Almost every summer, when I was a kid, I spent on the farm where my Grandmother was born, some kilometers outside Warsaw, Poland.

Coming from Long Island New York, it was like stepping back in a time machine. If you wanted to make a call you had to phone a central switchboard and they would connect you. Primitive, right? Endless fields of wheat, a swimming hole, barefoot kids, chickens in and out of the kitchen, homemade everything AND raw milk.

Now, let me just say, I HATE drinking milk, the thought of it curdles my blood, I just don’t like the stuff, never did, even as kid; there’s just something about my body that doesn’t want milk inside of it.

That’s why, looking back on those summers, I find it strange; the only milk I could ever stand to drink came, in it’s purest, most natural form, straight from the cow.

Now I don’t pretend to know much about the raw milk controversy, how it’s supposed to be dangerous, or something, but I know enough to trust what my body likes.

That’s why I’m glad I moved here to Vancouver where across the hall I have a friend who’s bought into a cow share (I think, illegally) and has a plentiful supply of the stuff.

I’m sure next time I’m baking muffins, she’ll hear a knock on the door. . .

“Can I borrow a glass of milk please ?”