walkin, many days go by

One of the rudest jokes my aging body has played on me so far is its sudden and adamant refusal to continue processing dairy products. Its quota has been met, my body tells me firmly, and now it is going to knock off for the rest of all time and maybe trickle round to the donut shop.

This really blows because although I am a fairly adventurous meat eater (although I draw the line at raw beef and crustaceans), [ok I guess maybe that means I am just an adventurous fish eater], anyhow, I do not actually like eating that much meat. All my life I have been wont to get the lion’s share of my protein from the dairy: from chunks of cheese with my soup to shredded cheese melted in a pan to buttered popcorn to chocolate milk. I am technically aware that buttered popcorn does not have that much protein.

So lately to get decent protein I have been trying to eat a lot of things that I have flatly despised up until this point, and it makes me feel like a total hypocrite and a betrayer of self, and also not at all excited about tastes, most of the time. Like, I have tried skim milk. I have tried it twice. My feelings about the silky sweetness of true real milk have at this point in my life far eclipsed my feelings about a nice, dirty cigarette.

This meandering complaint is brought to you today by the fact that I have made a fabulous discovery along the treacherous route through the land of the Healthy Old Person Diet, and I feel absolutely obliged to share it with you: believe it or not, against all dictates of common sense, oat milk tastes like the leftover milk after you have eaten all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms!

It’s always the little things…

I am