On my phone I have a running list of blog ideas for nights such as this when I have no idea what to write. Scrolling back through years worth of undeveloped posts I sometimes come across phrases that no longer make sense. Perhaps I was drunk, tired or silly when I birthed the concept and now I cannot recall context or reason. For example, the one that stumps me the most to this day is a bullet point that says, “Pooter’s Mustache Ride”.
My understanding about what that means is equivalent to me just showing the list to my cat and asking him to read it and translate. So silly… cats can’t read!
Since that magical idea won’t be coming to fruition anytime soon I felt it was only right that I should challenge myself to take on another one that has been condemned to that endless down-scroll. I wanted it to be something that had been idle since I started writing; I figure that way it would be a topic I had thought up at a totally different stage of my life. I believe this little gem originated when I was still in college one night when I was very high, had terrible dry mouth and had just eaten two sleeves of Oreos (double stuffed of course). Living away from home meant that my mini fridge was only stocked with booze and pickles.
I now give you “An Ode To Milk” as I see it today… not high, post dinner-salad with a fresh gallon at my disposal in the fridge (I’m a responsible adult, yay!).
I have always loved milk. Growing up I would ask for it with my dinner, guzzle full glasses as a snack and my family went through a gallon every three days for years. I do not understand when people hate it because there are so many variations to account for different tastes.
Skim Milk- Glorious. It is my current bovine lactation of choice and I am loyal and passionate about it. It makes cereal taste like a celebration of morning, turns tomato soup into the red blood of angels and when eaten with chocolate I crave a vat of it to backstroke in. It tastes like life-sustaining water plus awesomeness and vitamins. Something about it being just a hint thicker than water makes it satisfying on the tongue. Now that I’m writing about it I cannot believe how much love I feel for fat free milk. Alarming or prudent? Maybe I need more meaning in my life.
Nah. Skim milk is my precious; I would retreat to a cave, lose all my hair and body fat, fondly pet a glass of it and scream in agony when it was gone. It makes my bones as strong as my love.
1% Milk- Meh. I grew up drinking this so for a time it was my number one but I have long since moved on to it’s healthier, less thick counterpart. I can drink it and still enjoy it when paired with a milk necessary item but I would wish it was 0% with every sip.
2% Milk- Is 2% of anything ever awesome? What if I gave 2% at my job or left a 2% tip? That would make me horrible and creamy, just like 2% milk.
Whole Milk- OH DEAR GOD I’M CONSUMING GLOOP. No; I want no part of it. If I hear one more time that “whole milk is technically better for you than skim because it holds more nutrients in” or any similar science baloney I will wipe boogers on someones coffee table (you heard me). I do not actually care about nutrients, I’m a 27 year old girl; I am shortsighted about my health and don’t care about the new panic society is in over what food we consume.
I also believe that whole milk is a liar because based on it’s name I understand that it is fat in it’s entirety. I was under the impression that whole meant “all of something” not 3.25% of something. Say I ate some of a friend’s pie and they found out and got mad and they asked me how much I ate. If I said I ate the “whole thing” they would flick me really hard and run home expecting the pie to be gone. If, when they arrived at said pie they saw that only 1/33rd of the pie was missing, they’d feel really bad for having flicked me (if that math is off, I don’t care, I’m not a wizard ok?).
Whole milk is yucky and not refreshing and gives me a muffin top over my pants. Why would I partake?
Give me skim milk or give me death.
Oh also, this past weekend a male friend of mine informed me that he had made himself lactate once. So I could have translated “An Ode to Milk” into my disbelief over that insane nugget of information. I won’t soon move past that.