From the newsroom to the markets and festivals to the family-friendly neighborhood brewery where local art hangs on the walls and live music spills out onto the street, there is a deep sense of community woven into everyday life. In my experience, this is how the best food environments are shaped.
Food has been central to my life, not just as a culinary experience but as a way of connecting with people, places, and traditions. From my childhood in France, Canada, and Asia to my years living in Mexico, it has been the thread connecting and weaving together events, shaping my appreciation for culture and community. Now, the Rogue Valley feels like another chapter in that journey—one that I’m eager to explore.
My parents instilled in me a curiosity about the world, its cultures, and its flavors from an early age. Food was a way to learn about new people and places, while familiar flavors provided continuity amid constant change.
My mother was a natural in the kitchen, a skill she no doubt picked up from my French grandparents who were both fabulous cooks in their own right. Food was a frequent theme in her bedtime stories, especially when she recounted events from her own childhood. She often included details about a favorite meal or dessert, made all the sweeter against the backdrop of WWII France and constant food insecurity.
Many of my memories are anchored in time by a meal or drink of some kind. It is how I keep track of events —When I ate this, I was here; when I drank that, I was there.
I vividly recall the reba yakitori (barbecued chicken livers) bought fresh at the market for the little bento lunch box I took with me to the local Yochien (kindergarten) in Tokyo, when I was four. I remember staying at a Japanese village and going out on the water with my mother where the fishermen grilled the day’s catch right there on the boat—a simple, smoky, perfectly cooked meal eaten in the salty air.
A few years later, before the airport and development changed everything, I sat on the unspoiled white sands of Lantau Island, chewing fresh sugar cane. We were always the only ones there, baking under a hot tropical sun, swimming in the warm turquoise waters and playing in the rolling waves. A meal of green curry, rice and fried dough, enjoyed at a Buddhist monastery in the hills when visitors were still scarce, lingers on my palate decades later.
Living on the Mediterranean with my grandparents when I was ten, I enjoyed traditional French cooking. Their style was rooted in a farming heritage, but it was not stuck there. It was also influenced by North African flavors of couscous and spices from their time as school teachers in Algeria.
These experiences, among others, formed the foundation of how I understand food—not just as nourishment, but as something intrinsically tied to place, memory, and human connection.
More recently, my appreciation of craft foods deepened while I was living in Mexico. I am a huge fan of Mexican cuisine, but after a few years in the country, I found myself missing some of my favorite staples, like French cheese. In the main, imports were overpriced and disappointing. Then I discovered the regional craft cheese scene—artisans who had studied abroad and brought techniques home to create their own versions. I was hesitant at first, but my skepticism was misplaced: it wasn’t about comparing to the originals; it was about embracing creativity and local interpretation. From there, I moved on to olive oil, bread, and other local specialty foods. Once I tapped into that vibrant local foodie network, I never looked back.
In the Rogue Valley, food is about identity, sustainability, and a culture of welcome. That’s been the most striking thing about my experience so far.
That same curiosity led me, unintentionally, to the Rogue Valley, long before I ever set foot here. I was in Seattle, shopping for cheese, as usual. This time there was a great selection of imports, but then I stumbled across Caveman Blue—a Rogue Creamery cheese, and I thought, Why not? It was one of the best blues I’d ever had, and it stuck in my mind.
So, years later, finding myself in Southern Oregon, I decided to make Rogue Creamery one of my first food explorations. I had hoped to make it one of several stops among producers in the region that weekend, but it was still a bit early in the season, so the others will have to wait.
I traveled to the 68-acre, certified organic farm near Grants Pass, under a hazy sun in late May. Set along the Rogue River, the property unfolded in lush fields of saturated green.
Staff cheerfully welcomed visitors upon arrival and treated them to a complementary cheese-tasting at the Farm Stand, where its award-winning cheeses are available for purchase along with other Southern Oregon goodies and grilled cheese sandwiches.
It was past my lunch time, so I ordered a “Classic”: 1 oz Oregon Blue and 2oz of Touvelle (an original creation that approximates a mild Jack-cheddar) with a light drizzle of honey. The cheesy blend was grilled to its perfect melting point on artisan bread from Central Point’s Coquette Bakery. I enjoyed the sandwich in the store’s outdoor seating. The picnic tables on the expansive lawn at the front of the property were all occupied. Although I think I would have chosen a somewhat sharper blend, the sandwich was very good, with just the right touch of honey. My dog, Herbie, definitely approved of the little taste I shared with him.
With roughly 180 cows, the farm produces half of the milk needed for all Rogue Creamery cheeses, which are actually made in Central Point, Oregon. A separate organic farm supplies the rest. According to the farm’s website, they aim “to provide a model for the future of sustainable dairy farming,” which includes a healthy environment for the animals and sustainable practices, such as the use of solar panels and the recycling of manure for use as fertilizer, among others.
I was a little apprehensive because, while I am not a vegetarian, I am always concerned about the wellbeing of farm animals. If I’m going to eat cheese, or other animal products, I still want the animal to have a high-quality life. I can’t get inside their heads, but by all appearances, the cows were relaxed and comfortable in their large, well-aerated barn, also known as the Cow Palace, which is where they spend much of their time when they are not out grazing in the fields. Staff members displayed genuine affection for their charges, identifying many of them by name.
The term “fully automated milking system”, however, initially conjured up fantastic and nightmarish scenarios in my mind—stressed bovines tightly packed side by side, or forced up on bizarre conveyor belts, being subjected to aggressive, unrelenting milking. But it turns out that, while it is an automated system, the cows choose when to be milked. One of two Voluntary Milking System robots, affectionately dubbed Matilda and Charlie, identify individuals by reading their tag, then a robotic arm cleans the teats and affixes the milking cups. A screen displays yield and other data.
We watched as one cow, then another, placidly stepped up to the milking station, let the technology do its thing while enjoying a special treat of organic grain supplement, and then calmly walked off to continue with their day. According to our guide, not only is milking by humans a job nobody wants, it is much more taxing on the animals. There’s no denying that it is an industrial process, but as a layperson observing for the first time, I saw no signs of discomfort or stress.
After the short tour, I left with a small supply of Rogue’s Mary Cheddar, infused with just the right amount of rosemary, a piece of Rogue River Blue, and a spicy cheese spread.
With my visit to Rogue Creamery, it seems I’ve come full circle since that day when I discovered Caveman Blue and heard of the Rogue Valley for the first time. Now I live here, and there’s so much more to learn.
In the Rogue Valley, food is about identity, sustainability, and a culture of welcome. That’s been the most striking thing about my experience so far.
That being said, it is worth remembering that amid all of this abundance, there is also plenty of food insecurity. Too many people simply don’t have enough to eat and don’t have access to healthy food. I’ve met so many volunteers, organizations, and neighbors who, animated by that same sense of community, are working hard to combat hunger in the Valley. There is more than enough food to go around; a topic I hope to return to in the future.
Conclusion: The Beginning of a Journey
This is only the beginning. I arrived expecting a strong food culture; what I found was far richer and more complicated—an interconnected world of farmers, chefs, producers, foodies, and activists who understand that food is more than just something to consume. There’s a story in the food here—a story that I’m eager to uncover, one meal at a
