Losing My Raw Milk Virginity

       Last weekend's journey to the Northeast Organic Farmers Association of NY Conference in Saratoga Springs was everything a young, suburban farm-enthusiast could ever want...and more! Flabbergasted by my inexperience in consuming raw milk, my wonderfully caring friend insisted that we make a pit stop on our way. We stopped at Hawthorne Valley in Ghent, NY for some raw milk and peace of milk.

       I'm a big fan of milk. So big that I refuse to drink skim. I want as much of the creamy, fatty, natural goodness possible, even if that means drinking it warm out of the bucket and increasing my cholesterol and surface area of my rear end three-fold! Unfortunately New York has strict laws regarding the sale of unpasteurized milk. However, don't be discouraged just yet as there are a few resources for those of you on Long Island and in the Hudson Valley area. Check out this great article by Eileen Duffy in Edible East End this summer for some more info on the politics of raw milk sales. It is so much creamier, velvety, and rich than pasteurized milk. I don't quite understand why we ever started killing it with heat! Oh yeah....the FDA. Buzzkill. More info on the NOFA-NY conference to follow. For now, feast your eyes on the biodynamic and organic nectar I submerged my tummy in! MMM mmm mmm!!

http://www.edibleeastend.com/departments/artisans/a-one-man-dairy-farm/

My Thoughts on "The Hamptons & Long Island Homegrown Cookbook" by Leeann Lavin

         It’s about time Long Island was recognized for more than its traffic, annoying accent, and beaches! Leeann Levin’s new book The Hamptons & Long Island Homegrown Cookbook is a celebration of the natural resources, farmers, and chefs who help preserve the integrity of Long Island’s agricultural bounty. I discovered this resource when meeting Leeann at the inauguration of Stony Brook Hospital’s rooftop garden where we celebrated by eating with some of the cookbook’s featured chefs Guy Reuge of Mirabelle and Amarelle’s Lia Fallon. Leeann has been involved in horticulture for more than a decade, having worked at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, designing gardens with Duchess Designs, LLC, and writing for Wall Street Journal, Food & Drink, and her own blog about celebrity chefs and their gardens.

 From the Hamptons to Nassau, Leeann takes us into the gardens and kitchens of restaurants that combine our “unique homegrown harvest” with the elegance of restaurant dishes. The book is divided into regions featuring several restaurants, a history of its chef and sister farm, and recipes. Each section showcases vibrant photographs of ingredients, finished dishes, and portraits of chefs and farmers harvesting ingredients by Lindsay Morris and Jennifer Calais Smith.

Recipes are broken down concisely, although prior knowledge of technical terms such as “render,” “score,” or how to trim a fish fillet is required. Since it’s winter, I tried East Hampton Grill’s Salad of Local Beets and Apples, Fresno’s Braised Beef Shortribs, and North Fork Table & Inn’s Roasted Curried Butternut Squash and Apple Soup.  Luckily I am familiar with local farmers markets, but given their seasonal nature it’s difficult to ensure that what you need will be available. Inexperienced shoppers will have to seek out nearby resources, but may substitute when necessary. Cooking instructions are clear and detailed. However, I recommend this book for the advanced home cook since many beginners will not have much of the necessary equipment. I would have liked to make Foody’s Cherry Wood-Smoked Brisket, but don’t have a smoker and my grill would fall apart if I tried to smoke anything for 4 hours. I also had to improvise when making Apple Gremolata since I don’t own a Japanese mandolin.

Overall, I highly recommend this book for its delicious and complicated recipes and efforts to preserve the culinary legacy of Long Island. Whether you’re a chef, farmer, or locavore, you’ll find Leeann’s book an invaluable and noteworthy cultural resource.

