Thursday, November 6, 2008

The verdict on raw milk, which I found hidden at the bottom of today’s cup, is that however pure it may be or right it may taste, it brings with it a unique set of psychological challenges when it hits my system. What begins as an innocent glass of nature’s finest transforms, through twists and turns modern science will never even begin to fathom, into an udderly–oh, yes I did go there–nerve-wracking experience.

Part of the appeal of processed food, it occurred to me, is an easy disavowal of how things began. You’re trading critical thought–not only of how things started, but of future consequences as well–for immediacy. Take a mainstream bag of chicken nuggets, for example. I know I certainly don’t think about the chickens themselves, nor do I ever really consider the statistical improbability of having every piece shaped uncannily like West Virginia. A nugget is merely a noncommittal unit of food to be dipped in any number of artificially flavored sauces, its origins conveniently masked by a veil of crispy coating. Milk, similarly, had simply been the stuff that went well with cereal or oatmeal.

But when I began preparing a bowl of microwaveable oats tonight, the following train of thought rumbled into the station: if all the living organisms are indeed intact in raw milk, wouldn’t I tempt fate by microwaving the stuff and, in the process, risk mutating a particular virus into a superbug? It was a grim Bruckenheimer scenario that ended with the Greater Charlotte-Metro area in ruins, decimated by a horrifically irradiated strain of Beningitis for which there was no cure nor quarter. It’s back to processed organic for me. And if you’re going to suggest I drink a tall glass of milk to calm myself down, well, you know.