Shelf Life (13 page)

chapter twenty-two

“You’re bringing home another friend?” Mom is speaking to me again now that I brought home Evan and she sees how serious I am about my classes.

“Both classes have group projects. Jenna’s my partner for the history class. You
know, the class you and Dad wanted me to take.”

“Yes, I remember. Jenna…
your partner’s a girl?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of food does she eat?”

“I don’t know, but she lives on campus, so anything you make will be better than dorm food.”

“Perfect,” she says.

The next morning, Jenna pulls into the driveway. Briefly, I wonder which Jenna we’ll get—sporty cute or all dolled up. She steps out of her white Honda and I get my answer. She’s somewhere in the middle today with tight jeans, a YSU T-shirt and white sandals, but her hair’s down and she’s wearing just enough make-up that she looks great but still kissable.

Wait, kissable? She’s just my project partner and I shouldn’t be thinking that. I take a mental cold shower but dammit, she smells like vanilla.

“Morning,” she says as she carefully steps toward the porch. Her ankles wobble in the tall sandals. Girls wear such weird shoes.

“Hey there, you found the place okay?”

“Yep.
Not too many houses to choose from so it was easy. Plus, yours doesn’t have a horse and buggy out front. Seriously, I had no idea they made Amish crossing road signs.” Her fingers glide through her hair as she flips it behind her shoulder. For a second, I’m fascinated by the way the sun glints off the shiny strands.

Dead puppies.
Starving children. Jay’s bad breath.

“Jenna, this is my mom. Mom, Jenna.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wilson.”

I stare at the ceiling while Mom gives her the once-over.
“Same here, Jenna, very nice indeed.”

Oh, boy.

“Pete says you’ve got a big project to work on for history?”

“That’s right.”

“He won’t tell me the topic of your project. It must be something good.”

Jenna casts me a questioning glance. I shrug. “It’s
good, I just don’t know how you’ll feel about me talking about it openly. Obviously we won’t mention specifics or name you, but—”

“Peter Henry Wilson, I am not old enough to be considered a history project!” Mom blushes and pastes on this weird, sticky sweet smile. She begins to flutter around the kitchen, acting all funny.

“I didn’t mean it that way. We have to tie together a historic event with a current one. We’ve been talking about Prohibition and the discussion sounded like the ones you and Dad have had about selling our raw milk. I looked into Ohio laws and the laws around the United States and it clicked. When alcohol was outlawed, people were pretty much told it was bad for you and they couldn’t be trusted with it. Bootleggers and home brewers popped up.”

“Son, did you just call me a bootlegger?”

Jenna and I both laugh when Mom puts a hand on her hip and shakes a wooden spoon at me. “Kind of. Your cheese and butter is illegal except for the herd-share loophole—”

“Wait, you lost me,” Jenna says.

“A herd-share,” Mom explains, “is where a person buys into the farm—a share—and owns a percentage of it, at least on paper. If you own a share of the farm, you can legally take possession of and consume some of its products, including raw milk, raw cheese, that kind of thing.”

Jenna nods. “Okay, I’m beginning to see where you’re going with this. And you make those kinds of things or are we talking in the abstract here?”

This is the part where I need Mom to trust me. With a slight nod, she gives her consent.

“Yes, I milk the cows twice a day and Mom—and sometimes my sister—processes the milk. We’re very careful that everything’s clean and sanitized,
then Mom makes raw butter and raw cheeses.”

“Oh, wow. So people own a share of your farm and you give it to them?”

I could say yes. I could lie and everything would be fine, but I want Mom to know I understand her predicament and that I side with her.

“Well, no. We don’t operate that way. We prefer to be independent.”

Jenna narrows her eyes. “Okay, so…”

“There are many who believe the government—just like in Prohibition—is overstepping its bounds by regulating what people can and can’t consume. They’ve deemed raw milk illegal, but we think people
should be able to make up their own minds.” From the look on her face, Mom’s holding her breath right along with me as we wait for Jenna’s reaction. “It’s not like we’re cooking meth, Jenna. It’s a natural food and there are lots of health benefits.”

“Really?
I’ll have to research that. So, lots of people think medicinal marijuana should be legalized everywhere. How is your raw milk any different? They’re both natural, they’re both illegal, and both allegedly have health benefits.”

I wish Jenna had been here when Mom discovered Ava’s pot in my pocket and Dad had spouted off about ruining our reputation. She basically just called my parents total hypocrites and doesn’t even know it.

I love this girl.

“For one thing,” Mom says, “raw milk is not a mind-altering substance. It’s a food. Not a drug. You can’t get drunk or high off of it then get behind the wheel of a car and kill someone. If you choose to ingest it, you’re only putting yourself in danger, and that danger is very small if the milk is handled correctly.”