In the Defense of Our Fight for Food

       Though I've always been interested in food and health, it wasn't until my first Anthropology of Food class during my sophomore year of undergrad that I started to learn how complicated our food situation is. Alternative medicine, nutrition, and an "all natural" diet attracted me at a young age, though I think my family's italian eating habits also contributed to my interest. Reading "In the Defense of Food" was my baptism and inspired the foundation of my food philosophy. I ate healthy, did yoga, was impressed by Whole Foods, learned the cooking traditions of my family, and paid closer attention to my Nonno in our gardens. As crunchy as they come, I nod in defeat when asked if I eat granola, read Eastern philosophy, and enjoy things that taste like dirt.
       After undergrad I bounced to Italy, expecting to study something historic and even perhaps Renaissance related. I had first heard about Slow Food from a sociology professor I met in the small town of Pisciotta where I vacationed in Southern Italy. I still didn't know a lot about Slow Food when I arrived in Florence, but when given the opportunity to chose an organization for my year-long internship, I jumped on the snail. A month later, against the better judgement of my then advisors and colleagues, I decided to write my thesis on it. Though difficult due to a lack of info and disinterest from the majority of my colleagues, (though I must point out and thank those who encouraged me), I was hungry to learn about the movement seeking to restore the quality, environmental sustainability, locality, ritual, and identity of food. My hunger was fed and curiosity temporarily satisfied until I really got into the nitty gritty of writing.
       Months of reading and writing and a parade of frustrating edits, emails, and unsuccessful interviews added up to 60 pages I could hold in my hands. Though satisfied by my accomplishment and more educated than I had been on the subject of food issues, there was still a problem. Academically, I had succeeded and even proven wrong those who doubted my ability to pursue a subject more commonly associated with pleasure than scholastics in most Italian Studies programs. Philosophically, however, I was confused. I have been called out as a "food snob," insensitive to the fact that healthy and good food is expensive and inaccessible to most. Specifically, the issue of elitism has caused me much anxiety and heavy reflection on why I am on this mission to change our food system to begin with. Some people are happy with today's food system and don't think they should have to spend more money on food. I have never been hungry a day in my life so why should I be entitled to dictating what access others (the hungry especially) have to food?
       Well, I've thought about it a lot and would like to clarify my mission as I have done in my profile above. Though I may seem overly defensive and can not refer to specific incidences of being called out, there's a fiery burn in my gut that tells me I have to say this. The goals of myself and many others that seek to change the industrial food system of today is not a nostalgic attempt to revert back to eating habits of the past. I understand that we have a growing population to sustain in ways that cannot be met by technologies of the past. I don't think everyone should have to grown their own food if they have no interest, I don't think people should stop eating meat, and I especially don't think people who use the only $10.00 they have to feed a hungry family of four at MacDonald's are "stupid" or "disgraceful."
       The goal is not to shun consumers who are always entitled to the freedom of choice. Whether or not you chose to eat genetically modified, processed, or convenient food and if you give a damn at all is your choice. (Monsanto, lobbyists, and the environmentally irresponsible, however, deserve to be criticized since their monopolistic behavior oppresses the environment and choices of other consumers). My goal is to educate those who do not know that there are other options. My goal is help low-income families understand that they can feed their families on healthy food at a low cost. My goal is to give kids adequate choices in the cafeteria and feed them energy, not chemicals. My goal is for every city to have an accessible farmers market every day of the week. To empower small-scale farmers. To help artisanal producers regain a competitive edge in the food system. To encourage planting a garden, going to farmers markets, and eating less meat, not to impose it. To provide more resources for those who do care. To provide an alternative to the industrial food system. Whoever wants to keep eating twinkies, MacDonald's, and a corn-fed, carnivorous diet are entitled to their choice to continue doing so. What is not okay is that those of us who would like to return to a diet rooted in local sources that does not have detrimental effects on our bodies or the environment and supports local economy  must continuously search for those resources. Why is it that New York State is the largest producer of apples in the country, but our supermarkets sell primarily apples produced in Washington State? Why is it acceptable that low- income families can afford processed, cheap, and unhealthy food, but do not have access to healthy, local options? Inaccessibility and ignorance are the issues to be corrected and there is nothing elite about it.
       Perhaps this is why the issue is such a delicate one. On one hand, we need to educate consumers to make more environmentally responsible choices. On the other hand, we cannot completely eliminate parts of the industrial food system that stand today. This problem causing the issue is the freedom to support industrial agriculture. The solution is providing more choices for those of us who like to use our freedom of choice to support a sustainable and local food system. Whether you are on board is up to you. However, I won't accept the negative and elitist connotations commonly associated with the sustainable food movement when we are working towards the well-being of all of mankind and the planet as a whole. Someone needed to say it.

