For the bakers at Buttermilk Mountain, friendships are formed over dog biscuits
Adria Schrock raises her hand, caked in a gloopy, orange-yellow mixture of pumpkin and flour, to high-five Michaela Ouse, who returns the gesture with full power.
Both young women go right back to mixing, rolling and kneading dough, not without quips and distractions in between tasks. Their laughter can be heard echoing through the community room and kitchen of St. Alban's Episcopal Church.
Every few weeks, Adria and Michaela meet at the church with more than a dozen other friends from New Hope of Indiana and other local programs for people with disabilities.
Michaela and Adria's friendship only goes back a few years, but every time they come together, they spark up conversations like two lifelong friends.
Of all things, dog biscuits built their bond.
"When you're not getting dirty," Adria said, "you're not having fun."
Creating Buttermilk Mountain
In 2019, Jodi Maslanka, a retired financial planner, started her biscuit-making nonprofit, Buttermilk Mountain, to support people with disabilities and their families, she said.
The organization's name is derived from Maslanka's last name, which is Polish for "buttermilk," and the metaphorical mountain synonymous with the journeys of many families in the disability community, she said.
The concept came to Maslanka after she helped a friend create a special-care plan for her son with a disability. She went on to do more special-care planning, which grew her love and respect for the community.
"I wrote to every day service I could find...and just asked if they would like to make the biscuits," Maslanka said. "It just took off."
The program marries life skills and social activities. Maslanka hopes bakers benefit by growing communication and teamwork in addition to learning skills like measuring and baking in a safe environment.
“They have to work as a team,” said Maslanka, the executive director of Buttermilk Mountain. “They have to do the dishes. They have to sweep the floor, wipe the tables and make the biscuits and learn measurements. I'm hoping that they can take that elsewhere.”
Some of the bakers sell the biscuits, and they each have their own strategy. Adria, 29, reels in patrons who walk by their table while Michaela, 23, sells biscuits to them. They're a perfect match.
Maslanka said she’s watched many of the bakers forge friendships, go out into the community and become more open with her and others.
They bake dog biscuits to sell at farmer’s markets and pet expos. The money goes to events and activities, like a picnic in the summertime for all the bakers.
“You get to have fun making them together,” Adria said.
After selling biscuits at an event where she met the owner, Michaela now works for Uptown Pup in Broad Ripple. It has grown her confidence, Stephanie Ouse, her mother, said.
“As a mom, there's just limited opportunities for them to be somewhere and to shine,” Ouse said. “And this is where they get to do it.”
Baking with pride, not perfection
For Josh Powell, who arrived in a Scooby-Doo t-shirt, the process of making treats for dogs is rewarding because he knows it helps them.
Powell even brings some of them home for his neighbor's dogs to snack on, he said. He likes "everything" about baking the biscuits.
The biscuits are made with pride, not perfection, Maslanka coined.
Every biscuit is cut and shaped like a dog bone. Every baker uses the same cookie-cutter but each biscuit comes out a little unique. Some thick, others with a little more character.
"I don't need perfect biscuits," Maslanka said. "I want you to be happy that you did it. I just want you to have a good time. And if they're not perfect, we don't care, they are dog biscuits."
Having fun in the process
In the middle of baking on a gray Thursday afternoon, a flour fight breaks out. It's not an obvious cloud of powder — more like subtle game of tag.
"Did you see the back of my shirt?" Adria asked.
Her shirt was covered in white handprints. Adria jokingly blames Maslanka. There's flour in her hair and on her cheeks and, well, all over.
Adria then calls Maslanka and goes in for a side hug, leaving a chalky impression on her shoulder.
By the ceasefire, they are both laughing and in need of a clean-up.
Adria is quick to point blame, although there are only flour fights when she is around, Maslanka teases.
"I'm the one who starts all the fun," Adria said.
Contact IndyStar's general assignment reporter Rachel Fradette at rfradette@gannett.com or follow her on Twitter: @Rachel_Fradette.
This article originally appeared on Indianapolis Star: At Buttermilk Mountain, Hoosiers with disabilities form friendships
