My First jobs were all about the milk

 

I had recollections of my childhood the other day, brought on by a glass of milk, of all things. I had just made a milk protein drink. I must have sat and stared at it for five minutes. Memories flooded my mind, like a series of movie shorts.

Before you run off and say “You crazy Ba&*&&%%,” hear me out.

 

The Background

I had read an article a few days before that was talking about unpasteurized milk. 

Raw milk is said to have great benefits. It has many essential nutrients, fats, proteins, and enzymes. These include anti-inflammatory and digestive enzymes. It also has bioavailable vitamins and minerals. A super food?

 

Regulators have long argued that, despite its benefits, raw milk is harmful. It can cause serious food-borne illnesses.

Pasteurization is heating milk to a specific temperature for a set time to kill bacteria. It has been around since the early 1900’s. In Australia, Canada, and Germany, it is now a mandatory practice. In these countries, the sale of raw milk is illegal.

 

Add to this the debate about its fat content and calcium.

We have ruined a drink that was perfectly good drink!

As a microbiologist by trade, I don’t see the difference between unpasteurized goat and cow’s milk. Something about the lesser likelihood of containing disease-carrying bugs. In Australia, for example, you can sell unpasteurized goat’s milk but not cow’s milk for drinking.

Makes sense in one respect; if I were a bug, I would not want to be in goat’s milk - it’s horrible!

You can buy unpasteurized cow’s milk but only to take a bath in!

 

Yes, that is right; you can buy gallons of it to fill up your bath, and if you don’t drink it, all is good.

I digress; back to my real story.

My first two jobs were all about the milk.

If my timing was good, I would get there when they were still milking. It was a fascinating process that relied entirely on bribery. The farmer would milk the cows in the shed twice a day. You would see them head off from the paddocks at a slow amble, so they got to the shed just at the right time.

I’m sure the only reason they put up with the process was because they were guaranteed food while they milked. It was a ‘quid pro quo’ relationship with the farmer.

I would take my billy and fill it up straight from the hose that was feeding it into the milk vat. Put a lid on it and ride back home and put it on the bench. Job done.

 

My mother would let it sit for an hour. The cream (those bad for you, cholesterol-inducing fats) would rise to the surface. She would skim it off before putting it in the fridge.

I guarantee you there was no pasteurization within a hundred meters of that milk. Things are different these days, but that is what I grew up on for a few years of my life.

 

My other job was to feed the calves. We often used to rescue orphaned calves from the farms to hand-rear. They were cute little critters. But they could down a bucket of milk in no time.

It was a picture of pure country. A small boy in his boots. A brown and white calf, its tail wagging, sucking madly from a bucket. Once they get going there is no stopping them.

 

All good things come to an end. After a few months and once they were eating grass, the calves (who all got names) just disappeared. I was told they went back to the farm, which was probably true because they were milking cows.

 

We may well have got our milk back from them in later life as I am sure they came from the farm where we got the milk.

 

 

Milk is a “fairly dangerous thing.”

It was not all ‘beer and skittles.’ Where there is pleasure, there is pain. 

I reflected in that glass of milk about the time I was riding back from the farm with a full billy of milk. I was not concentrating on what I was doing. I was probably off with the fairies, thinking about that big fish I was going to catch later in the day.

I got caught in the gravel on the side of the road. The milk went one way, my bike another. I ended up between the spilled milk and my wrecked bike. A few war wounds that kept me out of action for a day or two and a damaged ego.

 

It was nothing compared to my other milk tragedy. The calves received a compounded powdered milk that was mixed with boiling water. Again, one day, I was not concentrating (probably dreaming about that fish again!). I poured the jug of boiling water down my arm.

That was a lot more serious, with blisters like I had never seen before. It kept me out of action for a week or so.

A milk lover, through and through.

When I finally returned to reality, I was amazed. A simple glass of milk had stirred up such vivid memories. That is the power of reflection.

I have always been a big milk drinker. At one stage when I was at university, milk was probably my staple diet. It was easy (didn’t have to cook it), filled me up, was cheap, and dinner was over in about ten minutes. More time for other things. 

 

I still enjoy a cold glass of milk, but these days it is all Hi-Lo that lasts for a month or so in the fridge. Not like the full-strength, makes your hair curl version, right from the cow that I used to drink.

Till next time,

Calvin