It’s happening again. I know too much.
I don’t care who you are — once you’ve squeezed your goat’s teats until your breakfast drink comes out, you’re never the same.
Although I’ve waited what feels like my whole life to obtain it, I cannot drink my goat’s milk right now. And I blame society.
Do you know how many gallons of milk I’ve consumed in my lifetime? A lot. Do you know how many animals I have personally milked? None. Maybe a fake cow at the state fair, and I guess I could count myself on occasion — but other than that, I am totally oblivious to the process. I am used to buying a gallon of milk, pouring it on my cereal and moving on with my life in perfect ignorance.
Now, drinking milk has become a thing. (I think I can hear it bleating in my refrigerator right now!)
Every time I become directly involved in the production of my food, there’s always a period of … adjustment. When my pig was butchered, I could barely eat bacon, for cripe’s sake. When my chickens went to heaven, I had to gag the chicken salad down like it was human flesh or something. And the eggs … oh, the eggs! I couldn’t be anywhere near them. (Chicken menstruation, by the way, when you think about it.)
That’s the problem.
Do you EVEN KNOW what milk is??
White liquid fat. Protein. Calcium. How does it become so white?? Grossy.
My first few sips of fresh goat’s milk were delightful (“It’s like Snowville Creamery only MORE DELICOUS,” I thought. “How is this possible?!”). But the more I thought, the worse it became until finally Seth had to finish my glass at dinner because I couldn’t take another sip.
The problem is that I’ve known this glass of milk all its life.
I just keep imagining it inside my goat. I can see her out there, crunching on grass, drinking water, pooping, peeing … *gulp* … giving birth. The whole glass just smelled and looked and tasted like Rose the Goat. And I know it came from her because I squeezed her boobs while it came out. I am intimately intertwined with the animal that produced my food. TOO intimately. I monitor the shape of her bowel movements. I pulled her children out of her vajay-jay. I can fully comprehend this milk. And it disgusts me.
At present day, there’s nothing I enjoy more than the superior color and taste of fresh eggs from chickens I’m well acquainted with. (Thanks, Grandma Johnson!) And I very much look forward to dinner guests so that we can plop one of the juiciest, tastiest TeterRange chickens on the grill. But at first, for a moment, I was repulsed by these same things. (Some would say I’ve grown up. That I’m eating with the fullest pleasure–pleasure that does not rely on ignorance, that is.)
Eggs, meat … guess it was only a matter of time before dairy was made real for me. Can someone tell me how much longer until it passes?
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