by Peter Prasad
“You see, Van-ness-ah,” he pronounced her name for the first time in three syllables, each rising a little higher in tone. Every Kewpie Doll needed to know her name. Her training had begun.
“Van-ness-ah, we’ll work closely together. You’ll see I like things a certain way and I shall reward your obedience. As we both know, first impressions are never undone. Write that down.” Vanessa complied.
“You must remember everything I tell you. You represent Semper now. You’re an extension of my genius. We’re rebranding as Fransec. Or Semper Wines. Undecided yet. We infer dedication to the true taste of the vine. Isn’t that elegant? You know, I am the best blender in the valley.” Dry-mouthed, she gulped and nodded.
“Finally, Van-ness-ah, you’re scheduled for a two-day wine service course with component tastings Friday and Saturday at the Culinary Academy in Yountville. Is that agreeable?” Semper didn’t wait for her answer.
“I’ve paid for my representative to attend. I’m investing in you. I’ll have a packet of details and materials delivered to your address tomorrow. Sadly, I’m too busy to see you again this week.”
Vanessa felt excited and relieved. She squirmed and eyed the Ladies Room.
Semper noticed and slowed his delivery, making her hang on every word and squirm. “Vo-cab-u-lary,” he trilled across the room in a falsetto. The coffee patrons looked up and stared, then looked away. “You must master the adjectives related to wine. It’s a form of art appreciation. In fact, bring me a list of the words you learn. That’s your homework, little Vannie.” Semper giggled. “Understood?”
Vanessa was ready to agree to anything Semper wanted. She was about to wet herself. Too much coffee, then tea, and now too much excitement, a dangerous condition for her bladder.
“Lastly, Van-ness-ah, I expect to converse with you and I never know when. As late as nine in the evening. Never later. Never before seven in the morning. Are we agreed? You must always take my call. I despise leaving messages.” Semper considered whether he had more to say to his new winery clerk.
He extended his hand. Vanessa grasped it in both of hers, then removed one hand as he formally shook hers overlong. He waited, holding it firmly, until she began to blush. Yes, as he suspected, she’d do nicely.
“Fare thee well, Van-ness-ah,” Semper concluded and dismissed her. “We’ll speak tomorrow and do paperwork on Monday. Cheers.” He watched her rise on unsteady high heels and half bow to him. He studied her backside as she sped to the Ladies. Koch Semper had found something he wanted.
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CHAPTER T HREE
Jake Knight awoke to the rumble of grinding gears outside his cottage. He was hungry for a glass of fresh milk. He favored his injured leg and hobbled to the window.
Outside, a long-haul cab navigated the turn in the dirt road by the cottage. He smelled diesel exhaust. The cab pulled a flatbed trailer loaded with half of a portable building on skids. Jake watched. This was a logistics problem he did not want to solve. The building must be part of the new cheese shed. He guessed Wally and Marco wanted to install it up the hill close to the dairy barns.
A second semi passed with the other half of the portable building, followed by a crane truck to lift the two sections into place. Wally waved to Jake from the window of the crane truck. It looked like Wally had the task organized. Jake gave a thumbs-up sign to Wally and turned to explore the kitchen. He found coffee and filled a chipped ‘Army’ mug. He returned to his room to dress in jeans and a flannel shirt.
Jake found a plate of pancakes and bacon in the oven waiting for him. It was a Knight tradition—first one to cook makes extra. Jerry had done that. Jake finished his breakfast, rinsed the dish and lifted a worn pair of binoculars off a nail. He wanted to revisit his pastureland. On the veranda outside, he found a pair of mud boots that fit and started up the red rust bucket.
Four-wheel drive was a luxury for dairy farmers when Jake grew up. Jerry belittled it. ‘Go get the tractor if you get into trouble,’ was his attitude. Like muscle memory for swinging a bat, Jake had land memory of his dairy. He knew every dip and hill. Land doesn’t change much after you learn to listen to it. He’d driven these fields since age eight. The key: stay clear of ditches and wallows and take your time. Jake’s practiced eye had saved him more than once on patrol in Wardak. He made a practice of spotting cover before he moved forward.
