Page 94 of Backslide
I almost let a comment fly about how I was recently in touch with hisharderside, but that is definitely the giddiness talking. Would only usher in awkwardness. I can’t remember when I was last this relaxed—but I press my lips closed.
“Anyway,” I say instead, petting my goat’s head. “What’syourgoat’s name?”
“That’s easy,” he says. “The GOAT. As in, the greatest of all time.”
“Oh God!” I groan. “You and the sports. So on the nose.”
“Don’t hate just because you know it’s good.” Noah shifts and looks down at his new friend. “Do you think Maggie is ever coming back?”
I glance over at her; she’s clearly still in heated conversation. “Why?”
“Because I’m afraid the GOAT is going to pee on me.”
I can’t help but laugh and then I can’t really stop, which unnerves the farm workers and two come forward to take our goats back to their mothers in the pen.
Noah shoots me a crooked smile, as he leans his forearm on the ledge of the pen.
“They were cute,” I say to him.
“Well, cute knows cute,” he deadpans. And I start laughing again.
For the second time, we have underestimated Cara. Meeting the baby goats is incredible and we assume that was the special experience connected to picking up the cheese, but there is so much more. Describing the operations on the farm, Maggie leads us over to the main office past at least one grazing cow. But “the office” turns out to be a gorgeous modernist farmhouse that blends geometry with authenticity—it’s all original wood but also granite countertops. Windows, windows everywhere.
One entire side of the farmhouse is lined with a sweeping porch. This is our destination. She gestures for us to sit at a reclaimed wooden table—polished but still with its beautiful knots and imperfections—waiting with two deceptively simple place settings. Matte ceramic dishware, French blue Madre linen napkins, pristine stemless wineglasses. Above us hangs a vintage chandelier and honeycomb lanterns. Globe lights are strung through the surrounding trees and, though it is still daytime, they shed some light beneath the ever-darkening clouds.
It’s pouring now and Maggie ducks her head beyond the porch, looking up at the sky like she doesn’t like it. But I think this is a pretty amazing view—and the air smells like damp earth. Like fresh. Like alive. I have always loved watching a storm from the protection of a porch.
“How long have you had the farm?” I ask her.
“It’s been in my family since before I was born.”
“Wow,” Noah says. “A native Californian. You’re a rare breed.”
She nods, proudly, standing taller in her wellies. “Fourth generation. Of course, things weren’t so polished in the olden days. Wedidn’t always make goat gouda.” She smiles conspiratorially at us like we’re in on the joke and not part of the bourgie gouda crowd—which we totally are. “Enjoy.”
Members of the kitchen staff, casually dressed in jeans and tees, arrive next with heavy pours of dry rosé and charcuterie trays so bright and colorful that they put the estate’s—which was not so shabby—to shame. And, as the staff explains, everything is local, from this farm or from West Marin. There are soft fetas and chevres and harder Manchego-style cheeses. There is wildflower honey, lavender preserves (and sprigs!), sliced baguette still warm from the oven. There are salamis and salumi and bresaola too. There are dried strawberries, fresh apricots, and crisp crackers with sea salt.
And it is all for us.
“Thank you so much,” I say politely to the server.
“Holy fuck,” I say to Noah when she’s gone.
“Holy fuck,” he agrees.
I lose the next few minutes to tastes and sighs. Tart wine, creamy cheeses, sweet fruit. It is a true feast.
When I finally look up, Noah is staring at me.
“What?” I say, wiping at my face.
He shoots me a half-smile. “Nothing. I just like when you like something. And youdefinitelylike this.”
“Of course I do! The presentation, the flavors, the care that’s gone into all of it. It’s a masterpiece!”
He nods, eyeing me and not the food. “It is.”
I’ve had more wine than he has. My edges are blurred. He’s the driver. But he’s looking at me unguarded now, his bright eyes swallowing me whole.