Jenna squints, so I stay quiet and watch this tennis match. “But what if a parent gives the raw milk to their family and little kids? They didn’t choose the raw milk. What if they get sick?”

I just
had
to pick the smart girl as a project partner. Her arguments will make our paper stronger, but damn, I didn’t mean for this to turn into an actual debate between her and Mom.

“Parents give lots of questionable things to their children. It’s all a matter of acceptable risk. We’ve seen the benefits of raw milk firsthand so we take that
risk. We go to great lengths to make sure it’s not contaminated, but we believe the pros outweigh the small chance of the cons.”

“And if you tell anyone about this, we’ll have to bury you out in the woods,” I tell her.

“Pete!”

“She knows I’m kidding, Mom. Jeez.”

Mom heaves a sigh. “I’m so sorry, Jenna. I raised him better, really I did.”

“He’s a goof, I know, and thanks for all of this. It’ll make our final paper really stand out if we’re passionate about the subject.”

And, that’s enough Mom-Jenna bonding. “Okay, okay, enough of the love fest. Let’s get to it.”

Jenna handles researching Prohibition and other state and federal laws that regulate food products in the U.S., while I look up laws regarding raw milk. Finding the laws isn’t hard. Finding examples of punishments for infractions proves more difficult.

“Listen to this, Jenna. The FDA bans interstate sale or distribution of raw milk. The laws vary state-by-state, which is actually pretty cool, but in Ohio, this is what it says: ‘A cow-share/herd-share is an agreement entered into by an individual, or group of individuals, whereby they pay a farmer a fee for boarding and milking the cow or cows they own. After the cows are milked, the individual or group then obtains the milk from the farmer.’”

She taps her pencil on the table for a few seconds. “Huh. So if you’re a states’ rights groupie, that’s actually not a bad deal. They get to make their own decisions. The federal government only limits the milk from crossing state borders.
Okay, and taking that further, if the federal government told states they couldn’t make laws to regulate or ban raw milk, they’d be infringing even more. Well, unless Congress passed an amendment like the Second Amendment protecting all citizens’ right to bear arms.”

My forehead hits the table when Dad chooses that moment to walk in.

The result is an hour-long lecture on our Constitutional right to own guns.

I contemplate my Constitutional right to use one of those guns to shoot myself so I don’t have to listen anymore. Thank goodness Mom takes pity on us.

“Hey, kids, lunch is ready. Michael, I made chicken pot pie. Try to save some for the rest of us.” She winks at us over Dad’s shoulder, knowing nothing shuts him up faster than a plate of her pot pie.

Jenna smiles when I nudge her foot under the table.
“Ready to take a break?”

“Definitely,” she says, and begins packing away her laptop. “I really should be going, anyway.”

“Nonsense!” Mom says. “Stay for lunch. No friend of my kids goes away hungry. Family rule.”

A cute blush creeps up Jenna’s cheeks. “That’s really nice of you,” she says, “but is there raw milk in the pot pie?”

Mom darts me an alarmed look. “Well, no, though we raised and slaughtered the chicken in it and grew all the vegetables ourselves. We bought the flour in bulk and ground it ourselves, and I made the gravy from the chicken drippings.”

Jenna takes a noisy breath through her nose and stands. “That’s okay, Mrs. Wilson. I appreciate your hospitality, but I’ve got to get back to campus. My
friends were planning on going out for lunch today and I’ll be late if I don’t hurry.”

My mouth falls open and I start to tell her she’s a terrible liar, but Dad’s nearly imperceptible head shake stops me cold. “Let me walk you out, Jenna. I’ll be right back, Mom.”

“Sure thing, honey. It was nice to meet you Jenna. Come back anytime.”

Out in the driveway, I can’t let it go. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just need to get back.”

“Yeah, you said that. I also think you’re full of it. Are you really scared of homegrown food? You do know that’s where everything comes from, right?
That grocery stores get their food from farmers?”

“Sure, of
course I know that. It’s just…I don’t know, a little weird to see it up close, ya know?”

“Not really.”

“Right, you wouldn’t. Look, I think this is going to be a great paper, I just think we see things differently.”

Different isn’t necessarily bad, is it? “Okay. I can live with that. Great work, by the way. You focus on Prohibition and I’ll handle the raw research.”

“Sounds good.”

“Are we cool?”

“Totally,” she says.

To seal the deal, I follow my impulse and lean in to hug her. She smells so good that I linger there a few seconds, and that’s why I didn’t notice Lindsey right away.

chapter twenty-three

As soon as Jenna’s car is out of sight, I bound after Lindsey on foot, the dirt road crunching beneath my feet with every step. Goofy girl walked here.

“Wait up,
Linds!”

“Go back to your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Fuck buddy, friend with benefits, whatever,” she yells, waving her hand dismissively.