An old favorite from my last blog..."From Tofu to Tripe"

          I did my best and that’s all there is to it. A carnivore at heart, my short-lived vegetarian experience was shattered upon my arrival in the culinary Mecca of Florence. I stuck to my guns with my meat-free habits for a few weeks and I must admit it was not so painful. The fruit and vegetable vendors on every corner lure you into their colorful, organic abyss with scents of berries you can smell for kilometers and tomatoes so succulent you wanna pop em’ like candy. Things got tricky when I started my internship with Slow Food Toscana and was introduced into the Tuscan gastronomic tendency to put meat not only on a string, but also on a pedestal. I threw in the towel pretty early and felt relief and happiness to finally be sinking my canines into some fresh Tuscan prosciutto and mortadella di Prato. “What the hell was I thinking?!,” I scolded myself, unaware of the swan dive I was taking into the consumption of quasi-every possible body part imaginable. Slow Food was eager to get me acquainted with the Tuscan tradition and so I made my first bold excursion into the quaint, inviting little world of the Trippaio (Tripe Vendor). And so I threw away the tofu, held my nose, and took notes on one of Florence’s oldest and most endangered cultural traditions—-tripe.

            Dating back to street vendors behind the grandiose Piazza della Repubblica in the 1400’s, tripe took a few centuries to gain its appeal, (which is easy to understand, being that you are stomaching stomach). In these days the Trippaio did not yet have its artful reputation and was reserved for the class-less, socially subordinate poverty of Florence. However with the rising popularity of the famous dish, trippezampa, tripe was able to gain its place in Florentine culture in the 1500’s. Only 300 years later, the Trippaio finally solidified its unique identity and broke free from the negative reputation of those who hand out scraps to stray cats in the 1400’s. It became a job-- he who pushes a cart of tripe through Florence, vending his delicious delicacies to every demographic. The economic boom in the 1960s left businessmen on the go looking for a quick, yet delicious fix without the hassle of sitting down in a restaurant. They took refuge at the Trippaio who today serves many interpretations of the once traditional plates. Today the Trippai can ditch their wheels for fixed locations in piazzas and street corners throughout Florence. Slow Food Toscana brought me to one piazza in particular to meet one of, perhaps the only, truly traditional Trippaio left in Florence—Leonardo nella Piazza di Gavinana.

            Slender, tall, and grey with soft blue eyes and a shy smile, Leonardo relieved us of the struggle to speak in the formal, warmly welcoming my friend Amanda and myself into his cozy little stand on a cold autumn day. 20 years ago Leonardo took on the cultural responsibility of this “grand bel lavoro.” A people-person who vibes off of the social interaction his tripe stand provides for himself and consumers, he showed us that the Trippaio is much larger than the 10x20 ft stand we squished into that day.

            We started with a trip to the local frutteria (fruit vendor). A tedious 100 steps away, Leonardo graciously selected the necessary celery, carrots, and herbs he needed for the day’s tripe.  As he calmly chopped the vegetables needed to make the most popular dish, panino di lampredotto, Leonardo explained the necessity of doing the shopping himself in frutterie rather than supermarkets. “I see what I eat this way.” Having arrived literally from local Italian farms, to the frutteria, to Leonardo, he can ensure the freshness and origin of the vegetables he uses, while supporting small local businesses and taking the time to do so. Leonardo also explains his keenness on seasonality. The frutterie only offer what is in season, giving him fresh new options. When things like truffle or a certain kind of cabbage are in, Leonardo works with the Earth’s generous diversity and incorporates it into his traditional dishes. “Usiamo quello che c’è ora…Credo che sia una filosofia. Non si usa le cose che arrivano da chissà!” (We use what there is at the moment…I think it’s a philosophy. You don’t use things that come from who knows where!), was his straightforward explanation.

            Now we get into the nitty gritty as he whips out a giant tub full of--you got it—stinky, pale, and rubbery tripe a.k.a. cow stomach. The smell is something particular that I have never before so luckily experienced. It has a certain chemical-like smell, distinct to organs that, if you never have to, I’d imagine many of you have never indulged your senses in. Taken back by its appearance and lovely perfume, I made eye contact with my American friend in the hopes that she too was bewildered by its strong presence. Embarrassed by my lack of anthropological appreciation for the new odor, I was relieved to read the same look of “OH MY GOD” in Amanda’s eyes. Perhaps the best part was the anticipation of eating the fluffy, spongy stomach we knew was in the near future.

            Every morning fresh tripe arrives from its complex preparation. The tripe and lampredotto, (the first two stomachs of the cow that serve for storage and the absorption upon digestion) come fresh from the treatment facility where it is emptied, cleaned, trimmed of its fat, and boiled. All of this is done by hand, eternally omitting the common Western finishing touch of freezing. Intact, clean, and ready, the never-frozen tripe arrives at Leonardo and nothing is gone to waste. Unfortunately for the future of the Trippaio, the job of preparation is not exactly that which most bambini dream of. Decked out in rubber gloves, boots, and gators, the 80-year-old man who prepares the tripe for Leonardo, (one of 3 left in the Florentine area), wakes up at 2 am every morning to start the dirty and difficult task of tripe prep. Leonardo adds that today a machine can also effectively perform this art, but he makes it clear that machine-prepared tripe has a different quality and taste. Quality over quantity rules the kitchen of this nice little nook, shooing away industrial ideas of efficiency and mass production. Leonardo fears it may not be possible much longer if no one inherits the most precious job of the dedicated vecchietto. Although smelly, its essential role in cultural preservation adds an enchanting element to the profession.

