Milk: a love story.

Like most love stories, this one begins when I was least looking for love.

I was at the Columbia Greenmarket last Sunday. I didn’t really need anything; it was just a nice spring day and I wanted to get out of the house. I picked up some apples and a butternut squash, probably the last I’ll eat of either until next fall.

I walked past Milk Thistle Farm‘s table twice, noting how nice it was to see a dairy that wasn’t Ronnybrook Farm. I’ve been unofficially boycotting Ronnybrook since last May, when some assclown working for them intimated I was purposely raising my child to be rude and I didn’t really take a shine to that.

So, merely because this guy was not Ronnybrook, I decided to buy a half-gallon.



I took it home, I poured a small glass… I fell in love.

It’s sweet and creamy. When I heat it up, the grassy smell really comes out (and I keep sticking my nose into the empty cup to revel in it). And I would swear, it bothers my lactose-sensitive stomach much less than regular milk.

I’m already planning to go back and get another half-gallon tomorrow.

Milk Thistle Farm
Fridays: Union Square
Sundays: The Columbia Market (114th & Broadway)

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3 thoughts on “Milk: a love story.

  1. The milk sounds delicious, Kristen. And having had a very shy daughter once upon a time [she got over it in spades] I applaud your boycott of the doofuses.

  2. That is one of the best descriptions of milk I’ve ever heard. Really. I’m looking at my little carton of tuscan milk and wondering why there’s no grassy smell. Stupid carton!

    A pediatrician once asked my mom if I was retarded because I was so shy. Nice for a guy who works with kids, huh?

  3. NO! Oh my god, who says something like that? What the hell is wrong with some people?

    I have to admit, as I was writing this, I took a minute to look up to see if milk really could smell grassy and that was, you know, normal and not that I was suddenly beset by a brain tumor or something.

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