A Visit to Ronnybrook

All my life, I´ve drunk milk instead of water. I drank it at cross-country practice, on hot summer days, even to assuage a mouth dry from salty popcorn. At some point in college--the first time I realized water was free and milk was expensive--I weaned myself off the jug. In the same spirit of bellyache-free endless candy consumption, I thought my childhood ability to chug milk was long gone. That is, until I discovered Ronnybrook.

The affair began in earnest while I was living up at Keith Stewart's farm, during the fall of 2005. We worked at the Wednesday and Saturday farmers market in Union Square, just like the Ronnybrook Dairy truck. It was like we'd discovered crack. We had to have something 'Ronny' at every meal. Milk for breakfast. Yogurt at lunch. And for dinner, in the most natural of ways, we fell to say 'Pass the Ronnybrook!' whenever we wanted butter. As winter crept closer, and working at the farmers market became an endurance test against frozen feet and fingers, we'd stuff the high-cream content into anything: butter sandwich. Buttered apple pie. Buttered broccoi, even, as the brassicas sweetened in the cold. I took to drinking chocolate milk in slugs, warming it up in a pot during lunch breaks on the farm, before turning back to the field to harvest, leaf by leaf, some more (uuuug) mesclun mix.

The brainchild of three brothers, Sid, Rick and Ronny, Ronnybrook Dairy began in the early 1990s. The family's mark is all over the milk. The ice cream cartons are labled with black and white family photos. The yogurt containers earnestly solicit your comments and concerns not just by email, but with a genuine landline phone number. The seasonal eggnog, rich with heavy cream and nutmeg, wishes you the best of holidays with love from everyone at the farm. By the time I had my first sip out of their tall glass bottles, I was ready to fall in love all over again. Gradually, I fell in love with everyone at the stand, too. Like approaching rock stars, I shyly made friends over (kindly discounted) yogurt drinks with Sid and Cindy, Pam and Ryan, and eventually Peter and Joey. Ronnybrook was definately the cool kids at market--the stand was a whirlwind of activity, at least on the customer side, and lifeblood to some rather cultish consumers. It wasn't until this fall, when I subbed in at the stand myself, that I realized how exhausting it is on the other end (see 'Pam of Ronnybrook').

I hope this introduction serves proper witness to my prodigeous delight when I present, therefore, these photographs of...the Ronnybrook Dairy itself. Graciously hosted by Sid's son Gregg, I had my second dairy tour (See 'For Lactose-Loving Eyes Only') in a lifetime during the waining days of November.  Cold enough that the cows' breath sent steam into the air, yet warm enough to still enjoy a cool yogurt drink while touring the farm, I felt as though I was on hallowed ground.  Here were the giant, gentle ladies who gave me such yummy milk (about 20 gallons a day, each!).  Here was the small processing facility, just as hokey as I imagined it, with a middle-aged man, in 'I Love Lucy' style, capping the bottles by hand at the end of an antiquated convayer belt, the glass jugs piling up as he tried to breathlessly explain some of the math behind their production.  Here was the entire walk-in freezer full of crate after crate of ice cream, like Pizzaro's imaginary room full of gold.  And yes, there were the rolling hills and doe-eyed baby Ronnybrook cows, their knees knocking and mouths desperately trying to suck anything in reach.

 If you live in New York state, I recommend, any time of the year, a drink at their Greenmarket stand or the new milkbar in the Chelsea Market.