I reach out and grab her shoulder. “Would you stop? It’s not what you think. She’s my partner in my history class. We were working on our final project. If you’d stop for one goddamn second you could turn around and ask my mom instead of jumping to conclusions as usual.”

She clenches her jaw. “What do you mean,
as usual
?”

“Just what I said.
You always think the worst.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She pulls away, putting a few yards between us before I run after. Honestly, I’m getting tired of this back and forth. I’m not sure I want to chase her anymore. Then my temper kicks in.

“How about after Helen Miller’s party, huh? I tried to help but you pushed me away, spouting some bullshit about sticking my head in the sand. Then when I honor your wishes and keep my mouth shut, you spill your guts to my mom and I get the blame. How about that?”

When Mom pulled that chicken pot pie out of the oven, the last place I expected to be was the middle of the road having a shouting match with Lindsey.

“How about you go fuck yourself?”

“What the hell,
Linds? Don’t put this on me. It’s all you. When you come to your senses, you know where to find me.”

In the distance, she raises a hand above her head and extends her middle finger.

I’m left to stare at her retreating back, wondering what the hell I did to deserve this kind of treatment, and if there’s any way to get us back on track. These days, I’m wondering if there’s a track to get back on. Things that were so clear, so cut-and-dry just a few weeks ago, are a muddy mess. I don’t know who started flinging it first, but I’m done.

And I’m hungry.

God bless her, Mom saves me a giant helping of pot pie, which I gratefully inhale. Only when I’m finished do I let out a groan of appreciation.

“Jenna seems nice,” is Mom’s way-too-obvious conversation opener. I nod and gulp down a giant glass of fresh
raw
milk. It’s the perfect chaser for Mom’s cooking.

“She is. Smart, too.”

“Can we trust her?”

“What? Yeah, she won’t tell anyone. She liked it when I suggested we do a paper on this. She’s just really brainy and thinks of everything. That’s why she had so many questions.”

“I don’t know,” Mom says, shaking her head. “I hope you’re right.”

“Not everyone is out to get us, okay? Relax.
Speaking of relaxing, I need to find Dad. Know where he is?”

“Equipment shed, though I don’t equate relaxing with your father.”

“Want to shoot a couple rounds to blow off some steam. Thought he might want to join me.”

“Sounds fun.
If I didn’t have so much to do, I’d go with you. Need to stay in practice.”

“Me, too.
Oh, and the pot pie was amazing.” It sits warm and heavy in my belly, the subtle spices and flavors lingering on my tongue. I once asked Mom if she felt like she was a slave to the kitchen, that the feminist movement passed her by. She’d laughed and tugged on her apron.

“Honey, real farmers know the wives and mothers are essential to the success of the farm and family. I work just as hard as your dad and he knows it, he appreciates it and he shows me every day. If I wanted to go work in an office or open an above-board business, he wouldn’t stop me. I choose to do this because it makes me happy and I personally believe it’s the right thing for me to do. It gives me great satisfaction to see you and your sister healthy and relatively happy. Me making butter, cheese, candles and soap and selling it at the Rogers Sale is no different than the lady who’s selling those things online or in a little shop somewhere. I do it from my kitchen, is
all.”

Then she’d hugged me and dead-lifted a cast iron kettle big enough to fit a small child.

In the equipment shed, Dad’s elbow-deep in grease, tractor parts spread all around him.

“You busy?”

“What do you think?” He mumbles.

“Wondered if you wanted to do some target practice.”

“Couldn’t even if I had time and neither can you.”

“Why not?”

“You seen the price of ammo lately?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“The price of small-caliber ammo doubled last week.”

“Why?”

“Shortage.”

“Why’s there a shortage? We declare war on someone?”

“Nope. News said the Department of Homeland Security’s buying it all up.”

“They don’t have a military force. What do they need it for?”

“That,” Dad says, “is the million-dollar question.”

“So I seriously can’t go shooting?”

“Not unless you got fifty or sixty bucks lying around, and even if you did, you’d have to drive all over the place to find any. Store shelves are empty. Might have to pour our own.”

“Fine, I’m going swimming.”

“Not quite the same, is it?”

“Not even close,” I reply, and trudge out the door. The creek’s on the other side of the property and I don’t want to walk all the way over just for a quick dip. Bennie trots up with a ball in her mouth so we play fetch until my arm gets tired.

Back in the house, Mom’s unwrapping curds. “Wanna help me press these?”

“Sure.
Which kind you making this time?”

“Farmhouse cheddar.”

“My favorite.”

“Yep, but this isn’t for us.
Got a special order from a woman in Canfield. Can’t tolerate store stuff. She grew up on a farm in Wisconsin and misses the real deal.”

“That’s really great, Mom.”

“Press real hard. Use them muscles.”

