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Elias took a sip. It was rich, slightly sweet, and nothing like the watery blue-tinted stuff he was used to.

The morning sun hadn't quite cleared the ridge when Elias pulled his vintage truck into the gravel lot of . He wasn’t here for the scenery, though the rolling green hills of Vermont were a nice bonus. He was here for what he called "the real stuff."

"The trick," Clara continued, "is knowing your labels. If you can't make it to a farm, look for the at your local store. It ensures the cows have year-round access to the outdoors and eat a 100% organic diet."

"First time?" a voice called out. It was Clara, the farm’s owner, wiping her hands on a denim apron.

He stepped into the small, refrigerated farm stand. A chalkboard on the wall proudly listed the day's stats: Pasture-raised. No synthetic pesticides. Zero growth hormones.