The ‘bourgie hippie’ category

Crying Over Spilt Milk

July 6th, 2017

Trigger warning: Lots of dairy praising ahead. 

Yesterday my husband got up with the girls at 5am (why, girls) and let me sleep until almost 9. This was amazing because I have been quite sleep deprived and have been staying up late trying to unpack all our stuff into our new house, which is a totally different shape than our old house. I find myself staring into closets at midnight, trying to visualize how to make it all come together. It’s a mind melt.

Anyway, yesterday, he got up with the girls. Again, thank you. But when I woke up at almost 9, in a panic because I had work booked all day, I was dismayed to realize that he had given the girls all the milk. I can’t drink coffee without milk, people. I don’t take milk with my coffee. I take coffee with my milk. Telling me to drink it black is like telling a black-coffee drinker to just have milk in the morning instead. Right?

Jon, to his credit (again) offered to pack up the girls and go to the farm to get milk. I was very grateful although still very bitter and grouchy. But I calmed myself with thoughts of the farm-fresh raw milk, which comes with a thick layer of cream on top. You can peel the cream off for your coffee before you give the milk your kids. Perks of living in the country! 

Unfortunately, he went around a bend too fast and let the jar tip over, so the cream mixed in with the milk. Grrrrr. 

These are next-level bourgie hippie country problems, you guys. I admit that I’m a brat for being annoyed that the cream mixed in with the milk. I also realize that being super attached not just to coffee but to the precise level of milk fat in my coffee is just about as unBuddhist as it gets. The other day, when bored, my daughters both started chanting, “I need coffee!” over and over, out of the blue.

Where do they get this stuff?

Probably from the same person who apparently says “Oh my god, Rocky” in a super annoyed voice all the time. Me. 

Anyway, it will probably not surprise you to hear that I know my cow’s name. The farm we get our milk from has one cow, Butternut. She’s a beautiful thing. I don’t know how much milk one cow makes a day, but I picture her as our dedicated family cow, making milk just for us. And the milk costs $2 you guys. This is just one of the many, many pleasures of living in rural Vermont, and also one of the things that makes me feel like a Portlandian poser. I am happy to inhabit that role, however, if it means fresh milk every day (and eggs and greens from the other farm down the street) and a chance to praise Butternut for her fine work.

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