This was the day when my wife officially thought I lost my mind.
It was the day when I woke up and decided to drive 4 hours to that house in the photo.
It’s a house in the middle of the woods in Vermont. I had never spoken to the people who lived there. And based on the fact that they never returned my calls or emails, I knew there was a good chance they didn’t want me to visit.
Obviously, I need to provide some background to explain what compelled me to get behind the wheel and start driving.
It started a few weeks ago when I learned that small, local grain mills had been pretty much eliminated from our country. The most recent statistic I found for the current total is 201 mills in the U.S. The vast majority are the huge, industrial roller mills in the mid-West that mass-produce white flour. But, in my research, I found a handful of bakeries and mills using the kind of artisan equipment that fed America before the Industrial Revolution. And through those craft producers, I was able to figure out that most of them used stone mills made in Austria. So, I assumed that if and when we purchased a mill, it’d be one of those wood-framed, European machines.
But, that assumption changed last week with a phone call from Sara, our friendly grain farmer who I’d just visited in Maine. She told me about a small, home-based bakery in Vermont that was grinding their own flour on a stone mill they built themselves. On their website, I learned that they had built a few similar mills for other bakeries. From the photos, I also discovered that their mills were incredibly beautiful pieces of equipment. The pictures emanated craftsmanship, authenticity, and goodness. Even more, since my concept for what I want to build is based on reviving a local food system, the idea of supporting a local mill builder was a no-brainer. It added another dimension to the dream.
The bakery’s website provided a phone number and email address but, no address. In place of location, the site stated: “closed to public”.
I started calling and emailing every day for a week. I never got a reply.
So, on Thursday, I woke up and decided to just go to the bakery. While it wasn’t on their site, the bakery’s address was online. And after 4 hours (with the final 10 minutes on a windy, dirt road through the woods), I arrived at the house in the photo. I pulled into the driveway, gave myself a little pep talk about destiny and greatness, and then… what happened next I couldn’t make up.
As soon as I opened my car door, a dog started barking and sizing me up like I was a random, uninvited guy on private property that lists “closed to public” on its website. In the moment and in the middle of the woods, that dog was a Rottweiler with attitude. (She ended up being the exact opposite!). I froze and started speaking to her in a high-pitched voice and saying things like “you’re a good doggy”.
It was right then – I was talking to a dog in somebody’s driveway in Vermont – that I thought to myself, “What the hell am I doing?! I should get in the car and drive home.” But, I knew the shame of a 4-hour, empty-handed ride home would be a spirit-crushing defeat. So, I stood there talking to a dog for what felt like an eternity.
Eventually, a guy walked out of the garage and said, “Hi, can I help you?”
I replied, “Sorry to be here uninvited. But, I just drove from Boston because I want to buy a mill.”
“Oh, you must be Jon. Sorry for not getting back to you.”
What happened next was both educational and inspiring. Andrew welcomed me to his home, his workshop where he builds his mills, and the bakery he runs with his wife, Blair. I barely know them but I know they are just like farmers Sara and Matt — incredible people who are dedicated to the purity and integrity of a real craft. They are completely invested in creating goodness by inspiring and preserving a local food system that nourishes others.
I knew who was building our mill.
I got next! 