When I say I’ve tried to like milk, please believe me. That’s if you can still make out a clear syllable from my incessant hacking due to the beverage’s absurd chalkiness. In the heyday of my childhood, I poured it over practically everything. Cereal, granola, stray cats. Once something was bowl bound it was only a matter of time before the drenching commenced. I crisscrossed the country carrying briefcases of breakfast cereal and a trench coat lined with sterling silver spoons, attending one milk convention after another. Somewhere in between a lecture on udder pulling and miscellaneous joys of farm life (Udder Nonsense: Have a cow, no, really), something changed. I no longer wanted to create a cow carillon and tour the globe. I’d finally seen milk for what it is, as well as what it isn’t.
Milk is vanilla. Not scientifically, but spiritually. Milk represents the bland and the blah. My objections to it have little to do with the animals who produce it. They’re living on our farms rent-free, so in this respect, a little crème never hurt anyone. The color of milk is what disturbs me now. I was frequently puzzled when the liquid changed its hue depending on what cereal brand was currently ascendant. Milk is an imperial product. It colonizes the cupboard, oppressing every drawer and shelf. You pour milk over cereal, not the other way around. But who was there first?
When I see milk, I see the worst of us. Milk floods its surroundings, expecting others to bow to them. Cereal gets soggy, changing its nature to appease the domineering liquid. You want to keep drinking milk, living in a cream world? Fine. But I won’t. In fact, I can’t. It makes me sick. Physically and emotionally. And I want nothing to do with it. I would love to see milk on a milk carton.
Then again, I could just have a problem with dairy. It’s possible I’m being a tad bit intolerant.
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