Once upon a time, I thought that I hated milk.
I hated the taste. That bland, thick, slightly mildewy flavour.
I hated the texture. That thicker-than-water-but-not-thick-enough-to-really-make-a-difference thickness.
I hated the smell. I hated the colour. I hated the thought of it!
(And in particular, I hate Skim Milk. It is really just milk flavoured water, which is disgusting.)
My brother loves milk. He could drink an whole gallon by himself. In one day.
A sip makes me gag.
I love cheese.*
And I like yogurt. And cottage cheese. And ice cream. And whipped cream.**
But their main ingredient alone always made me feel sick.
Then one rainy day, my housemate accidentally bought Heavy Whipping Cream instead of Half and Half for her coffee. It was too rich for her, so she offered it to me.
I have a passing acquaintance with Whipping Cream. Usually I whip it into Whipped Cream. With a teaspoon – or two, or three – of sugar, it is delicious.***
Now I was curious.
My aversion to the bovine juice had thus far prevented me from polluting my beloved morning beverage.
But, as I prepared for a stroll about the neighborhood, in the company of a good book and a good drink, I decided to be daring.
(Yes, I read while walking. I recommend it.
And yes, putting things in my coffee is much more strange and adventurous than navigating the lopsided sidewalks and cracked intersections of this suburb.)
So I poured a tad in my mug, and set off on my way.
I was half way down the block when, in the middle of reading MacDonald essay on fairy tales, when I took a sip.***
And the skies opened and poured forth heavenly glory.
This glory came in the form of more light rain.
But it was shiny and wonderful and my eyes were opened to see everything as grace!
The cream was a channel of love and happiness and Divine peace.
I wanted to sit on the curb and kick my feet and squeal like a little girl.
It was that good.
I promptly went home and made another cup.
And every cup of coffee since then has had to have whipping cream in it.
That thick, sweet, curdling taste of cream is addicting. It adds a depth that coffee on it’s own can never achieve. It brings out the flavour, and layers the texture.
And by itself, cream is . . . absurdly delicious.
But recently I have been doing odd things.
Last weekend I went out to a coffee shop. And they did not offer whipping cream for coffee. So I used Half and Half instead.
And I was glad.
And then this week, I was thirsty. But I did not want to make coffee. So I poured a little bit of whipping cream in a glass, and drank it.
And I was happy.
At this rate I might be drinking milk with gusto by the end of the year.
Hmm. This is a slippery slope.
So I recommend, the next time you have coffee, be adventurous.
Use REAL Cream.
* Cheese might actually be my favorite food group.
** And butter. But butter is rarely eaten alone. So I feel I must disinclude it in this list.
*** Or even more sugar. But the real delight still the rich, thick, frothy cream.
**** This book is the reason for the terrible title of this entry. Forgive me the punniness.