The Price of Amish Butter

In rural areas across the country, Amish farmstands are a common sight. On recent visits to northern New York, where one branch of my family comes from, we’ve been able to find seasonal produce such as corn and beans and squash, as well as year-round items like raspberry preserves and eggs.

But not butter.

Last week, I asked our regular farmstand operators, the Zooks, if they had any. The teenaged daughter ran barefoot back to the house to ask her mom, but came back with the news that no, they don’t have butter because they sell all of their dairy to the local cooperative. “Try the Amish family that lives on Wharton Road,” the girl said. “They don’t sell to the association."

A boy at the first Amish farm on Wharton Road was playing with a homemade wooden crossbow in the front yard when I pulled up. A friendly border collie mix with burrs in its matted fur ran up to greet me.

I asked the boy if they had any butter. He went inside to ask. “My sister says no,” he reported. “But go down the road, you’ll pass two English houses, and then there is an Amish house on the left, they may have some.”

His parents weren’t home. They had gone with the ambulance that had just taken their youngest son, not yet three, to the hospital with a chest injury. A piece of furniture had fallen on him in his father’s woodshop. One of the other children had run to the nearest English neighbor to ask them to call 911. The local volunteer fire department quickly responded. 

There is a hard edge on these remote country roads, where the Amish subsist much as our ancestors did 200 years ago. Horses are not for riding or racing. They are beasts of burden, pulling antique plows or the black carriages the Amish use for trips into town. There are no phones or automobiles or refrigerators.

Life revolves around family, faith, and the rhythm of the farm. It starts early. Children help out on the farm beginning when they are 5. They attend their own schools through 8th grade. Full-time agricultural and household labor starts at age 14 or 15. A few summers back, two teenaged Amish boys came to take away some furniture and a cast iron stove that must have weighed at least 200 pounds. The Amish teens came with the biggest dray wagon I have ever seen, and handled the job without a word of complaint. 

Further up the road, I found the other Amish household. The farmstand was closed and no one was about, but I could see laundry hanging outside the clapboard house, rocking in the light breeze. The family dog on the front porch barked furiously. A pale face appeared in the window brightened by the fall sun. I waved and smiled. It was the wife, who opened the door and greeted me. Her name as Amanda. She seemed surprised when I asked for butter, but said she could sell me some.

“One of your neighbor’s daughter’s sent me here,” I explained. “The Zook’s daughter. She says you aren’t in the dairy cooperative, and might have butter to sell.”

“We used to belong,” Amanda said with a resigned sigh. “It seemed good at first, but the prices …”

“Not enough?” It’s well known that milk prices are falling. 

“No, not enough.” She went inside. Her teen daughter appeared and started to take laundry off the line. Nearby, a little boy of about three with a bowl cut and wearing blue overalls and a brimmed hat silently watched me. As the girl finished, she said something in German dialect to the boy. The only word I recognized was komm, “come.” The boy followed his older sister inside.

Amanda returned with a pound of butter, wrapped in plastic. 

“How much?”

“Oh, $2 or $3.”

I gave her $3. Later, when we tasted it, we knew it was the best butter we have had in years. 

 “What will you do now, if you can’t sell dairy to the cooperative?”

“Well, we sell eggs, and on Friday I make donuts to sell,” Amanda said. “My husband does carpentry, and he talks about making seat cushions for boats this winter, but his stitchwork is not that fine.” She grinned.

I thanked Amanda. We will be back in the spring.