On Friendship and Gas Bottles

Something happened today that I had been expecting for a few months now: my gas ran out. A little explanation might be necessary here; Cameroonian houses don’t have any sort of built-in cooking gas pipe system. Instead, people that choose to cook with a stove (as opposed to a fire outside) buy refillable gas bottles that can be replaced as necessary. The nice thing about this is that it allows for total flexibility when it comes to house design-the kitchen can be anywhere! But the unfortunate part is that these bottles must be physically exchanged when empty, and (surprise, surprise) gas isn’t always available. There were a few weeks back in training when there was no gas available in the entire town. Well, that’s what they told us at least. This meant was that I found myself cooking eggs over an open fire before 7AM on more than one occasion. Rest assured, that wasn’t a sight that any of you wanted to witness. 

            But now that I’m settled at post, I pretty much had my cooking situation on lockdown. I don’t have a “country kitchen” (outdoor house with a fire pit), nor do I want one. I’ve been quite happy with my stove/gas bottle setup and somehow had managed to go the past eight months without having to replace my bottle. It was kind like a miniature Hanukkah miracle for the last two months or so.

Of course, the bottle replacement system isn’t as straightforward as it could be. First you have to buy a gas bottle, which comes filled with butane gas. But even this first step isn’t as simple as it should be. There are two gas companies, and once you commit to a bottle, you’re stuck with that company. Never mind the fact that you return the bottle and take new one when you go in for a refill. Loyalty is the only option here.

            Knowing this ridiculous aspect of Cameroonian life, I decided to go with the more readily available and cheaper option, CamGaz. It seemed like a pretty safe bet at the time. And today, when my gas finally sputtered out, I wasn’t too concerned about what lay ahead. I’m lucky in that I can replace my gas in my town-some other Volunteers have to take their gas bottles on multiple hour moto rides in order to replace them. I called up my favorite taxi driver, Godlove (his real name), and asked him to come pick my empty bottle and I and take us to the store. Other than the daily rainstorm, everything went great until we arrived and were told that my bottle wasn’t eligible to be refilled and thus couldn’t be traded in for a new one. I would have to buy a new bottle, which costs the equivalent of $60. To put in in comparison, a simple refill costs only $15. But after nearly a year in this country, I’ve learned not to simply accept whatever a shopkeeper tells me. Godlove and I pressed further and the issue was more clearly explained to us. Apparently the government of Cameroon had decided that as of the end of June, the only bottles that can be refilled are those that are manufactured by the company that refills them. When I looked closer at my bottle, I saw that it had been produced by Shell Gas, not CamGaz, and was thus essentially obsolete, as Shell doesn’t sell bottled gas here. Apparently there was some sort of safety concern at play here, although the official memo the shopkeeper handed me didn’t go into detail. I had simply gotten unlucky when the gas station attendant had selected a bottle to use back in November, and today I was going to have to pay for it.

            Grumbling, I borrowed money from Godlove and gave it to the shopkeeper. But just to verify the plausibility of the situation, I decided to call my friend Aisha for her opinion before I committed to such a seemingly unnecessary purchase. I explained the situation to her and she found the claim entirely possible, although just as frustrating as I did. But before we hung up, she told me that she had an extra gas bottle lying around that was still eligible for replacement. I could just come and take that to exchange for a new bottle. What a lifesaver. So Godlove and I took my bottle back up the hill and picked up her empty spare. We were able to trade it in without incident and I saved a bunch of money.

            In the midst of my frustration I was trying to think about what an analogous situation would be in the US, and then realized that it just doesn’t exist. Products are recalled all the time, but the company always takes the fall and often loses quite a bit of money. In Cameroon, consumers are expected to take the loss for the mistakes of others, often at great personal expense. This case was pretty minor, but it’s easy to imagine how paying for the mistakes of others could get expensive rather quickly.

This story could have easily been one of frustration over the unfairness and inefficiency of an aspect of Cameroonian life, but it isn’t. Instead it’s one that ends in my gratitude for the generosity of a friend. In Cameroon, community often picks up where the system falls short. People depend on the relationships they cultivate over any official system, and I’m honored to see a physical sign of my inclusion. Peace Corps told us over and over during training: integration is key. I saw yet again today how true this is.

It's the Little Things...

