a little scared of them. I mean look at their hooves.”

“You are at least six feet tall. These goats are a week old and entirely fur. You’ll be fine,” I said. I dragged a bucket near to the babies and gestured for him to sit down. I scooped up the smaller baby and placed him in his lap.

“I think this should be Feta,” I said, “wait, also, what’s your name?”

“Feta.”

“Really?”

“No, it’s Gruyere.”

“Oh, that southern accent of yours has been French all along! Silly me.”

“It’s Jamie,” he said.

“I’m June,” I said.

“Whoa, two J names.”

“It’s like someone named us with a theme in mind.” Feta was beginning to fall asleep in Jamie’s lap. I looked over at Daffodil and remembered I still needed to milk her. “Well,” I said, “I bet your milk is ready. You can leave cash in the mailbox and just sign your name.”

“Honor system?” he asked, gently lifting the small goat and placing her on a little pile of hay where she promptly dozed off.

“Always,” I said. “If you can’t trust people who support local farms, who can you trust?”

“That’s a great rule. You wanna know one of mine?”

“Sure,” I said.

He gestured to the babies, “I’ve always thought that you can learn everything you need to know from how someone names animals.”

I leaned down to touch Feta’s soft ears. “What was I supposed to learn about you?” I asked.

“Well, I said Brie, so you’d think I’m worldly. But maybe I should have said Swiss, because maybe you’d think I have family money––”

“Oh, yes, natural assumption to make––”

“Maybe I should have said Gouda, because it sounds kind of artsy like I think you might be.”

“Who me?” I asked, feigning disbelief.

“Yes, you of the dangly beaded earrings, and stick and poke tattoo of a gecko on your calf, and the bringing up of Flannery O’Connor,” he said, deadpanned.

“Well, I decided everything about you the second I saw those cowboy boots,” I said.

“That I have amazing style?”

“That I wanted to have your number,” I said. He put his hands in his pockets and looked up briefly at the clear blue sky.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he said.

“Not this time.”

“How about I do you one better and get you some tickets? I won’t even mind if you cheer for the other guys.”

“I think you are the other guys,” I said gesturing around to…Vermont.

“Once you get to know me, you’ll realize I’ve been the only guy this whole time,” he said. I rolled my eyes and handed him the jars of milk.

“Oh wow, cheesy.”

“At least I’m on theme. See you at the game, yeah?” he asked.

We shook hands, and I could feel the calluses on his palm. My body felt easy and loose as he smiled, which looked to me for all the world like a seventh inning stretch, an early morning in the fields, or the first cool day after a heat wave.

And that’s how the goats got their names. Among other things.