The milkman used to deliver milk every evening at 7 PM. One day my mother made him an offer. She offered to pay him as much as he liked if he stopped mixing in water to the milk he delivered.
The milkman contemplated this for a second and then shook his the Indian way. You know – so it could mean one of three things: Yes, no or maybe. He really just meant no – the temptation to mix in water would be too high.
My mother, in response, shook her head in HER special way that meant ‘”¤#”%¤#%¤#&&’. And that in any language means only one thing.
So to make sure that their four children got decent milk to drink, my father bought my mother a cow. It was a terribly exciting time.
The cow came with a man, who came in twice a day to take care of her. He let me (try) to milk her once – and I still remember the kick I got. I remember her being brown and warm – but not very huggable. Mostly I remember the mooing and her looking as if she had something else on her mind than me, while all I did for the first few days was think about her. Early lesson in unrequited love.
Anyway, the cow in the house didn’t quite work. It’s a lot of work, even with a cow man.
Soon she was sold or donated or something I don’t remember.
Now my mother buys milk from the supermarket. The skimmed, watered down kind.