I try not to use this blog as a space to complain because I don’t really think that’s what it should be for. But this has been a tough week for Peace Corps Cameroon (and if you’re keeping up with the news, Peace Corps in general) so please forgive this less-than-enthusiastic post. The major news here was the closure of Peace Corps operations in the North region. This has been coming for quite a while now, as the situation with Boko Haram has been escalating. The final blow was struck this past week after another kidnapping, and we got the official news on Wednesday that all remaining Volunteers will be relocated within the next two weeks. At this point there were only 13 Volunteers still stationed in the North Region but most of them are from my training group so the news hit pretty hard. To all of the displaced Volunteers I wish the best of luck and my most sincere “ashia”.

I certainly can’t claim to be an expert on the security situation in Nigeria or Cameroon, but I want to assure you all that all of the attacks have taken place quite far from where I’m currently living; my best estimate would put the closest at least a three-day’s trip away from me. In the US, you can get from Minnesota to Texas in two days (and I’m speaking from experience on that one). Just think about that. Anyway, in comparison to that kind of major blow, my struggles this week are exceedingly minor. But they still rattled me in a way that I wasn’t quite comfortable with, and I’d like to think they’re worth sharing.

The first happened on my way home from town earlier this week. I hailed a taxi, got the driver to agree to take me where I was going (taxis routinely reject passengers if they’re not headed in the direction the driver is going) and got into the front seat, as the back seat was already occupied by two other passengers. This wasn’t unusual, as Cameroon uses shared taxis as its primarily means of public transport. As I got in, the driver looked at me and told me that the fare would be 300 francs (about $0.60). I laughed at him, laughed, and told him that I would pay the usual price, 250 francs. The taxi man looked at me and seemed surprised. “Oh, you know how things work around here?” We both had a good chuckle about his failed to attempt to cheat me, and the women in the back joined right in. There are few things that Cameroonians love more than the public humiliation of others.

After this little incident, I relaxed a bit. I had the front seat of the taxi all to myself (always a good day), and the daily rains hadn’t started yet. I was looking out the window enjoying the scenery when I happened to glance over at the driver. To my dismay, he was in the process of opening a sachet (prepackaged plastic bag) of whiskey with his teeth while driving. I exploded at him. Luckily, he hadn’t gotten the sachet open yet, but seemed surprised by my outburst. I lectured him on his responsibilities as our driver, the unacceptability of drinking and driving (not to mention drinking while driving) and the fact that he was currently on the job, not relaxing with his friends. I should mention at this point that Cameroon has an extremely strong drinking culture. Beers here are large and cheap, and palm wine is widely available (at least in my region) and even cheaper. It’s extremely common to see (primarily) men sitting around drinking all day long, and many professional engagements include some sort of “refreshment” of the alcoholic sort. But there has to be a line somewhere, and in my book drinking and driving is clearly on the wrong side. My driver seemed nearly acceptably abashed, and left the sachet in the console for the remainder of my ride. I reduced the fare that I paid as a continuation of my disapproval, and exited the car with strict instructions to the girl in back not to let him drink for as long as she was in the car. She seemed to be in agreement, but hadn’t uttered a word throughout my entire outburst. I think that unfortunately, this wasn’t nearly as surprising an event for her as it was for me.

My second setback this week was much less dangerous, but riled me up in a way that few things here do. It started simply enough: one of my light bulbs burned out. I live in a decently sized city, so replacing it was easy enough. I headed to one of the electronics stores on Commercial Avenue and chose the best one I could find. I should mention that this isn’t the way that many Cameroonians would solve this problem, as the fact that my bulb burned out after about four months speaks to. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of value placed on quality workmanship or durability. Solving the immediate problem tends to take precedence over a long-term repair. But I’m American, and I don’t like having to replace light bulbs, so I chose a good one. The salesman tried to show me a smaller, cheaper one with a different connector, but I figured he was just trying to play me and insisted on my original choice. He told me it was 3500 francs ($7), which sounded like way too much to pay for a light bulb, even a nice one. But the rain was coming, and I wanted to get home before it started coming down, so I gave him 2750, which was all I had, and got home before the rain came.

Of course, he knew what I needed better than I did. It turns out that Cameroonian light bulb sockets are different than American ones (why??) and I had bought a bulb that wasn’t compatible with the socket it needed to go into. So, with my tail between my legs, I returned to the store the next day and explained the situation to the woman at the desk, who had luckily been there the day before. Returns aren’t really a part of the Cameroonian shopping experience, so I was effectively asking for special treatment. I took the smaller bulb with the correct connector, and asked the price. She told me that it was 3000 francs, but that she would give it to me for 2500. At this point, I knew she was ripping me off. There was just no way that the smaller bulb was ever worth 2500 francs, and we both knew it. That’s a lot of money here. So I did something that I probably shouldn’t have. I accused her of giving me the white-man price. This is a fairly common phenomenon here, as the above taxi situation suggests. There are few fixed prices, and less than scrupulous vendors will often ask for a higher price from customers that they think can afford it. This always includes obvious foreigners, and no amount of time spent here will ever change the color of my skin.

