Years ago, the opposite might have been true for people who insisted on cooking their milk, but today, drinking raw milk carries the same stigma as eating an uncooked egg ... if not more. After all, the selling of raw milk in most states constitutes the committing of a small crime. Owners of dairy cows or goats must find creative ways to market their product, knowing they'll face hefty fines for profiting from such a dangerous delight.
All danger aside, only delight remains for myself and my daughter when we discover a friend's father's cow has recently calved.
"Raw milk!" she crows jubilantly. "Raw milk!" Her brothers and dad gaze at her, eyebrows raised. But I understand her excitement. It's rare to find a soul who will sell, much less for the stellar price of six dollars a gallon. I wish I could bottle this stuff, make it shelf stable, and enjoy it the whole year through. It's so incredibly tasty!
But there's the rub. This wish to prolong my enjoyment of raw milk likely lead to its pasteurization in the first place. When multiple people began experiencing food poisoning after drinking raw milk stored in large batches, federal government mandated the bacteria-killing processes we live with today. The treatments, involving extreme heat, did indeed stop the food poisoning - but they also "killed" the good traits of a tall glass of milk. No longer could consumers receive healthy probiotics with each cup; instead, they downed damaged proteins that would later associate themselves with a host of health problems, including lactose intolerance, mucous buildup, and leaky gut. Just as with mass-produced meat and cheese, the truth was too awful to bear -- the best way to enjoy them is untreated, in sustainable amounts -- and omnivores everywhere gulped down the unlovely lie. Treated milk grows strong bones, gives good nutrition, sets the standard, promotes good health.
The truth - awful though it seems - sits less easily with most folks, our family included. Raw milk - conscientiously-farmed meat - and healthy cheese - should only grace our tables in the amounts that can be obtained with our current finances, and on the occasions that they're readily available. This means that when our friend's father's cow stops producing, our milk consumption will cease as well. This should mean that fresh meat comes only from sources we actually trust, and eggs should originate in a backyard flock we've laid eyes on ourselves.
The reality, however, is more bleak. Like many Americans, we do enjoy processed milk. Rarely does it come in a tall glass, and rarely do we use more than two gallons a month. But its presence is ubiquitous in our yogurt and cheese. I long to break free from the perceived need for these things, but my creativity and finances stretch thin, and I resort to them, every month, with reluctance. Our budget -- and my resourcefulness - simply can't sustain the "perfect" plan -- and so I pray daily over the sub-par foods we consume and trust our long-term health to our God.
But all this compromise hasn't dimmed my opinions and preferences. Along with my daughter, I rejoice at the opportunity to drink fresh milk again. When it arrives, all yellow with separated, fatty cream at its top, my husband scowls. "I can't drink that stuff," he says to a friend. "Sarah's cured me so that I like the fake stuff most of all." I know he's talking about the nut milks we buy most consistently, but still, I crack a small smile. His preferences will probably prolong his life -- and f nothing else, they'll save more of this special treat for the rest of us.
"Raw milk!" Our daughter sings out again, in sweet joy. "I'm so happy!"
I place the pristine gallon in the fridge, and heave a deeply-contented sigh. I couldn't agree more with her joy.
No comments:
Post a Comment