I almost drove past the turnoff twice. There was no big sign, no crowd, just a gravel road cutting through Indiana farmland that felt forgotten by time.
I followed it anyway, and within minutes the traffic noise faded into something quieter. Cows grazed nearby, unbothered by my arrival.
I had heard whispers about a farm somewhere in this state that turns fresh milk into something extraordinary, but nothing prepared me for what waited inside an old barn built over a century ago. The wood still held its original bones, worn smooth by decades of hands and hooves…