Nothing Worth Crying Over
As I returned home from our grocery trip this morning, I tried to carry a few too many things in my left hand (note to my gentle readers: it would seem two gallons of milk plus a plastic bag of groceries in one hand is too much) and alas, I dropped a carton of milk, thus causing it to burst, and begin sending a little river of the precious white stuff out onto my garage floor.
To waste the milk of the dairy cow has always seemed an abomination to me, but even more so given the recent increase in the price of her milk. As I helplessly watched the $3/gallon stuff leak out of its carton it occurred to me that it might be wise to jump into action, which I did.
I grabbed a glass pitcher from the kitchen and turning the milk carton right side up so that the milk could properly leak from the crack at its base into my pitcher (I am trying not to concern myself with the fact that the bottom of the milk carton is probably not the most sanitary end for the milk to pour out from!), I promptly filled it to the top. I fetched a second pitcher and filled it again, halfway.
Thus I ended up saving, not all, but most of the lovely milk, some of which we enjoyed with our lunch. And to look upon the bright side of this little domestic fiasco, I must say that having a large glass pitcher of fresh milk in my refrigerator is rather romantic. I feel almost as if we lived in a different time, before the advent of the plastic carton, and I can almost imagine that we milked our own cow before dawn this morning or that perhaps our faithful dairy man delivered our supply of milk to our door earlier today so that we might enjoy it.
Can you tell I am in the middle of not one, but two pieces of 19th century children’s literature??