I once had a friend named Tom who wouldn’t eat any food that he had touched. When he ate a sandwich, the part that he had been holding got left on the plate. When he ate french fries, a quarter inch of each fry was rejected. And his toast was always nibbled right up to the crust, and then discarded.
Of course, in his defense, he was crazy.
I was thinking about Tom the other day when I was cleaning up my kitchen and noticed that every single glass we owned was missing. A quick search revealed that not only were all of them tucked into various nooks and crannies scattered throughout the house, but that each one had approximately one inch of milk left in them. Every single one. Remember that scene in Signs, where the father is picking up all of the used water glasses? It was like that, but with milk. (And without any chance of those glasses appearing in a pivotal scene involving Joaquin Phoenix, which is too bad, because I think I could put up with the milk if it led to an appearance by Joaquin Phoenix. Without the beard, of course.)
But I digress. (Mmm, Joaquin Phoenix.) The point is, though, that for some reason, my kids are incapable of finishing a glass of milk. Now, bear in mind that in no way am I forcing them to drink milk; it’s not like I’m pouring these big, tall glasses of milk and then standing guard over them, threatening them with future osteoporosis if they don’t drink up. No, they pour the milk. They decide how much they want. And how much they want always turns out to be one inch less then they realized.
“Pour less,” I’ll plead. “Pour half a glass, and then go back for more. But quit leaving an inch of milk in the bottom of all the glasses. It’s waste of money for me, and a waste of time for the cow. How do you think Bossy would feel if she knew that she could have knocked off work one squirt earlier the other day?”
Alas, the threat of a disgruntled bovine doesn’t carry as much weight as it did when I was a kid. Maybe that’s because I grew up with cows, and know all too well the agony that can ensue when a person comes into contact with an unhappy cow–especially when one of you is wearing flip flops and the other is wearing hooves. My kids, however, are ignorant of that particular pain, and so the lactose abuse continues.
It wouldn’t be so bad if they did it with water. I could just pour that out on the nearest plant (although doing that to the pothos in my kitchen recently caused it to send up the white–or rather yellow–flag of surrender). I also wouldn’t mind if it was liquor. I mean, it’s not like either one of my kids smoke (much), and so the chances of my gulping down a hidden cigarette as I clean up after their cocktail parties are practically nil. No, I wouldn’t complain one bit about having to take care of all of their leftover scotch problems. “Oh, look: the poor little dears couldn’t finish their Glenmorangie again. Well, waste not . . .”
But milk; bleh. I’m not even that big of a milk fan when it’s fresh; when it’s been sitting in a glass for a few hours (or days), slouching its way towards cheesehood, I’m even less of one.
I’m sure that all of the vegans out there are snickering as they read this, but let me assure you: it’s no great treat to find an ancient glass of soymilk behind a dresser, either.
In fact, pound per pound, I’d say that fuzzy soymilk is right up there with Joaquin Phoenix for pure creepiness–with the beard, of course.