The Celebrity Dairy opened its barn doors on Saturday for all comers.
Of course we were there. It’s just a few miles from our home, in the woods of North Carolina’s Piedmont.
Celebrity Dairy gets its milk from goats.
I don’t know where it got its name. I didn’t see any celebrities. I doubt any celebrities could find this place. I don’t know of any celebrity goats. The Naval Academy’s mascot is a ram, he gets a lot of attention during that boring football game with Army every year, the battle of the mediocre. Carolina’s mascot is Ramses the ram, which makes no sense because the nickname for the university and the whole freakin state is Tar Heels. Makes no sense to me. So I don’t see why anyone would call a goat dairy Celebrity Dairy.
If this was back where I used to live, Nashville, where you’re constantly walking around bigtime celebrities and walking over washed-up celebrities and walking away from wannabe celebrities, well then maybe. But in the North Carolina sticks?
Whatever. Maybe I’m missing something.
Anyway, twice a year the dairy opens up for parents to bring their kids through the barn so the little pukes can wipe their hands on farm animals that have been wallowing in their own manure, transmitting e coli, staph and god knows what else. This is birthing season, and a friend told us when she went last year she saw a nanny goat open up and spill out two little kid goats nasty as could be and then the nanny ate the placenta, just like in a National Geographic documentary (I’m not going to pimp NG because the ads on their site annoy me).
We couldn’t resist.
Of course, five minutes before we arrive Ella falls asleep. So we sit parked in a pasture with all the other cars for an hour so the kid can get her nap out. Goats weren’t all that mother nature displayed; a human mom nursed her kid in the Subaru next to us. Of course I didn’t watch! I’m just saying.
You know the bad thing about these kinds of events? Other kids show up. A lot of them. And they run around and make a bunch of noise and kick dirt everywhere and throw grass at innocent animals and scream and cry. And their parents walk around saying, “that’s nice dear; please don’t kick that man, dear; stop trying to light the barn on fire, dear.”
God help me when it’s time to go see the big mouse. Do they sell percocet? They should, out of vending machines, like gumballs for parents.
So, anyway, we get there and Myowndaughter loves the little goats. Most of them are just a few days old. Mod is very patient and gentle with them. She’s fearless. We even get to hold one.
Mod’s in a trance. She only utters “mehhhhhh” and pets the little thing.
There’s a peacock strutting around, being coy, and his iridescent feathers mesmerize Mod. Blue’s her favorite color, after all.
We buy a block of goat cheese (curried goat cheese, as in Indian curry … this is North Carolina!) in the Celebrity Inn. It’s all very homey, very “Little House on the Prairie-ish.” (that link’s for you, drivinginturkey). We take some cute pictures, and if I can figure out how to size them properly I’ll even post one, as proof.
I can’t make this stuff up.
Myowndaughter loves it.
We were good parents on Saturday.