No use crying

I spilled half a gallon of milk on the kitchen floor this morning. I dropped it and then stood there mesmerized by the flow of milk out of the carton, onto the floor and under the stove. I just watched it for a few moments until finally snapping out of it and picking the carton up. I had to use a headlamp to make sure I'd gotten all of the milk from under the stove and I will definitely be having nightmares about what I saw down there. Innocence lost.

This is the third bad milk incident this week, which I hope means it is the final one. The tire chains in the trunk of the car pierced a hole in the milk that Eric bought at the grocery store on Sunday and it leaked all over. This was when we learned how much milk a paper shopping bag can hold before it becomes structurally unsound (answer: more than you would think).

Then Wednesday when I opened the milk container it released a bunch of pent up pressure, like a sharp exhale. One rule of thumb I take seriously is if there is ever a change in the pressure of a sealed container of food since you last opened it, it probably means something is living in there. I'm not interested in accidental probiotics. Better safe than sorry, I say. Since it was morning and we had no other milk, and I really don't like black coffee, I did the only obvious thing: vanilla ice cream in my coffee instead. Good, but probably best not to make a habit of it. Next thing you know I'll be regularly eating birthday cake for breakfast.