A cold January day of 2005, I took one of my most important drives of my life. I was on this road in upstate New York, trying to find this old factory.
The day before, I received a flyer in the mail that said, "Fully equipped yogurt plant for sale." I threw it in the garbage can.
And 20 minutes later, I picked it up and called the number. The plant was 85 years old, and it was closing.
So I decided to go see it. At this time, I wasn't sure where this road or my life was going.
I owned a small cheese shop but really hated business. But the hills and the roads and the smells are all familiar.
I grew up in Turkey, in a similar environment, near the Kurdish mountains. My family made cheese and yogurt; I grew up listening to shepherd's stories.
We didn't have much, but we had the moon and the stars, simple food, each other. Eventually, I came to America.
I didn't even know New York had farms. I made it to upstate, and I never left.
Now I'm lost. I passed the road sign that said "Dead end."
Then soon after, there it was: the factory. The smell hit me first.
