Thursday, October 30, 2008

Vitals are still strong after consuming a full cup of raw cow’s milk, which is surprising because I had imagined a wholly different scenario, one that basically concluded with me dead, facedown in an unfinished bowl of soggy raisin bran. It was a stark vision. I pictured a world gone hazy just four or five spoonfuls into the taste test, tryptophan coursing fiercely through my arteries, tonight’s post a scant two lines deep, and my fist clenched–as tightly as anyone with a fatal prion overload could manage, anyway–in one final act of defiance.

Obviously some dramatic license was employed here. But understand that when Earth Chick held forth on the consequences of pasteurization and its genocidal effects on nutrients, I initially interpreted the viewpoint as an all-natural middle finger directed toward the Industrial Revolution. I appreciate the creature comforts offered by modernity. Central air. Stay-fresh packaging. Genetically modified foodstuffs. Sure, I have my limits–the Grapple and the majestic Beefalo give pause, for instance–but if a giant pear happens to have three stems, one being its birthright and the other two for channeling chocolate and raspberry flavors, well hey. KFC, similarly, may have recently discovered how to breed chickens that possess fully breaded tenders for legs, and that’s just more glory to the Colonel, you know?

I’m kidding, of course. KFC made that breakthrough years ago. And although I’ve probably consumed enough preservatives to grant an unnaturally long life, but definitely not enough MSG, as is the wont of my ancestors, to make these very hands savory, I’ve found myself buying more organic products lately. Raw milk simply seemed like the next step. It’s illegal to peddle in this state, however, but fortunately South Carolina shares no such qualms, and today I received a whole gallon, generously gifted from a caravan that apparently traffics the illicitly delicious stuff regularly. I did my research before I drank. Went to the farm’s website. Scanned the FAQ. Browsed the relevant Wikipedia entries for all the risks. Ascertained whether mad cow disease could possibly find conduit through the substance.

As the moment of truth approached, though, all these scholarly pursuits were diminished, replaced instead by behavior as animal as the milk itself. I peered suspiciously at the plastic container. Circled around it. Gingerly popped open the cap and took a few wary sniffs. In the back of my mind, I realized this felt exactly the same as learning the fineries of handguns–this anxiety of having mortality at my fingertips. I took the plunge. And wouldn’t you know it, nothing happened. It tasted richer than the processed kind. Sat well enough after consumption. Whether I’ll commit henceforth to purchasing directly from the udder, I’ll decide after I finish the gallon, but the fear of debilitating disease has certainly subsided. You could call it a moot point. Pun detector, activate.