The book African Friends and Money Matters lends some insight into the differences between the ways that Africans and Westerners view money and daily business transactions. The author claims that by asking for a higher price, the vendor is showing the customer that he recognizes the customer is in a high economic class and is effectively honoring his status. This may be true, but it just isn’t how it feels in the moment. I always feel like I’m being cheated or taken for a fool, and in the case of the light bulb, I’m afraid it was the latter.

Despite my misgivings about the price, I realized there wasn’t much left to do. The difference between what I had initially paid and the new light bulb was 250 francs, so I asked for it back. The shopkeeper looked at me in surprise and told me that that was her transaction fee. After all, it’s just 250 francs, right? Kind of a gift of sorts. Well, that just wasn’t going to fly that day. She had already cheated me twice (by this point I realized that I had overpaid for both bulbs) and I just wanted my reimbursement. She finally agreed that I was, in fact, owed the difference, but then told me that she would give me the money, just not that day. What?! I asked when I could have it back, and she told me to come back in a month. A MONTH?! She told me that she simply didn’t have the money, and that I should come back when she did. I’m not proud of what followed, but it may have involved some shouting on my part, negotiations involving the taking of both light bulbs (even though I could only use one of them), and a heated explanation of the differences between American and Cameroonian businesses. Finally, she opened her purse and pulled out 250 francs. Of course she had it the whole time.

The kicker to this story comes about an hour after I left the shop, after I learned the real price for the bulb (1300 francs if you’re not a good bargainer, 1000 if you are) and returned to my house to finally install it. It turns out there had just been a slight electrical problem with the socket that was fixed when I adjusted it to install the new bulb, meaning that the original bulb hadn’t burned out after all. You win some, you lose some.   

I guess what I’m trying to share here isn’t my electrical ineptitude, but just the occasional struggles that come from my role as such an obvious foreigner here. People try to cheat me on a regular basis, but most of them just laugh and admit to it when you accuse them of overcharging you. There’s definitely a good humor to it, at least most of the time. What got me in this situation was just how much she took advantage of my ignorance and refused to offer me what I considered basic customer service. I try not to compare American and Cameroonian aspects of life any more than I have to, but in this case it was kind of unavoidable. All I wanted was some light in my bedroom.

On the bright side, this week has pointed out to me how much good a vacation from Cameroon will do me. See you in a month, America!

                                                                               

                                                                                

Texts from Last Night: Peace Corps Cameroon

I’m not so far removed from American culture that I think that Texts From Last Night is still a popular website, but I’ve been reminded of it by a few of the more ridiculous text messages that I’ve received (and sent) over the past few months. Unfortunately, my phone makes me delete most of them (remember when cell phones had a limit to stored messages?) but here are some of the ones I’ve saved in my inbox. They seemed too good to delete. Even if you don’t agree, hopefully some of these messages will give a different kind of insight than I usually put in this blog.

“To my darling French friends…actually life friends. Wishing you love, happiness, and solid poop in the new year”.

“Being the biggest Peace Corps hippie right now:  candles, incense, and Taylor Swift. Thought you’d appreciate it. Much ag love”.

“I’ve had dia[rrea] for a week and a half and just had to shit on someone’s roadside farm cause it was that urgent…watching “Poop in a Hole” [PCV Youtube clip] cause they are the only ones who get me right now”.

“filled a bag with cow shit for my garden and chose to moto[rcycle]  home. Didn’t have a cord to tie the top, lost my grip, arrived covered in poopy sweat. fml agro problems”.

“Weird day. On the way to the market dude yelled ‘sweet pretty rihanna’ at me in English. Boutique man wanted me to buy some cleaning spray… for vaginas. His wife uses it. There are 10 women and 5000 children doing laundry in my concession, idk why. Think I best go eat my liquidy street yogurt and call it a day”.

[During the world cup]

“Watching obscenely attractive soccer players is my favorite coping strategy at the moment in case you’re wondering”.

“It’s officially been four weeks since I kissed a boy and I washed my hair. The only American I’ve seen in that time is [***]. I think I need [my postmate] to come back to post…”

“PEACE CORPS DIRTY HIPPIES ALL DAY EVERY DAY”

“I’m currently slingshotting birds in my friend’s field so obviousment [it’s catching on!!] I’m disponible whenevs”.

