Some of my earliest memories are of Syl, standing in front of the sink with her back to me, wooden spoon firmly in hand, stirring an opaque watery liquid round and round in a 1970’s burnt orange Tupperware pitcher. Sometimes Syl would turn around and pour said liquid into our teacup-sized glasses, over ice, and tell us to drink it with our dinner. I was told early on that this runny beverage was “milk.” Having no frame of reference, I had no choice but to believe this to be true. Sure, I noted the striking similarity in texture and taste between “milk” and other liquids, like water, but who was I to argue?
After taking a swig from a friend’s milk carton at school one day, I noticed a distinct difference between “store-bought” milk and Boyd milk. I marched home that day and promptly asked Syl why we couldn’t have store-bought milk. Syl then informed me that our milk, in powdered form, was equally delicious and far less expensive. I begged to differ with Syl on the taste point, but she would see none of it. Instead, Syl invited me to witness the miracle of making milk for the umpteenth time. Bored, I watched as Syl expertly measured out the water and powder and poured it into the burnt orange Tupperware pitcher and started stirring. In an unprecedented move, she turned around and offered the spoon to me. Stupidly, I grasped the spoon and with this one move, I unwittingly sealed my fate. Having now observed the milk-making process from start to finish, Syl announced that I was ready to take on the dubious role as Boyd Family Milk Maid.
As with any new responsibility, the novelty of making milk quickly wore off as I found myself under constant pressure to make enough milk to quench my and my siblings’ collective thirst. Our drink choices for breakfast were as follows: orange juice, milk or water. For lunch and dinner: milk or water. Like most kids, we all hated water. Powdered milk, though just a rung above water in terms of taste and consistency, was nonetheless preferred. Consequently, there was never enough milk and my greedy siblings were constantly nagging me to make more milk. Not just make milk, mind you, but make it fast and make it cold. What’s more, I was not only expected to keep the fridge stocked at all times with plenty of milk, I was further expected to anticipate their hydration needs, to make sure our two Tupperware milk pitchers were always full and chilled before every meal.
Needless to say, I did not always have the time or the inclination to whip up pitchers of milk in advance. I was, in essence, an indentured servant in my own home. A liquid short-order cook, if such a thing exists. On the nights I simply forgot to make milk before I went to bed, I would invariably wake up in a cold sweat, fearing the wrath of my siblings once they discovered there would be no cold milk to pour over their off-brand Toasty-O’s or Golden Flakes. After being on the receiving end of numerous grumbles, muttered curse words, derogatory comments, dirty looks, and overly audible sighs, I learned to fear the dawn and what it might bring if I forgot to make the milk. Yet no matter how hard I tried, desperately, to remember, I often failed. For those panic stricken nights and early mornings when I shot up in my bed and remembered, correctly, that I was once again derelict in my duties, I’d race downstairs and whip up a batch of watery brew, splash the outside of the pitcher, and set it on the table, in a small puddle (also my creation). With a final flourish, I’d take a juice glass from the cupboard, swirl some water around the inside of the glass, dump most of the water out, and put it in the sink. I’d then creep back up to my bedroom and go back asleep. When Syl woke us all up for school, I’d wait until I heard my brothers going downstairs to the kitchen and I’d follow them—while maintaining a safe distance. When they observed the warm pitcher and “condensation” on the pitcher and table, along with the glass in the sink, they’d assume the role of mini-Sherlocks and deduce that someone must have had a post-dinner drink and forgotten to put the milk back in the refrigerator. Once they cracked the case, I’d stare dumbly at them and vehemently deny getting a midnight glass of milk and subtly point the finger at the only sibling not a part of the discussion: Jemina. This tactic always worked as nobody believed anything Jemina said as she was: (1) the youngest; and (2) a known habitual liar.
See, dear reader, something as simple as milk (or a freshly made sandwich) can be taken for granted. In keeping with our mission here at Frozen Sandwiches, we like to periodically remind you of your comparatively normal childhoods. You’re welcome!!!
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After taking a swig from a friend’s milk carton at school one day, I noticed a distinct difference between “store-bought” milk and Boyd milk. I marched home that day and promptly asked Syl why we couldn’t have store-bought milk. Syl then informed me that our milk, in powdered form, was equally delicious and far less expensive. I begged to differ with Syl on the taste point, but she would see none of it. Instead, Syl invited me to witness the miracle of making milk for the umpteenth time. Bored, I watched as Syl expertly measured out the water and powder and poured it into the burnt orange Tupperware pitcher and started stirring. In an unprecedented move, she turned around and offered the spoon to me. Stupidly, I grasped the spoon and with this one move, I unwittingly sealed my fate. Having now observed the milk-making process from start to finish, Syl announced that I was ready to take on the dubious role as Boyd Family Milk Maid.
As with any new responsibility, the novelty of making milk quickly wore off as I found myself under constant pressure to make enough milk to quench my and my siblings’ collective thirst. Our drink choices for breakfast were as follows: orange juice, milk or water. For lunch and dinner: milk or water. Like most kids, we all hated water. Powdered milk, though just a rung above water in terms of taste and consistency, was nonetheless preferred. Consequently, there was never enough milk and my greedy siblings were constantly nagging me to make more milk. Not just make milk, mind you, but make it fast and make it cold. What’s more, I was not only expected to keep the fridge stocked at all times with plenty of milk, I was further expected to anticipate their hydration needs, to make sure our two Tupperware milk pitchers were always full and chilled before every meal.
Needless to say, I did not always have the time or the inclination to whip up pitchers of milk in advance. I was, in essence, an indentured servant in my own home. A liquid short-order cook, if such a thing exists. On the nights I simply forgot to make milk before I went to bed, I would invariably wake up in a cold sweat, fearing the wrath of my siblings once they discovered there would be no cold milk to pour over their off-brand Toasty-O’s or Golden Flakes. After being on the receiving end of numerous grumbles, muttered curse words, derogatory comments, dirty looks, and overly audible sighs, I learned to fear the dawn and what it might bring if I forgot to make the milk. Yet no matter how hard I tried, desperately, to remember, I often failed. For those panic stricken nights and early mornings when I shot up in my bed and remembered, correctly, that I was once again derelict in my duties, I’d race downstairs and whip up a batch of watery brew, splash the outside of the pitcher, and set it on the table, in a small puddle (also my creation). With a final flourish, I’d take a juice glass from the cupboard, swirl some water around the inside of the glass, dump most of the water out, and put it in the sink. I’d then creep back up to my bedroom and go back asleep. When Syl woke us all up for school, I’d wait until I heard my brothers going downstairs to the kitchen and I’d follow them—while maintaining a safe distance. When they observed the warm pitcher and “condensation” on the pitcher and table, along with the glass in the sink, they’d assume the role of mini-Sherlocks and deduce that someone must have had a post-dinner drink and forgotten to put the milk back in the refrigerator. Once they cracked the case, I’d stare dumbly at them and vehemently deny getting a midnight glass of milk and subtly point the finger at the only sibling not a part of the discussion: Jemina. This tactic always worked as nobody believed anything Jemina said as she was: (1) the youngest; and (2) a known habitual liar.
See, dear reader, something as simple as milk (or a freshly made sandwich) can be taken for granted. In keeping with our mission here at Frozen Sandwiches, we like to periodically remind you of your comparatively normal childhoods. You’re welcome!!!
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