Finding Farm Fresh Chevre

story by Calder Silcox
photos by Kendall Haupt and Olivia Coffey

I first stumbled upon Rawson Brook Farms about two and a half years ago – and it’s not an easy place to stumble upon. At the recommendation of the Monterey General Store clerk, we found the unassuming goat farm two miles off of windy Route 23 in Berkshire County, Massachusetts, across a wooden bridge, and down a dirt (often mud) road. Rawson Brook’s 70-odd Alpine goats rarely take a break from their grazing to greet visitors, but it’s not the goats that people come for. We come for the cheese.

I never liked milk as a kid, and from an early age I ate cheese to fill that void. It didn’t matter what kind: from string to Stilton, brie to whiz, I ate it as long as it didn’t smell too rank. But it wasn’t until recently that chevre found a spe­cial place in my stomach.

Chevre is French for both goat and goat cheese, and is the popu­lar name for the cheese in menus and markets. It wasn’t until I was 13 that I tasted my first chevre, and I’ve spent every moment since making up for lost time.

The “baked goat cheese with garden lettuces and levain toast” was actually my last resort on the menu at Café Fanny, a small Berkeley eatery owned by renowned California restaurateur Alice Waters. As a picky pre-teen I wasn’t interested in much on the menu, so I gave chevre a shot. I tried it cautiously. Seated at a picnic table in the café’s parking lot, I had what I can only describe as a minor food epiphany.

It was a brisk, windy day in Berkeley and the baked chevre warmed me from the inside out. Though chevre is often served at room tem­perature, the rich, tangy flavors come out best when it’s hot and on the verge of melting. Waters’s pairing of the chevre with arugula is still unparalleled in my book.

My next encounter with goats came two years later, on the opposite side of the globe in a Bedouin tent. Seated on pillows in another breezy setting I tried labneh, a Middle Eastern goat cheese that had little in common with goat cheese as I knew it.

Chevre in the West has a tangy but sweet taste. The labneh was soft like a typical chevre, but was strong and lip-puckering sour. I could only eat so much. But I still bought an entire glass jar filled with balls of labneh and olive oil, wrapped it in a t-shirt, and brought it home – more for a souvenir than a snack.

My love for chevre was renewed when I found Rawson Brook Farms. Their soft Monterey chevre took fresh to a whole new level. Though Rawson Brook does business from New York to Boston, I like to think it’s my hid­den gem – that I’m one of few to have tried their thyme and olive oil blend.

Like many small New England cheesemakers, Rawson Brook operates on the honor system. A wooden shack with two refrigerators holds the cheese, a laminated pricing sheet taped to the door. Visitors take what they like and leave payment in a basket by the entrance.

Before leaving Rawson Brook Farm it’s customary to make a stop at the baby goat paddock. It houses 12 to 15 kids (baby goats, that is) eager for a pat on the head. Occasionally, they get a bit over-excited and take a nip at a coat or pocket, but who can get mad at a baby goat? Especially one that will turn out next year’s Monterey chevre.