I think there are two types of people in this world: people who drink milk, and people who don’t know what they are missing.
An acquaintance of mine recently confessed that she lies about being “lactose intolerant” because she doesn’t think drinking milk “looks cool.” I had no words for how foolish I found this. But this happened to be an acquaintance who cared about appearances; who was prone to fad diets, and doing whatever the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow told her was cool at the time. For the record, Gwyneth’s macro vegan days are, like, so over. Last I checked she was eating ham in Spain with Mario Battali and roasting chickens in the English countryside like the poor man’s Ina Garten for a spread in Town and Country. Or something. (Or maybe it was Vanity Fair, but that sounds way too Town and Country for Vanity Fair).
In other words, milk is not…over.
And furthermore, seriously?! I love nutmilks as much as the next girl who reads Well + Good and goes to bikram, but come on.
We’ve always been milk drinkers in my family. I’m still a milk drinker. And now that I am a grown up, I indulge myself by drinking milk through a straw and blowing bubbles in it at my leisure. Have you ever blown bubbles in your milk? It is one of life’s greatest pleasures. This goes back to my theory that my mother was dead wrong when she’d tell Little Meredith You’re going to miss these days! with reference to my childhood.
As I’ve said before: Girlfriend was dead wrong. Being a grown up is incredibly awesome. I’m pretty sure that there is a sick part of me that is perfectly content to pay half of my salary out to the Federal Government and the State of New York for the pleasure of being an adult, and eating ice cream for dinner, and blowing luxurious bubbles in my nymilk skim.
I’m like Tom Hanks in Big, except I didn’t just wake up one day like this, I actually went through twenty years of school, and put in all the blood sweat and tears to get here, and I’m still smiling like an idiot and eating string cheese as I pore over spreadsheets and squint at my open Outlook.
I really love dairy. I’m a massive milk fan. I have no patience for people who claim not to like dairy, or who claim lactose intolerance when offered a glass of milk, but then happily eat cheese at happy hour. Cheese is full of lactose. You know that lactose is the sugar in milk — it’s not something unique to fluid milk product, and it doesn’t disappear in the cheese-making process, at least, not as far as I’m aware.
At the end of the day, based on the research I’ve read, unless you’re Asian or African American, your chances of simply not liking milk are much, much higher than you being lactose intolerant.
Milk is amazing. And delicious. And when combined with some Hershey’s Syrup, it makes the perfect recovery drink after a long run. By itself, it is the ideal companion to a lovely dinner — goes with any type of dish: summer, spring, winter, or fall. I drink it when I wake up; I drink it at work. I work in an office where we have two refrigerators literally stuffed full of milk (for 30 of us. We’re mad about milk.)
And I swear to you, I’m not a shill for the dairy board. I was just sitting here, blowing bubbles in my chocolate milk, thinking about dairy. This is possibly an outcropping of being a week from having another birthday; trying to cling desperately to all the things related to my childhood; and is, in essence, a sort of cheesy love song to…cheese?
Oh. God. Too much.
Just…drink your milk.