The crane truck blocked the road up to the barns. Jake steered the red rust bucket down the hill toward the county road a quarter-mile away. The rust bucket steered well; the shocks and springs were solid. He drove slowly, inspecting fence for needed repairs, reminding himself why Jerry had loved this land.
The property extended for a short section along the asphalt. Jake remembered how Jerry howled at the cost-share the county required for grading and tar. At eight years old, Jake didn’t understand why they needed anything but dirt; he sure did now.
Most of his acreage ran back from the county road in a long rectangle up to the barns on the hill, then stretched east and south, wrapping around the natural contours of the meadow. It was all open grazing land with sections hidden from the road by small hills, dales and dips. Wild brush and berry patches filled the muddy bogs.
He had two roads to maintain. The important one ran from the asphalt past the cottages to the animal barns on the hill. To the east, a second dirt track ran from the county road along the property line to spring meadow behind a hill. The year-round spring fed out of the bottom of the hill. That access road was chained shut at the gate. The lock had rusted tight years ago; Jake made a note to replace it.
He rolled along the county road well past his property and noted new homesteads on five-acre plots, probably built for commuter families that worked in San Francisco or at a high-tech oasis in the East Bay. He saw these houses as encroaching civilization, not always a bad thing. What remained unchanged was the open expanse of rolling grass, much of it fenced and none of it in production. The once-thriving dairy herds had dried up to hamburger. Some farmers had converted to chickens and eggs but abandoned the now-splintered coops.
Sonoma dairy had run in cycles of boom and bust since the 1870s, when Italian farmers migrated out of San Francisco, bent on feeding an urban population and raising a family. A handful of wineries started then; most had not survived Prohibition. Tax breaks in the 1970s started a new boom. Many of the new wineries were built in Napa, the next valley east, and further up the Sonoma valley or in the rich volcanic soil by historic Sonoma Square. At the turn of the century, Jack London set up in Sonoma’s Valley of the Moon.
Occasionally Jake passed a field of overgrown grass peppered with thick black root stock, grown wild in a Rasta-like explosion of untamed vine shoots. Years ago he’d earned pocket money chasing goats and cows out of such places.
The agricultural dairy base of California had shifted to industrial feedlots beside train tracks up and down the state. Small farmers with 100 Jerseys became extinct. Commercial dairy south of Sacramento replaced community dairy as Jake grew into a man. Artisan cheese and small organic milk herds raced in as salvation.
What did he know? Getting the dairy back into production was his therapy, at least for the next year. He still dreamed of becoming a P.I., if he could swing it.
Jake looked at his gas gauge. He pulled into a convenience gas station four miles from the ranch, a local landmark since his childhood. Teddy Ramirez and his family ran the place.
Jake wondered if anyone would remember him. He gave the gal behind the counter a $50 bill for a fill-up. She watched him through the window as he pumped the gas. He walked back inside to pick up two sandwiches, six beers and a quart of organic Sonoma milk.
The glass-front cooler stocked milk in glass quarts. He reached for a bottle, peeled off the red plastic top and drank from the round mouth. He used his tongue to poke through a solid inch of cream top. He tasted his childhood. The simplicity of the moment captured him. He nursed the jug, three sips at a time, and knew he
was going to drain it too quickly. Some may yak about heady, fruit wine or smoky, peaty scotch but Jake was a connoisseur of fresh whole milk. He could taste the land in it.
He walked to the cash register, waving the glass bottle in his left hand, beers and sandwiches cradled in the crook of his right arm. He set his items on the counter and returned to the dairy case to grab another bottle.
The gal behind the counter stopped what she was doing and watched him. She frowned at his barnyard way of drinking from the bottle but she didn’t say a word. She cracked half a smile. “Hey. I recognize the truck. You related to Wally?”
“Yep. I’m Jake. I grew up here.” The embroidered patch on her uniform shirt said “Audra.” He shook her hand.
“So you’re the Army brother? Rangers, right? Back from Afghanistan? Wally talks about you. Vets get a 10% discount on food and brew.” She punched keys on the register and bagged his purchases. Jake finished the bottle of Straus Family Creamery Organic and noted it was kosher.
Audra gave him a harder look. “So you’re a neighbor. Maybe you know what’s going on. You the one killing goats?”