Unlike its complex appearance and smell, the recipe is fairly simple—a few vegetables, spices, canned tomatoes, and love. (To provide the exact recipe would be taboo, for Leonardo made it quite clear that the information he shared with us was a hefty secret). The strange aroma of the raw tripe and lampredotto quickly succumbed to the rich, savory scent bubbling up from the giant, simmering pot. Amanda and I quickly exchanged looks of approval, forgetting about our fears and apprehension from earlier.

Then came the moment of truth. Surrounded by Florentines chomping away on their sandwiches, Amanda and I were put to the task of tasting. Leonardo enthusiastically and generously prepared us 3 of his prized dishes. The first, and best might I add, was the panino di lampredotto. Bathed in a complex, intense sauce full of seasonal aromas and tangy tomato, the very foldy, not-so-chewy sandwich went down like cake. Apprehensive, yet still brave from the satisfaction of our first expedition, we dove into the next plate: tripe. This time we didn’t have the safety blanket of bread. Drenched in the same aromatic sauce, the chewy tripe yielded a pleasant, subtle flavor. The texture was something to get used to, but yet again another success. One may say three times the charm but in our case perhaps we should have stopped at 2. The last plate, bollita, revolutionized my thoughts on my own limits and capabilities. A hearty stew of cow tongue, snout, breast, uterus, and tendon, it was definitely a shocking plummet back into the world of meat eating. I was literally speechless. Amanda and I looked at the dish as the Florentines watched us with anticipation. Leonardo giggled, acknowledging the discomfort and difficulty he was subjecting us to in this classically awkward and textbook cultural situation. After verbalizing our obvious apprehension and admitting our ethnocentric difficulty to our audience, we opened, chewed, and swallowed. Surprise! We survived as will the tradition of the Trippaio if people will take the plunge like we did.

Panino di lampredotto

            That’s the unfortunate reality of the Trippaio, as with many other culinary traditions in Italy. Leonardo works hard to preserve the Florentine identity associated with his unique occupation. He chooses, unlike many other Trippai, not to serve non-traditional dishes of the Trippaio, like wild boar, tortellini, and even cheeseburgers. Perhaps the most rewarding effect of his Slow Food efforts is the social environment he creates. People can mingle in the piazza, munching, chatting, and getting to know each other. It brings an element of ritual back to eating as people form social bongs through aesthetic pleasure. However, working to provide Florentines with the comfort of knowing where their food comes from, careful preparation, and a social experience doesn’t seem to be enough to rejuvenate this century-old recipe. The problem is obvious in the difficulty Amanda and I experienced in our meal. Tripe is something you must eat from the time you are little in order to gain an appreciation. These days, many parents do not introduce their children to Florentine culinary traditions like tripe. Leonardo disappointingly claims that most parents don’t want to listen to the whining and demanding of their kids so they just give in and take them to MacDonald’s. I know I’m definitely not a mother and don’t have to deal with poopy pants, 6am wake up calls, or angry teachers, but let me ask you this—-if your kid begs and screams not to take a shower are you going to give in? If they stomp and cry to watch porn and scarface are you going to press play? If they shout and demand to camp outside on a cold, seasonally inappropriate night are you going to shrug it off and “deal with it?” Why, then, is what they eat compromised when it is one of the essential elements of our existence?! I’m not saying we have to force-feed our kids uterus and tendon, but if they are not taught the unique cultural traditions of today, who will ensure their persistence tomorrow? What will happen to the dedicated traditional practitioners like Leonardo? Will the children of tomorrow loose the sanctity in well prepared, traditional, and quality cuisine?

            This is what Slow Food is trying to change. Leonardo explains concisely and without hesitation what it means to be a Trippaio. “D’essere una cosa abbastanza particolare con un ruolo particolare. A me piace. La responsabilità non mi sento.” (To be something particular enough with a particular role. I like it. I don’t feel the responsibility). I’m not condemning the pleasure in the occasional international delight, but cuisine is a part of the whole identity of a culture. By working to maintain these traditions and using what the Earth provides for us, we can help save the existence of something truly unique. Food cannot lose its enchanting quality and quality must not be sacrificed. Diversity is beauty, even if it means I have a stomach full of stomach.

