Aha! Here we go...,
Welcome the the free State of PIG
I can't remember who first turned me on to this website. I would have liked to have at least given out a Hat Tip. I should keep better notes.
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When we lived in England, we would have milk delivered to our door every week.
Bright and early on Monday morning, two quarts of cow's milk would appear on our doorstep. The milkman would take away the empty quart bottles we rinsed and left out.
Those were probably the best Monday mornings I ever experienced. I would wake up before dawn, as I usually do, and get my pot of coffee going. Man coffee. Not some wimpy instant crap. Fill that little basket up with some fresh-ground beans. (If the smell alone doesn't give you a buzz, it's not strong enough.) I would sit quietly in the kitchen, watching the pot fill slowly, letting the anticipation build until it was almost unbearable. When I saw that the magic was almost complete, I would break free from that hypnotic aroma and pad softly out to the side door.
This next was a very important step in the process. I would be wearing only boxers and a T-shirt. Early mornings in England are 'brisk'. I don't care if it's the middle of August, that special moment just before the sun rises has a cold, damp touch in the air. (The colder the better. This moment was particularly special in January) I would open the locks and turn the knob, pausing for a moment to take a deep breath...then fling the door open quickly, allowing the wash of that chill air to envelop me, carrying with it the invigorating smells of field and farm. (Men have nipples too, you know.) The cold would add it's careless bite to the caress of the breeze caused by the door, raising goose bumps over my entire body. (If the milkman was running late...well, just picture me in boxers and T-shirt at 0530, flinging open the door with a look of mad hunger on my face. At least he had plenty to talk about at the pub.)
The bottles were never close to the door. I had to step both bare feet onto the brick porch to reach them. In the dead of winter, the cold would pierce the bottoms of my feet like hundreds of tiny needles. I would rush my treasure back into the house, scrambling to close the door and latch it without fumbling and dropping on of those precious bottles. I would stand for a moment in the parlor, letting the cold of the bottles soak into the palms of my hands, as the warmth of the carpet soaked into the soles of my feet.
We're not at the magic moment yet, just a few more steps...
I would place one bottle on the counter, and one into the refrigerator, then get my mug from the cabinet. Sugar always went into the mug first, one spoonful, heaped with as much sugar as it could possibly hold. I would pour the potent brew slowly on top of this sweetness, stirring gently as the mug filled. After this, the spoon would be rinsed and dried carefully on a dishtowel. Placing the prepared spoon on the counter, I would slowly peel back the foil lid of the bottle, watching the rind of sweet, pure cream jiggling atop the milk. The trick is to slide the spoon down along the inner edge of the bottle and twist it deftly around, simultaneously scooping the cream upwards. The glob will be runny and slippery,trying to escape the bowl of the spoon like a raw oyster. A very steady hand is vital. All drips and drabs of cream on the outside of the bottle and on the counter must be cleaned up immediately. (With the tongue)
Then the magical moment happens. This sweet drop of the very best that nature has to offer is stirred gently into the mug of
Bonus round: Remember that second bottle? By the time it gets opened, two or three days later, the cream on top has grown three times it's original size and congealed into something like soft cream cheese, only sweeter. I would scoop it out with a butter knife and spread it directly onto a piece of toast. (If I could get to it before my wife did.)
This morning I brewed my pot of generic, pre-ground Folger's whatever. (Real coffee has gotten too expensive)
I add two scoops of sugar and a healthy dollop of homogenized, pastuerized milk product.
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It's not all bad.
Today we go down to Appomattox for the grand opening of the new branch of the Museum of the Confederacy. Old NFO is planning on meeting us down there. Sitrep to follow...
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Congratulations Wirecutter.
