I interrupt the wedding schmoop to say that I am flipping exhausted. Apart from obscene amounts of time spent in the car I’ve been constantly busy until today. And I celebrated the fact by sitting around in my pajamas till 12 and eating carrot cake while making lunch.

Yesterday I took my turn as the milk-picker-upper. A nice drive (more time in the car!) with lovely views of Mt. Hood and winding End-of-the-Oregon-Trail roads. You watch your mileage, make a couple turns, end up on a gravel road, and pull into a driveway of an incongruously ranch-style house with a chicken coop in the front yard. Milk should be picked up at charming Green Gables-style houses, with aproned milkmaids and a small herd of cows off to one side. But this is the 21st century and the milk waits in a fridge on the front porch. You grab the twelve (yes, 12) gallons of milk for your group (labeled #23) and line them up in coolers in your trunk. You write a check and slip it in a drawer.

Cow -> Jug -> Fridge -> Cooler -> Fridge -> Glass -> Stomach

Now you know.

It’s also best if, when dropping off the gallons that aren’t yours, you run into at least two families from church.  And discuss demolition derbies and book recommendations.  Then, when you stop to pick up milk from your second source (because you have two raw milk sources) you run into one of the same families again.  Who can’t believe that you’re picking up more milk.