So there I was...

The following is a story loosely based on actual events.  Names have been changed in order to protect the innocent (even if said innocent are a bit brutish [truth be told I don't know the brutish one's name in the first place]).


So there I was, milk pitchers on the left of me, thirsty cups on the right.  John, down on my end of the counter, waited for his cappuccino and we chatted idly.  As a multitasking barista at your service I kept one ear on the transaction occurring at the register to catch any drink nuances.  I didn't catch much but I did get bla bla dietary restrictions bla green tea.  She paid her dollars and carried on toward the end of the counter.  Within earshot she overheard my conversation with John which was focused on hemp milk at this point.

Let me take a moment to tell you how I feel about hemp since I'm sure you're dying to know.  Hemp is a really cool plant.  I have some hemp lip balm, hemp yarn to make a loufa, and a few items of hemp clothing.  I even like to sprinkle hemp seeds on my salads for a dose of healthy fats and protein.  It is a super diverse and sustainable resource.  Hooray for hippies.  I don't love hemp milk.  In fact, I don't really like it at all.  I certainly appreciate that we offer it but I would never choose it.  I have a very scant amount of dairy in my life and typically opt for the beautiful simplicity of a black Americano.  Hemp milk doesn't steam well, it's not creamy, it has a grainy texture and it coagulates if poured into hot coffee.  I don't really want coagulated anything in my mouth, naw'msayin?  I think hemp milk takes a dedicated person.  A person who yearns for some semblance of a latte but will swell up and go into anaphylaxis  if they drink milk, this is the someone who should choose hemp.  More power to the hemp drinkers, though, they are getting way more nutrition in their hemp latte than I am in my black Americano.

I digress.  So, John and I are chatting about hemp milk and Maleficent (let's call her Molly for short) displays an excited gesture and interrupts, "You have hemp milk?!"
"Heck yeah!" I respond, sharing her excitement.  While I don't love hemp milk the way she obviously does, I do have some characteristics of a St. Bernard puppy and like to wag my tail when someone shows interest in something I've said or done.
"Oh my goodness, if I would have known that I would have ordered it!  I love hemp milk!"
I had just finished up John's order and Molly's green tea was next.  I passed John's cap down to him and told Molly that I could switch her order, no problem as I hadn't started her drink yet.  Rather than a simple, "great, thanks" she proceeded to narrow her eyes as a storm furrowed on her brow.
"The thing is," she started, in a low, solemn voice, "milk is disgusting."
John, the jolly jokester that he is, had just finished sprinkling raw sugar atop the mound of creamy foam on his cap to create a melty, sugary mass a la creme brulee.  Molly made the disgusting milk comment as he dipped a finger into the sweet goodness and as he slurped the foam off his finger with a cocked head and a wide grin he asked, "how can you say this is disgusting?!"
Unfazed by the bliss that Dairy had bestowed unto John, Molly continued, "It is!  It's disgusting.  Soy is bad too.  You," she accused, "are drinking pus.  Dead, rotting pus."
At this point I intervened to say that perhaps we should have this conversation elsewhere.  Say, anywhere else where dairy isn't the primarily traded good.  That dead, rotting pus is lining my pockets and buying booties for Bubbles, lady!  I didn't say the last part.  I understand there are a lot of politics in the dairy world.  The outbreak of extremely well endowed 13-year-olds of the early 2000s caused an uproar and we saw the decline of rBST, now we are seeing an influx of all sorts of alternatives, less tinkered with and easier on our digestives.  I get it.  In fact, I subscribe to it.  Almond milk?  Can I get a hell yes?  Still.  I'm not one to call milk dead, rotting pus in a coffee shop.  To a dude not only drinking but thoroughly enjoying a dairy to the gills beverage.

She continued on her rant in an effort to share the truth of the evils of milk long after I had passed her hemp decaf unsweetened pumpkin latte along to her.  It was hard to disguise my confusion and downright what-the-eff-ness as she turned red in the face while vehemently recounting a terrible tale of her son being fed crackers and juice at a local preschool.  For shame.

I think homegirl would have popped a hemorrhoid if I'd opened the fridge and she'd seen shelves upon shelves of whole, 2%, and skim gallons of milk, heavy whipping cream and that evil bastard, eggnog.

I get it, we have to stand for something.  We all live our own lives, absolutely, and we are all entitled to feed ourselves and share with our families that which we believe to be most healthy.

Maybe just take it down a notch.