He split half an oreo, not the way advertised, not by separating one side from the other, but by cracking it as Jesus might have broken the bread. This way there’s little doubt both of us have an equal amount of cream.
Mozzarella is made from buffalo milk. It tastes best when he’s a piece of my hair around a little finger with the thoughtful hunger of the Miser over the truffula silk. Those Italian fromageurs have lassoed the moon, oui, yummy, and soaked it in dew.
Blue was my favorite color when I was small. I remember distinctly taking a blue carton in the cafeteria queue, neverminding what percentage of fat that color represented. The frozen food chef on the other side of the aluminum counter rebuked my decision, told me I needed red.
So raw milk tastes like soupy ice cream. My first taste rests so là là! in my mind… that part of the mind that can make the taste buds imagine things that aren’t there. If milk was such all about and everywhere. If cows would always be feed what they were meant to eat. Soupy ice cream.
I read the entire series of The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline B. Cooney when I was in eighth grade, but found that I only liked the books up until the mystery had been resolved. The legal and social issues to follow the rehabilitation of her biological family were so anti-novel. This might have been my introduction to postmodernism.