“No. Not me. What’s with that?” Jake squinted at Audra.
“Someone is…slitting throats and taking livers. They dumped three by our fence last week. Ass bungs wasted the meat. Weird, huh?”
Jake set the empty bottle on the counter. “I got out of Redwoods yesterday. Sounds like dumb-ass high school kids.”
“Who picks on goats? Cut-n-dump cock-suckers.” Audra crossed her arms and stared at him. “We look out for our neighbors around here.”
“Me too.” Jake picked up his groceries, pocketed the receipt and turned to leave. “I’ll keep an eye out, Audra.” As a property manager, he needed to keep all possible risks in mind.
He walked out and smelled the early heat of a Sonoma summer. As for the goats, maybe it was a crazy prank. Kids might kill a goat if they were drunk, but butchery was not a big extra-curricular activity. No one stole livestock in Sonoma. The days of the open-range cattle rustler had retired to TV. Goats were little lawn mowers.
***
The next week burned with farm activity. Wally and Marco worked whole days assembling the cheese house. While Marco was finishing the stainless steel interior Jake and Wally repaired the barns, patched the roofs, and built paddocks and storage bins for supplemental feed.
Jake’s leg was healing and he thrived on the exercise. Decent sleep, hearty food and honest labor were his medications of choice. His one indulgence was a quart of organic whole milk every morning and he favored fresh Kenya coffee beans.
He finished the antibiotics and didn’t bother with more pain pills. He’d been hurt before and pain was no stranger. He began to carve out a new sense of home.
Sandy rang a cow bell to announce dinner. She served exotic salads and pasta dishes with a different meat sauce every night. Jake favored her spicy Portuguese sausage meatballs. His education continued with cheese samples for dessert and tasting notes supplied by Sandy. Slowly, he and Wally learned the vocabulary of gourmet cheese. Marco discussed the finer points of running a farmstead creamery. He was smart enough to listen when Jake chimed in.
Wally wanted Jake’s help in setting up his lab. Together they framed a corner of the feed barn, enclosed the space and hung a ceiling. They installed glass windows that looked out onto the interior of the barn. Jake climbed onto the roof and installed skylights. He mounted a wireless Internet service dish on the roof and thanked Uncle Sam for his electronics training.
Jake added an air filtration system and vents into the lab. He ran new electrical service for the refrigeration and computer equipment to the lab and cheese houses. It took a few more days to run water to the lab and cheese houses. He built a drain field that recycled water across a meadow below both buildings.
Jake had learned plenty looking after Jerry’s 108 brown Jersey cows, known for high butterfat. But the dairy industry had changed. Now, the health department defined stricter procedures and the number of lab tests amazed him. Cleanliness and repeated lab-test verifications were the keys to maintaining a certified homestead rating. To that end, Wally kept a log of notes, times and tests in his lab computer.
Getting their cheese certified as ‘organic’ was an expensive seven-year process. Marco calculated that the fees alone came to $5,000 and he’d spend another $10,000 on paperwork. But customers thought that the cheese tasted better if the label said “organic.” He stressed the importance of tracking temperatures and times when running the milk pasteurizer—five hours minimum for the slower lower temperature process he preferred. He introduced Jake to the campylobactor bacteria, which Jake referred to as the ‘campy-lobster’. Wally explained it was a nasty bacteria associated with raw milk and poultry. Jake shrugged it off, secure in the knowledge that milk would never kill him.
“Once the health inspector sees we’re taking this seriously and tracking data, we should be okay. Cheese is a living thing, so keep it clean,” Marco said. He demanded a sanitized cheese shed and aging ‘cave.’ Once he’d had to remove 500 pounds of cheese wheels from an aging room to track down an errant odor.
With the cheese shed operational, only Marco and Sandy went inside. Jake’s boots were often too dirty and Wally stayed busy in his lab.
Jake remembered how he’d help Jerry load raw milk in squat ten-gallon milk churns and line them by the road for the processor to pick up. By age ten, he’d lift, load and unload 50 churns by himself. He’d grab a quick breakfast and a glass of raw milk then run to the county road for the school bus. Back then, no one complained if you smelled like cows. Half the other kids did too.
