I’m currently in the process of introducing liquid milk back
into my life. I was never a huge milk-drinker back in America, but I think it
falls into the category of “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.”
I’ve been managing for the last seven months with NIDO, a brand of powdered
milk, and I had even been able to trick myself into believing that it was an
acceptable substitute, but I’ve been realizing recently that it’s just not the
same. I work with dairy farmers, so finding fresh milk here is easier than it
is almost anywhere else in Cameroon but I didn’t have a way to store it until
few weeks ago, when Cynthia and Eric gave me a fridge. What a game-changer.
Leftovers. Yogurt. Jam. ICE. Life is so wonderful these days. Just after I got
the fridge, my next-door neighbor told me that she has fresh milk delivered
each evening, and that I could just add onto her order. Sounded simple enough.
The first
day that I was scheduled to receive milk, my neighbor called me to inform me
that her brother had passed away and that she had to return to her home village
for the burial. After properly expressing my condolences (and offering to come
to the village to pay my respects) I asked about what to do about our milk. She
told me to take her family’s bottle and cancel the delivery for the rest of the
week. Easy. But then I heard tapping on the door and looked down to see a small
child holding a plastic water bottle of what looked suspiciously like milk. I
went down to take the bottle and try to explain the situation. It quickly
became clear that the kid didn’t understand a single word that came out of my
mouth. I tried French. Even less comprehension. At this point I’m fairly used
to adjusting my speech patterns to make myself understood (I’m getting worried
that I’ll be one of those rare Peace Corps Volunteers who comes home knowing
fewer languages than I left with…) but people always understand part of what
I’m trying to say. Not this kid. I tried to ask if the milk had been
pasteurized and we went back and forth with a series of head nods and shakes.
Eventually I took the milk and dumped it out in a pot before returning the
bottle to the girl waiting outside. I wasn’t even allowed to keep one bottle
and start my own exchange system. This country takes reusing quite seriously.
After
successfully obtaining the milk, I was left with the issue of what to do with
it. I decided that in this case, “better safe than sorry” definitely applied.
After calling my friend Anna, a hippie-camp graduate, for advice, I heated the
milk until almost boiling and then left it to cool. In the meantime, I treated
myself to the best cup of hot chocolate I’ve had in the last year. NIDO works
in a pinch, but it’s nowhere near the real thing. The milk cooled and I was
left with a thick film on top. Pretty gross. I also found some rather
suspicious chunks the next day, but I’m not sure of those were bits of frozen
milk (still haven’t figured out the temperature setting completely in the new
fridge) or something else that I’d rather not contemplate. I’ve been straining
the milk before drinking it, and I’m going to call the process a success, at
least for now. I generally try to avoid discussing digestive issues on this
blog (they’re one of PCVs’ favorite topics of discussion), so I’ll just say
that the reintroduction of milk left my stomach (and my friends’ stomachs)
confused but not upset. We’re working on refining the pasteurization process (a
cooking thermometer and an ice bath are about to work their way in) and I’m
optimistic moving forward. Back in America I somehow convinced my family a few
years ago to sign up for a milk-delivery system. This seems kind of like taking
it to the next level. Here’s to hoping for consistent delivery, a strong
stomach, and delicious breakfasts.
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