We work side-by-side, pressing the curds then wrapping them back up in cheesecloth to be further pressed and drained by fifty pounds of bricks set on top. Dad built her a special shelf in the pantry to store her cheeses while they rest. She goes in and flips them a couple times a day, waxes them and lets them sit for a month or so, depending.

“Could use your help cutting soap, too. Sarah’s spraying the trees today so she gets off the hook.”

“That new spray working?”

“Seems to.”

“Good.” Last year, despite a great corn and hay harvest, we lost too much fruit to pests. Mom outright refused to use commercial chemicals, so I found a recipe for a natural bug and fungus deterrent online. If it works, I’ll be a hero.

“Let me get that for you,” I say, and take the heavy wooden soap molds from her. “Mmm, lavender and raw milk?”

“You got it,” she says.

“If I were a girl, I’d definitely use this kind.”

“Well, this year’s crop was really good, and it doesn’t look as if it’s going to stop anytime soon, so better make good use of it. This here’s from the first cutting I did in June. You just might be using lavender
soap if I don’t sell all this.”

When everything’s said and done, we’ve placed five large molds on the table. Each mold makes a block big enough for ten bars, making fifty bars total. After cutting it, she lets the bars cure for more than a month. These will be ready near the beginning of fall.

Dad rigged her a soap guillotine—one of his finer inventions. I cut while she arranges the bars. There’s a certain kind of fun to be had slicing through those blocks, similar to chopping firewood, but not as sweaty. Tension melts away as I imagine sinking this thing through Jay’s meaty neck.

When we’re done, I help her carry the bars into the pantry where they’ll sit—away from the cheese—to cure. Once again, I curse my sister for not helping Mom more. These things are heavy, and although my mom can probably bench-press other people’s moms, she shouldn’t have to.

“Need anything else?”

“Nope, but thanks for helping. I miss spending time with you. We don’t get to do that much anymore.”

It’s such a relief to have her not mad at me, so I hug her tight, holding on a few seconds longer than she does. After that, I do the last milking of the day and bring in the milk for Mom to process. It’s dark and Sarah should be back from the orchard by now, but she’s nowhere around.

“Will you go look for her?”

I would do nearly anything for my mom, but going out to the orchard to find Sarah again is at the bottom of my list next to shopping for clothes at the mall. Add in the possibility of finding her with Jay and I’d rather jump in the creek naked in January.

The door bangs open and I breathe a sigh of relief. Covered in sweat and sunburned, my sister stomps through the kitchen without saying hello or anything. Mom and I shrug at the same time.

Just before bed, I pull up a browser and do a little more research on distribution of raw milk products. There’s plenty of information in the battle for and against its consumption, and even reports of raids and arrests, but I can’t seem to find the penalties for getting caught. I want to compare the sentencings with those of marijuana producers and those who provide alcohol to minors.

I shut down my computer and stare at my textbook. It’s open to a chapter on bootleggers. In some ways, those men and women were heroes, but in others, they were common criminals. I can’t decide which side of the issue I come down on, because I can argue it both ways. All I know is
, this book studying is more tiresome than I thought. My strength and my heart are outside working with animals.

***

Dr. Kimmel disagrees. Evan and I score a solid A on our research project.

“Almost makes it worth handling cow shit, right Farm Boy?”

“Right, man.” We laugh and congratulate each other.

Jenna and I do the same when we get a high A from Dr. Roberts.

“Great argument and research, you two. Unique topic, as well, one that suits you, Pete. Your passion shined through.”

“Thanks. I’ve been hearing about the raw milk debate since I was little, but I never put it together with controversies in the past.”

“Did you answer your question?”

“My question…”

“Does history repeat itself?”

I smile. “Yeah, it definitely does. People don’t change, do they?”

“Mmm, they do, but sometimes it takes so long or the steps are so small that they’re easy to miss unless you watch carefully. Now you’re better prepared to do that. Both of you.”

Jenna and I grin, thankful for Dr. Roberts’ praise, but mostly for the A.

“Honor roll, here I come!”

There’s only two weeks between the end of summer semester and the fall one, so Jenna and I agree to sit next to each other in Turning Points in American History II.

“You have my number and my email,” she says. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Promise, I won’t, though it’s almost harvest time. I’ll be pretty busy helping around the farm.”

“Take some time to have fun, okay? See you in a few.”

“Right.
And thanks again for your help on the project. We’re a good team.”

She blushes. “We are.”

I watch her walk across campus toward the parking deck, thinking that she’s cute, she’s smart, she’s obviously into me, and we work well together. But there’s just nothing there. She’s kind of like my sister, except we don’t fight and hate each other like Sarah and I do.

Lindsey and I have fought, but she moved out of the sister zone months ago. I’m afraid she may have packed her stuff and permanently moved out of the friend zone, too.