In my next life, I'd like to come back as an Amish cow. The Amish know how to treat heifers right. Imagine meandering through green fields, satisfying your four stomachs with lush grasses, being milked gently by a winsome maid.

OK. Maybe la vie bovine in Lancaster County isn't exactly nirvana. But compared to life on a typical dairy farm — where animals are penned-up and pumped with hormones — Amish cows have it good. And contented cows, pastured on local vegetation, make awesome milk and cheese.

Prove it to yourself the next time you're at the Reading Terminal Market. Try some raw Amish milk. Unprocessed milk has the tang of fresh grass and the scent of dark soil — which is even more wondrous when it becomes cheese.

But raw Lancaster County milk is hard to find, and there is a dearth of artisanal Amish cheese. Most milk from amiable Amish cows is brought to processing plants, where it is mixed in with milk from less fortunate creatures living on factory farms. In processing plants, Amish milk is pasteurized, homogenized and its taste is lost. The milk gets far less than it's worth, as Amish artisanal milk is dumped into the mainstream of a mediocre product.

The Amish's painstaking farming techniques are being squandered. Meanwhile, the price that all dairy farmers are getting for milk is declining. Wholesale milk that sold last year for more than $20 (per hundred pounds) now brings in only about $14.50.

Milk is surprisingly important in Pennsylvania's overall economy. Agriculture is the state's biggest industry, and dairy accounts for the largest chunk, 42 percent, of the state's $4.5 billion in farm revenue. The state's dairy industry ranks fourth in the nation. But even its big farms are in trouble, as processing plants close and the price of milk continues to tumble.

In response to falling prices, the Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture is asking farmers this year to get more milk from each cow. Literally, the state goal is 10 percent more per animal. It's a desperate, stupid measure, hurting big and small farmers alike. Calling for increased production will encourage larger, factory-type farmers to pump still more hormones into herds that are already stressed. And for smaller farmers in Lancaster, the state plan to boost production is practically heresy.

Amish farmers answer to a higher authority. So they can't juice up Bessie to get more gallons. As larger farms increase production, the Amish will get even less money per gallon. In a commodity market — whether it's soybeans, pig bellies or orange juice — quality doesn't matter, only price. As more milk becomes available, prices will continue to decline, and dairies will have to produce still more just to keep up. A commodity market can be a nasty treadmill.

It's been said that cheese is milk's leap to immortality. Cheese could be the salvation of dairy states, their way off the treadmill. The recent flurry of television ads from California — saying great cheese comes from its happy cows — is a strategy aimed at moving its dairy industry from a commodity market to an artisanal one. Smart dairy states like Vermont, Wisconsin and New York are funneling their milk into fine cheeses. Artisanal cheeses like camembert, gouda and brie not only fetch a premium price, but unlike fresh milk, aged cheese has a shelf life long enough to ship around the world.

Sound familiar? California is doing for milk what it did for grapes: creating a worldwide product that is tough to commodify. For the beer industry in Pennsylvania, a similar gambit created a minor boom in microbreweries. We should do the same for Pennsylvania's world-class milk.

The tragedy of Amish milk is that its happy cows do make very fine cheese — if you can find any. Only one Lancaster County cheesemaker, Green Valley Dairy, is making aged cheeses. Their cheese is good, even occasionally great — especially for a fledging producer. But sadly, there are no traditions of aged cheesemaking in Pennsylvania. Kraft's famed Philadelphia Brand Cream Cheese is a fresh cheese that was originally created in New York City. It isn't even locally manufactured.

In fact, there is no cream cheese made in Philadelphia, says Emilio Mignucci, who runs DiBruno's thriving cheese emporium at 18th and Chestnut streets. Mignucci would be glad to sell a cream cheese crafted in Pennsylvania, or any local cheese for that matter. But there is almost none to be had. About the only local cheeses Mignucci sells are fresh mozzarellas made by elderly Italian men in South Philadelphia, who are artisans with strong cheesemaking traditions.

The Amish got milk, but no tradition of great cheesemaking. You might as well order a piece of brie from a sushi bar, as get a fine, aged cheese from Lancaster County.

Still, Mignucci hopes to find local cheese, especially aged cheese, because he's got a market for it. Mignucci even recently hosted novice local cheesemakers (as part of a program of the Sustainable Business Network) to inspire their craft. Sadly, none were good enough to make the leap to DiBruno's shelves.

Pennsylvania needs some cheese wizzes, and quickly. But tradition is a hard thing to hurry up.