There’s no coffee in our house. Well… no real coffee. Only instant and decaf. I feel ashamed even writing that. I’m sure people have been burned at the stake for crimes less serious than this…
Under normal circumstances, I drink my coffee black, you know, like my soul. I don’t have that missing gene that allows for the repetition of this (kinda manly) act with instant coffee. To make granular coffee from a jar palatable I require some form of sucrose simulacrum and the nutrient dense liquid produced by an in-calf dairy cow (maxed out with hormones and antibiotics)
Hm… no milk in the fridge either. Seriously our pantry and surrounds is a dirge to a dystopian wasteland where nothing lives.
Having a breast fed infant in the house however… *coughs* means that the top shelf of the fridge is packed with bottles of expressed milk from the female of the species.
I eyed these… kinda creamy bottles for a moment. Just a moment mind you…
Putting your wives breast milk in your coffee… seems… well… it seems wrong. Like something you would probably be judged for by your peers.
Which… when I thought about it, at least I know where this stuff comes from. I know what my wife eats, she’s not on any growth hormones or antibiotics. I’ve seen her shower at least once a day… in fact her hygiene is likely superior to my own. So why the weird reticence to dilute the swill in my mug with it? Happy to put milk in my coffee from another species, the origin of which is at best unknown to me (and if I was intimately familiar with the process unlikely to touch another dairy item ever again).
We ended up getting Starbucks.
Weirdly today I wasn’t John. Or Joel. Or Larry. Or Methuselah (although that would be quite something).
I’m notching it up as a win. Even if the coffee wasn’t.