Jake enjoyed watching Marco apply his mastery of cheese-making skills, the product of food-science school and internships with cheese-makers in Italy, Spain and France. In a quiet, steady way Marco and Sandy excelled at their chosen work, wed to a life of early mornings, long hours and no holidays. They’d provide the product and give the gourmet-glory to the chefs.
Marco planned to supplement his sheep’s milk with cow’s milk. Once he had sheep’s milk, he’d freeze some and use the rest to make 100% sheep’s-milk cheese. To get through the winter, they’d make cheese from 100% cow’s milk. It was delivered to the cheese shed three times a week in a stainless steel tanker.
With the barns rehabilitated and secure, Marco had 100 East Friesen sheep, two rams and a bellwether sheep delivered. After a team meeting, the rams were named Jerry Ding and Jerry Dong. The rams were bigger and stronger than Jake expected. Testosterone made it so. Wally turned red when Marco related the fact of the day: About 8% of rams are gay. Jerry Ding and Jerry Dong took no offense.
At his new lab, Wally stayed busy running blood tests and stool samples on each ewe. Jake didn’t want details on what he was looking for. Dr. Morgan, a sprightly large-animal veterinarian, poured over the tabulated results and gave her approval. All the sheep passed inspection. The Spencer Creamery was in business.
Marco had met his deadline to have all the players in place to produce baby lambs by February. Now they had to wait until February for the first sheep’s milk. Breeding would begin in a week or two.
Each ram got a breeding pool of 50 ewes, plenty of curly-haired girlfriends to satisfy. Neither Knight brother expected to match their stamina. On the other hand, the rams had a single seasonal job dictated by hormones, scent and tail-waggles. Marco wanted all the ewes fertilized in the same month. The dairy would be busy in February with birthing, ear-tagging, docking, castration, wool-clipping and vaccinations timed together.
Love would be in the air in October, when the heat was on and tupping began. “Tuppence for your thoughts,” Wally kept joking, in a variety of bad English accents.
‘Happy sheep make happy milk’ was a Spencer mantra that Jake translated as, ‘Grass is grass and these critters know what to do.’ Marco refused to blindfold or hobble the rams. He reminded Jake to move slowly around the herd and never turn his back on a ram.
Thor,
the sheep dog, an expert leg-nipper, needed no reminders. He leaped at the opportunity to boss 100 sheep. Once he had cowed the bellwether ram - an old castrated male - with intimidating barks and nips, the other sheep fell in line.
Until the ewes showed some interest, the rams were kept separated in personal pens or in separate sections of fenced meadow. Marco didn’t want to see his assets bump heads or get carried away in boyish displays of being macho.
Jake healed on a steady routine of labor. He stacked bales of hay in the barns and stocked the feed bins with supplements. The ewes needed supplemental nutrition in their last six weeks of pregnancy to assure healthy births. Jake made repeated trips in the red rust bucket to the feed store to load in sacks and bales.
Word spread through southern Sonoma that the Knights were in the sheep-dairy business. Locals made a point of stopping Jake in town with inquiries or to say, “Hey, welcome back.” A few remembered his high school-football glory days.
Slowly, dairy life settled into a routine. Jake could manage his chores in a few hours each morning and a few more before sunset. He enjoyed watching the sheep graze in new meadows with Thor at their heels. Marco and Sandy sold all the cheese they made to restaurants, cheese shops and at farmers markets. It worked for them; it paid a wage for Wally and Jake.
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CHAPTER FOUR
Wild Bill Nastor cinched his seatbelt and tapped the gas pedal as he waited for the guard to pass him through the security gate at a chemical supply depot in Reno, Nevada. His panel van was fully loaded. He had miles to go and important deliveries to make before he slept. He itched to hit the road.
As the sun set, he unfolded his new mirrored aviator sunglasses. They’d shade his eyes from oncoming headlights. Bright lights gave him headaches. His headaches hurt like a bitch and were dangerous, especially for other people. Hyper-alert, he adjusted the sunglasses on his battered, twice-broken pug nose and allowed the van to roll forward. Once clear of the gate, he saluted the guard and hit the gas.
