One thing I love about the human experience is that somewhere, somebody is fascinated by something that we take for granted. Cows and land, for instance. Having grown up in the city, the girl I would marry told me she wanted to own some property one day. “An acre would be a lot,” she said. I laughed out loud.

It took her awhile to grasp the concept that not only bulls had horns. Cows could have them, too. After living here for four years, I bet she could identify a Holstein from a Jersey from a Brahma. A far cry from the Brown’s Velvet cow that spun around atop the pole on the interstate in Metairie, not far from her childhood home. It was good luck if you passed at the moment the rear of the cow was facing you. (I doubt any country folks would agree.)

For city kids, vegetables come from cans and milk comes in umpteen different dilutions. (All of them undrinkable, in my opinion.) I was seventeen before I tasted milk from a store. My grandpa milked his cow every day, by hand. Maw Maw pasteurized it there on the counter in her kitchen and kept it in big, white porcelain pans in the refrigerator. Blowing the cream back and pouring the milk into a glass was a cultivated art. I never quite got the hang of it. Paw Paw left a gallon of milk on our doorstep every other morning, and we had to shake shake shake the jug so the cream would blend with the milk. Nothing tasted better on Cocoa Crispies.

We buy milk from the grocery, like most other people these days. Sometimes I forget and I open the fridge and shake- shake- shake the milk jug. And my wife smiles at me. Now she understands.

24 January 2004 : posted 26 August 2016