La Trippa

Some Like it Raw: An Old Tale of Pecorino

“Pronto…” I managed to mutter, rolling around in my bed hitting the snooze button over and over again in hopes that another 5 minutes would get rid of the headache from last night’s wine festivities. “Cristiiiina, dove sei? Trovatemi alla stazione alle 9!!” (Cristina, where are you? Meet me at the station at 9!!) As much as I adore the woman, the raspy, worn-in and assertive voice of my Slow Food boss was the last thing I wanted waking me up at 7:30 in the morning. Vacationing in Florence is a Godsend full of tours of Chianti, big naked marble men, and papardelle al cinghiale. Studying abroad in Florence means 5 euro bottles of 14% alcoholic wine, exceptional pizza for breakfast and underage “students” stumbling home, taking off their heels in defeat of the cobblestone and singing whichever of last year’s songs the discotecca can’t seem to let go of. However, getting your Master’s in Florence is both a blessing and a curse. While I had been lucky enough to be adopted not only by two of the most social, friendly and open-minded Florentines a lone American can find, they were also foodies who loved to drink wine despite the day of the week. Giulia, (a 5’2 sommelier with a passion for Paris, sporting Marc Jacobs glasses and a 6’7 personality), and Costanza, (the subtler of the two, a long, elegant ballerina who can be found more often in her converses in Santo Spirito than her job at one of Florence’s most hip restaurants). Unable to grasp the concept that a 9am meeting with my internship the next morning meant niente vino the night before, I was yet again manipulated into treating my taste buds and gettin giddy over a bottle of Rugiagli. I washed my face, ate some toast and cursed myself for not remembering to put a bottle of water in the fridge the night before. 

            The tram station was a fun place to people watch and practice my Italian by eavesdropping. I’ve got some memories at that station: waiting for my colleague Amanda to survive the mob of Ponte Vecchio on her commute; almost being assaulted by a drunk bum; and realizing I left my wallet all the way in San Frediano on a rainy day.  We met here often to take the tram to Scandicci, a small city outside of Florence where we met our Slow Food boss, Giovanna. My phone rang again. “RAGAZZE, ci siete? Arrivo fra 5 minuti!” (Girls, are you here? I’ll be there in 5 minutes!) We got off the tram, hopped in her car, and stopped at a Bar for an espresso. “Siete pronte? Spero di ricordare dov’è la casa di Alessio!” (Are you ready? I hope I remember where Alessio’s house is!) Bobbing with every shift and grabbing the “oh shit” bar, we zoomed through the hills of Chianti in Giovanna’s smoke-filled car. (Italians don’t typically give a damn about second hand smoke so it’s something you learn to live with as a non-smoker). Sure enough, we got lost in the hills. After 1/2 hour of laughing and a sharp turn, we landed on a hill overlooking to Tuscan countryside at one of Slow Food Toscana’s most recognized producers—Alessio and his sheep farm.

            It was 9am and the sun was already hot, but the breezy hills kept us cool as we followed the sound of bah’s. They led us to a small corral full of about 40 sheep attached to a crumbling villa on the edge of a steep hill. There the masessi, comisani, and sardi sheep from Tuscany, Sicily and Sardena become a blur of black and white fur, red faces and horns. At the end was a small, roofed pen with  another 20 or so sheep inside. Alessio, a middle-aged, handsome man with a dirty apron and sun-kissed face, was bracing a sheep and concentrating intently on his father. The cute, little old farmer was sitting on a bench, bent over and milking the sheep over an old tin bucket. With each rhythmic tug a squirt of creamy milk streamed into the tin as Alessio calmed the sheep with gentle pats. Besides the symphony of bah’s and occasional bird chirp, all I could hear was the tangy zing of milk hitting the pail. They moved slowly with intent, almost automatically. When they finished milking the sheep, they gave her a satisfied look, the old man walked into the villa with the bucket, and Alessio came to shake our hands. They were surprisingly smooth, but still strong.

