Whenever I indulge in a glass of Baileys, I know it’s a treat. I don’t mix it with anything but a cube of ice because the drink itself is the perfect mixture. This thought BLEW MY MIND! You see, there aren’t many adult drinks (sans wine) that I feel this way about. The thought continued. What is in their mix?

IRISH CREAM. IRISH WHISKEY. CHOCOLATE. VANILLA. MAGIC.

Thinking about my cooking and knowing that when I use farm fresh ingredients my dishes are elevated to the next level—HOLY COW, BAILEYS HAS A FARM! Ireland is known for their farming and more specifically their dairy farms. It makes perfect sense.

I’m on a plane. Then a car. A mere two hour drive outside of the city of Dublin Ireland is Wicklow aka home to the greenest pastures I’ve ever seen. That’s not hyperbole, I don’t think that anywhere in the United States has the proper climate year round to produce that color of grass. On this grass, cows graze. In a daze, after the over ten hour trip door to door from the crazy that is my city to the calm that is one of the Baileys Farms, I stared at these cows and wondered what it must be like to be dairy cow. What goes into the lifestyle of these incredible animals that have been producing the highest quality milk for generations on one of the farms that spearheaded the mission of sustainability into their practice nearly two decades ago? So, along with Farmer Joe Hayden and my new friend Hollie, we followed these cows around from 9am to 7pm.

A quick shoe change into purple wellies (ahem, rain boots) that Hollie brought for me and we were on-the-moove! At the beginning of the day all of the cows looked similar—a sea of black and white. A few minutes in and I was making cow friends. Bluebell was licking my hand, which I’m told is rare for cows, apparently they like their space. You know that makes Bluebell my girl! I’m not gonna lie, a few licks in and I was slowly retracting my hand while verbally noting how her licking was kinda painful. I equated it to the idea of rubbing your hand against industrial sandpaper. Farmer Joe said that that was the perfect analogy and that the sandpaper-like texture helps their tongues adhere to the grass and rip it from the ground. Fun fact, that grass they are eating goes into the first of their—count it, 1. 2. 3. 4. stomachs where it sits, and then when they’re hungry again gets regurgitated, they chew on it again, swallow, and then it makes a trip to stomach number two. The things I could do with four stomachs…

In befriending Bluebell, I wanted to know how Farmer Joe easily identifies each of his cows. I mean, they all have numbers on their booties but that doesn’t explain it when he knows them from their faces. Well, Farmer Joe explained how his cows faces have three distinct black and white pattern options—a long white dividing line down the center, for example—which is how he is easily able to tell amongst his 175 cows which cow comes from which family of the three cow families on the farm. All of a sudden, the sea of black and white in front of me began to narrow. Like the individuality of people’s faces as you pass them on a city street, each cow started becoming unique.

From one green pasture, we drove up a part of a hill and walked the rest of the way to another herd of cows (more friends!). The feet of my wellies hidden in the rolling grass, I watched as the cows feasted and at times made their way to a water basin to drink. When full, they simply lay down, relax, and take in the view of manicured hills off in the distance. They roam all day until 4pm, and then, milking time! Farmer Joe and his pup Blackie call over the herd and lead them down the grassy hills, across the street (very much like The Beatles) and to the milking barn. Single file, they each await their turn to stand at the two rows of milking stations where Farmer Joe attaches milking devices to their utters to collect the milk. A little over an hour later and all of the cows are milked and being herded to another grassy hill to graze upon. Right before sunset, they head to a hilltop that overlooks the farm and continue to graze at their leisure. As we stood with them taking in the sunset, I asked Farmer Joe, where they go next. This is it. They sleep outside on the pillowy grass under a sky full of stars eating whenever they want. Oh, to be a Baileys dairy cow.

Back home in New York City, sipping a glass of Baileys Irish Cream, reminiscing about my farm day, I realize just how amazing it is that these incredible cows, their Farmer Joe, and the plentiful life they’re living, which all seems so big up close, makes up but one single ingredient in this delicious drinkable treat. IT’S CRAZY! It’s like a genie—epic out in the real world and somehow fits in a tiny bottle. From grass to glass—cheers! And, thank you, Bluebell!