“ROOSTER IN MY COMPOUND WAS KILLED THIS MORNING! Feeling a probably unhealthy level of joy over the demise of another creature but no guilt-gonna sleep so well”. –I wish I didn’t identify so strongly with this one…

[Same sender as above]

“THERE IS A GOAT IN MY HOUSE. What is this life”

[Referencing the surprising popularity of transition glasses in Cameroon]

“We can’t make cheese happen but inconveniently tinted glasses take off…this world is balls”.

“watching BBC Life with my neighbor friend. Loves the monkeys, not impressed by the aquatic animals. ‘I eat fish. This film is stupid’. Six years old, already a critic”.

“My neighbor who I haven’t seen in two weeks told me I’ve doubled in size and that I should lose weight for my health. Somedays people suck”. Needless to say, Cameroonians and Americans have entirely different rules about what is and isn’t acceptable to say between friends.

“I just went past [my favorite moto-boy] on his moto and he held out his hand and we high-fived. Whatta freaking keeper”.

“New milestone of development achieved in [my post]: Twix now available!”

I guess it’s time to clean out my phone’s inbox now.

"Please, can we wash your floor??"

I’m pretty sure that no Cameroonian has ever uttered the phrase “none of your business”. The idea just doesn’t make sense here. Why would you ever want to keep an issue to yourself when it could be discussed, disputed, and argued about with everyone in the relative proximity? This facet of Cameroonian society has driven me crazy on more than one occasion (bus travel, anyone?), but it extends past minor disputes into the idea of personal space and living styles. To put it another way, most Cameroonians are fairly set on what constitutes an acceptable way to live, and by extension, what doesn’t.

            Partially because of this, I’m generally hesitant to invite Cameroonians into my home. It’s not that I’m a slob, but I generally prioritize comfort and practicality over compulsive cleanliness. I keep my dishes washed, my clothes clean, and (on good days) my bed made, but I just can’t see the need to have my floor spotless at all times. This is incomprehensible to all of the Cameroonians that have come to my house. In their opinion, floors should be swept compulsively and mopped (“dry-cleaned”) daily, if not more often. It’s quite inexpensive to hire someone to come clean, but I haven’t yet come to terms with this. It seems unnecessary to pay someone to do something that I’m perfectly capable of but have no interest in primarily for the sake of the few visitors that come by.

            One of the parts of Peace Corps service that I didn’t think to prepare for was all of the time Volunteers typically spend alone. Most of us (particularly female Volunteers) tend to be home before dark, and find ourselves with unprecedented amounts of time to pursue personal interests. Some people refer to these interests (and the way we occupy our time) as “coping strategies”, but I prefer to think about it as time to spend exactly how I choose. I generally spend my evenings in some combination of reading/learning guitar (this one’s new!)/binge-watching TV shows, but I’ve also spent quite a bit of time figuring out how to adapt my love of baking to Cameroon. Ingredients tend to be tougher to come by, recipes are borderline nonexistent, and I’ve only seen three working ovens since arriving in country (two in the homes of Embassy workers). It’s a fun challenge. A few friends and I even managed an apple pie a few weeks ago in honor of the 4^th of July.

            I don’t bake that regularly, but I almost always find myself giving my neighbors the majority of whatever I make. We’re all better off that way. The children in my neighborhood apparently feel comfortable enough with me that they’ve started requesting certain items, and my closest friends have taken it a step further and ask to help me in the creation. I usually let them, and it’s always been a lot of fun. So I didn’t think much of it when the kids next door asked if we could make cookies together sometime this week…until they followed it with “and then we can wash your floor!” Wait a minute. What’s this? I guess we have officially reached the point where my neighbors and friends feel comfortable telling me how they feel about my lifestyle and stepping in to help me as they see fit.

The next day my doorbell rang right on schedule and I looked down to see my neighbors standing outside looking eagerly back up at me. I had forgotten the floor-washing component of our plans (how could they possibly have been serious?) and asked them what kind of cookies they wanted to make. One of the girls, Louise, responded that they would start with the floors, and only after they were acceptably clean would there be time with cookies. After I picked my jaw up from the floor, we got to work. Another neighbor girl, Asmahan, came in to join the fun and asked me if she could wash my shoes while the others worked on the floor. I swear that I am not making any of this up. So the two of us scrubbed my shoes and made my bed (the “Cameroonian way”, which is strikingly similar to the American way). Before I knew it, my floor was gleaming, my shoes were no longer caked in mud (rainy season is rough!) and it was time to begin making cookies.

