I am native of New York City (Queens, to be exact). I grew up surrounded by a family of food experimenters. When I look back, the “just try it” approach to tasting something unrecognizable to a kid influenced me without my even being aware of it. My mother stocked the fridge with the funkiest and smelliest foods a kid could imagine. The only thing that got me off the streets, during my hoodlum phase; was the Julia Child and Galloping Gourmet cooking series, which aired on PBS at 3:00 p.m. And then there was my Uncle Charlie who worked for Breyer’s Ice Cream, RediWhip and Domino Sugar – all-American household names. Besides visiting him at work and witnessing production at their plants, I worked with him during school vacation, drilling core samples of meat in a Philadelphia meat packing freezer for a food laboratory. An eye opening experience to say the least and a kick in the head as to where our food comes from. In hindsight, my food origin consciousness was already being developed.

Following a short-lived theatre career (needed money) and a painful bike and truck messenger stint (two hernias), the mother of all wakeup calls was about to occur. My step-dad, Ken, was the general manager of B&G Pickles, a tri-state area favorite. Hearing my mother’s resounding “Get a Job!” always ringing in my head, Dad Ken had no choice, nor did I. Off to pickle land I went.

Ken softened the blow by telling me that I could work outside (boss’s pet?) on the pickle separator (maybe not). Oh Joy. Twelve hours a day, six days a week, at $2.75 an hour (minimum wage) separating cucumbers into three categories: Dill, Gherkins and Tiny Treats. Have you ever worked with pickles? It’s wet, cold, depressing, vinegar-suffocating, hernia-killing work that made me realize how lucky I was. The people working around me didn’t have career options in their life and worked there to feed their families. Another lesson learned. Do we ever think of the people who produce our food or do we just shove it our mouths? I believe the latter. Lesson learned

But an unforeseen miracle was about to descend upon me.

During my travels as a messenger in New York City, I met a photographer named Herb Gorgolione at Seventeen Magazine. When Herb heard I lost my job as a messenger, he called to see if I was interested in training to become a darkroom technician for Seventeen Magazine. Pickles or popular fashion magazine? Fashion world, here I come. I apprenticed under Herb and eventually became a staff photographer. Talk about, “How the hell did I get here?“ Twenty-one years old and surrounded by models and fashionistas. I eventually went freelance. But food was my ever present passion, not photography. I met the love of my life, sister of a co-worker at the magazine, and happily followed her to the Bay Area for a career opportunity.

And yet another twist of fate was about to unveil itself.

We moved to the small town of Loma Mar, a neighbor of Pescadero, about an hour south of San Francisco. What a far cry from New York City it was. Country living, redwood trees, banana slugs? One day, at a local’s party, I met Dee Harley. We chatted and I learned she was the owner of a goat dairy that produced cheese, Harley Farms. Wow, goat cheese. Interesting. She asked about my career and it just so happened she needed photos and a logo for her new business. Light bulb moment: I’ll trade cheese for photos. The inner food child was awakened in me.

We met the following week. When I walked into the dairy, I was floored. The smell of warm milk; the bulbous cheese bags hanging and draining their whey; and goats frolicking in a beautiful landscape. Instantly, I was completely and utterly (udderly?) enveloped in this place. How did I get here? Queens? Skyscrapers? Pigeons? Was it all part of a bigger plan? Was it meant to be? You bet it was – my true passion was about to be fulfilled. We became friends and I asked if I could work part-time at the farm. She was surprised by my request, city boy and all. She agreed; I broke the news to my fiancé, and the rest is history. I started in the office and eventually became Dee’s right hand man. Taking orders from customers; making cheese; deliveries; sales and marketing; website and collateral design; public relations, event planning and tour guide. I lived and breathed the farm, and loved every minute of it. But more importantly, I became aware of the passion and commitment needed to produce a farmstead cheese, let alone any other artisan food.

After giving hundreds of tours over a period of many years at Harley Farms, to all walks of life, I recognized that I may actually have a talent for teaching about cheese and artisan foods and for spreading the message. The food culture has become elite, but I want to make it real. It’s not what’s on your plate, but who put it there.

Curd Culture is the result of my life experiences. I want to SHARE with people what I’ve learned from my youth and bring people along on this journey – from pickle picking to learning how to make Pecorino Toscano in Italy – by making it entertaining, informative and most importantly, fun. And by keeping it real. All of the meat drilling, pickle separating, model gawking and hooliganism will have been worth every minute when I hear the words, “Thanks, that was fun.” It’s that simple. It’s what I was meant to do.

I dedicate this new venture to my Mom, Dad-Ken, Uncle Charlie, Julia, Graham, Lynne (my rock) and all of the people who put food on our table.