…So this is all going to seem quite like bragging.

Every morning I do something 80 percent of you can’t. I eat yogurt. A steady rotation of mason jars filled with goat, sheep, and cows milk line my refrigerator shelves, sweetly perfumed with pasture, waiting to be poured into ceramic mugs and laced with summer berries, dark honey, or still-warm granola. I eat raw milk yogurt for breakfast, yogurt that I purchase at one of several local shops and farmers markets.

And Maine is one of only ten US states in which eating or drinking the dairy of your choice is legal.*

03 April 2011 Sonoma, CA I have no internet, nor even a chair for that matter.  My furniture is coming next week.  I have only what went to Italy with me, plus a few things I’ve needed since landing.  There is dust everywhere from renovation, yet inches below are a fantastic kitchen and an entire house with tiled floors and a garden.  My new home in Sonoma.  But right now I can only see brooms, my trashed socks, white pawprints on everything, and the air mattress where Lincoln the Dachshund and I sleep folded like a taco under a 1970s sleeping bag.  The past two weeks Lincoln and I have been sleeping in the loft portion of an R.V.

Not many homemade cheeses are borne of worry.