In case you stay up at night, tossing and turning and wondering how I came up with the name of this here blog, fear not, I am about to answer all your questions.
I love milk.
I have since I was a kid. My parents made me drink it with dinner and it was love at first sip, and a habit that stuck. I used to drink about 3-4 glasses a day. I’ve since cut back, but only a little.
I do not have a sophisticated palate, but there are a few foods I consume with enough regularity to taste subtle differences in flavor. Homemade macaroni and cheese is one. No dry mustard or nutmeg for me, thankyouverymuch, I like it pure. And when my husband brought home organic milk for me the other day, I boldly claimed it tasted like a farm.
While visiting Grandma Glass of Milk yesterday, she showed me an article in this week’s Washington Post Food section. The author has since made some more milk-related comments here. I think I’m a little closer to understanding how some foodies feel about artisan olive oils and French sea salts now. I’ve discovered the wonderful world of milk from mid-sized dairies.
On the walk home from Grandma’s, we stopped at Whole Foods to pick up some Snowville Creamery skim. My verdict? Much creamier than a regular grocery brand. My husband’s? Couldn’t taste a difference.
There you have it, America.