We decided on toffee bars, and got to work. As I think I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, there isn’t really a baking culture in Cameroon, so every new recipe we try is an adventure. This attempt was more successful than some, and we finished our afternoon with two pans of chocolate-coated toffee bars and a clean apartment. Not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon. 

...but it was 500 francs!

To put it bluntly, Cameroon is taking a toll on my wardrobe. I packed my suitcases up with all of the clothes that I thought I would need for two years, and in America, it probably would have sufficed. But life here is hard on clothing, and my wardrobe is actively transitioning from things I brought with me to things that I bought or had made here. The most common reason for clothing retirement is excessive staining; between the dusty dry season and the muddy wet season, there doesn’t seem to be any clean season. This wouldn’t be too much of a problemif my hand-washing skills were up to par. I’m constantly impressed by the skill displayed by Cameroonian mamas (and their children!), but my former dependency on a washing machine means that I’ve still got a ways to go. Luckily, it’s quite easy (and cheap) to get new clothing here. There are two main ways to go about it-hitting the fripperie, and having clothes custom-made.

My preferred method is to abandon Western clothing and go the custom-made route. This is a two-step process: first you must go to the market and purchase your desired fabric (usually African-made pagne) and then you take it to the tailor and give instructions about what form it should take. This sounds simple and in theory, it is. But a trip to the fabric section of Main Market is one of the more overwhelming experiences that I’ve had so far in Cameroon. There are easily thousands of patterns to choose from, and over two dozen stalls selling them. Pagne comes in pieces measuring six yards, but I often try to convince the merchant to sell me a two yard piece, which is all that most clothing articles require. Two yards will run you about 2,500 francs, or about $5.

I’m lucky in that Titus, my tailor, has worked with Peace Corps Volunteers for many years. He’s used to dealing with Americans and other foreigners and is well versed in the types of clothing that we tend to request. I had never had a piece of clothing custom-made before I came to Cameroon, and I’m still not over the novelty of it.  It always fits, and you get to decide exactly how you want it to turn out! What could be better? Tailoring for a given article of clothing usually costs between 2,000-5,000 francs, depending on the complexity of the pattern. Added to the cost of the fabric, you’re looking at about $9-15 for a custom-made item of clothing. That’s a lot more money here than it is back home, but I usually think that the end result is more than worth the cost. An unexpected bonus aspect of having custom clothing made is the potential to get matching outfits with friends or for special occasions. It’s quite common to see groups of people heading to a particular event all dressed in the same fabric. As my brother can attest to, I’m always down to get matching outfits. It hasn’t gotten old yet, that’s for sure. 

But as fun as it is to wear pagne, this blog post was supposed to be primarily about the joys of “fripping”-shopping at the fripperie.  I haven’t been to the frip in a while, but I was inspired to write this post after seeing a video that a group of Cameroon PCVs made entitled “Frip Shop” and set to Macklemore’s Thrift Shop. You’ll have to excuse the semi-dated reference, as most of us haven’t been in America for a while. But the parody works quite well, as the frip is a general term for an outdoor used clothes market here. Every city and town has one, although the size varies with the population of the area. Bamenda’s frip is huge and completely overwhelming, as it is (in keeping with the general theme of the country) fairly chaotic and full of possibilities. Potential buyers paw their way through the giant piles of clothing that sit on the floor, and prices vary widely. Most items found in piles can be purchased for less than 500 francs ($1), and some of the nicer things that are hung up on display can go for anywhere between 1,000-3,000 francs. Of course it’s important to remember that these are prices that I’ve been faced with; it’s anyone’s guess how much I would pay as a Cameroonian. Price negotiation is alive and well at the frip; I’m lucky that bargaining was one of the few topics that I remember from my Pidgin classes back in training.

The Bamenda frip is large enough that I haven’t gotten to know any of the sellers that well. In a smaller village though, it’s a different story. One of my friends is such a regular at her local frip that the mamas selling there pick out things that they think she’ll like. More often than not, they’re right. If you ever want to try out being a celebrity, go join the Peace Corps. Although I don’t have any personal shoppers in Bamenda, the quantity and variety of clothing that I’ve seen here is completely staggering. If a type of clothing was ever in style anywhere in the world, it’s currently being sold on the streets of Bamenda (and likely the rest of Africa). It’s a lot to take in.

And if you’re interested in what Cameroon PCVs do when stuck in the Yaoundé case, check out the video here. I found it amusing, but my new postmate Lexi thinks that you have to be here (or have been here) to appreciate it.  I guess you can be the judge of that.but it  

NIDO No More??

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.