Wes and I have a milkman. A man who arrives every Wednesday in a truck that’s painted like a cow. A man who drops off milk right at our doorstep. A real, genuine, dyed-in-the-wool milkman.
We just signed up for it, as a matter of fact. For the last four years I’ve bought our dairy products faithfully at the store, and almost every week Wes has complained about how lame those dairy products have been compared to the dairy of his youth.
I discounted Wes’ greener pastures of youth dairy products out of hand because, well, my family always bought milk at the store. That’s where milk comes from. In fact, when I was little, I thought they kept cows in the back of the store behind those swishy doors they always have by the refrigerated dairy section.
So, that’s how it was. I bought milk at the grocery store and Wes complained.
Then, he went to the farmer’s market all by himself and came back with Information. Information about the evils of grocery store milk. Horrifying stuff about how it’s usually months old by the time it gets to the shelf, that it’s so pasteurized that it barely has any nutrients left in it, that it has other growth hormones besides just the rBST kind.
I was summarily grossed out (months-old milk!) and resolved to go to the farmer’s market myself just to see what all the fuss was about. The local milk farm representative was there handing out samples, so I took a swig.
And oh my goodness. WHAT A DIFFERENCE!!!
I’ve never been a fan of straight-up milk. But this milk? This milk was ambrosia.
Not only was it a lot tastier, but it was nearly the same cost. And it gets delivered by a milkman! I was sold.
And that’s the story of how we came to have a milkman. I just think that’s so novel. So old-fashioned. The milk comes in regular old cartons, not glass bottles, but still. We have a milkman!