            Alessio is one of the few small-scale farmers in Tuscany who produce fresh pecorino from un-pasteurized sheep’s milk. The happy sheep bathe in the sun of their spacious ring and local fields on the surrounding hills grazing on fresh grass, rice grains, maize, hay and even beans. Everyday Alessio and his father patrol the sheep, checking for those who need to be milked. He checks for full udders, showing us how to tell if the she-sheep needed a milkin. Floppy, full udders means milk time, although he always leaves enough for the baby sheep trailing behind their mamas and breakin my heart with their cute little bah’s. “Quando sono incinte, non vengono toccate per cinque mesi” (When they’re pregnant, no one touches them for five months), Alessio explained. They take the milk from the sheep pen and bring it right into the barn where it is immediately made into cheese. However, unlike in Sardinia where many traditional sheep farmers have changed their production methods to keep up with their debts to national banks, the price of milk is still more than the price of its production in Tuscany.  The milk is taken and filtered twice to ensure there are no pieces of wood, dirt or sediment. The milk is never pasteurized, Alessio assured as he explained il caglio, or rennet. The rennet  is a complex of enzymes naturally produced in the four stomachs of the sheep that permit the milk to become solid, separating the curd from the whey. Alessio takes the solids, grinds them, puts them in water and salt and little by little adds a compound of fresh milk. Little by little, while it condenses into yogurt, he adds the curds as it becomes grittier and finally aggregates. From there, it becomes various types of pecorino cheese.

Conscious of the delicate balance between nature and producer necessary for sustainable agriculture, Alessio respects the needs of his sheep. Once a month a veterinarian comes to inspect the sheep and give them vaccinations. In fact, the sheep even have names. Mucca, a big female who has been around for years, was my favorite. “Questa fattoria è particolare,” (This farm is special), said Alessio. The sheep receive no hormones, no antibiotics and no pesticides. Although many Americans are under the impression that these products do not exist in Italy, the harsh reality of their existence negates this hopeful belief. Yet, the health of his sheep is not the Alessio’s only concern. “Si rischia la saluta pubblica. Si deve stare attento.” (You risk public health. One must be careful).

            It is his close connection and understanding of his sheep that makes Alessio a producer worthy of attention. “Se vengono tratatti bene, il prodotto viene bene. Il rapporto con gli animali fa una differenza sul prodotto” ( If they are treated well, the product is good. The relationship with the animals makes a difference on the product). Unfortunately, the number of farmers who use traditional methods like Alessio took a dive in the late 20^th century. Not only is there a shortage of grazing land as a result of the increase in vineyards in the late 20^th century, but globalization is also a problem. Alessio explained the difficulty in remaining in business when factory farms are taking over Italy and health standards restrict the use of raw milk in food products. The rapid period of industrialization in Italy from the 1950s-1980s made it difficult for small-scale producers like Alessio to stay competitive in Italy’s increasingly international market. Like the production of cars, infrastructure, clothing, and other elements of life that standardized during Italy’s post-war industrial period, agriculture and alimentation adopted similar standards. In fact, 50% of the milk consumed in Italy today comes from abroad for half the price. The “hygiene-obsessed” bureaucrats of the European Economic Community in Europe and the US became more comfortable with cellophane-wrapped, symmetrical, and sterilized processed and packaged foods that the agribusiness of the industrial revolution stamped as the only viable and safe option. While in theory pasteurization is beneficial in that it protects consumers from harmful bacteria, it also kills good bacteria and much of the sour, tangy flavors only present in raw milk. Let’s face it—cheese made from raw milk tastes fresher and is richer in flavor!

            Luckily Slow Food works to protect producers like Alessio from being forced to standardize their traditional production methods. When I finally got to taste the cheese from Alessio’s farm I was speechless. All that I could think was “how on earth could anyone ever STOP this delicious cheese from being produced?!” It was tangy, chewy, slightly spongy, and juicy. It didn’t need bread or pear marmalade. All it needed was a swig of Chianti to wash it down and a bons vivant to recognize its divinity. The hangover, cigarette hot-boxed car ride, and lack of sleep didn’t matter. I visited a pecorino farm that is in danger of disappearing, as more and more small-scale farmers cannot keep up with the expensive competition of today’s agricultural market. I’d chose sheep over sleep anyday in this case. Although Alessio does struggle to keep up with large competition, he has no intentions of changing his production methods. “Si deve sposare alla vita di una fattoria di pecore,” (You must marry yourself to the lifestyle of a sheep farmer), Alessio said with a roll of his eyes and smirk on his lips. He wants his sheep to stay happy and live simply, they way a sheep should live. Fortunately for food lovers like Giulia, Costanza, Amanda and I we can keep eating food that is produced the way it should be—o’ natural and free of the big baaaahd factories that have taken over 20^th century alimentation.