Wednesday, October 19, 2011
For Sale
I guess you could say I’ve been sick to my stomach lately. My owners have cleaned me from the inside out, stripping me of my character and restoring me to my original, generic self. They leave me helpless and alone, though I can see their heads hang low in shame as their distance from me grows further. And with their departure come the arrivals, day after day. These new families enter with magnifying glasses for eyes, analyzing my every flaw. The scar on my wall, or the beauty mark on my carpet; they look at these with shaking heads. The judging is harsh, and I cringe with each turn of the doorknob of a new critic. Why do they condemn when they don’t even know the story behind it? They stomp all over me—upstairs, downstairs, basement, and garage—with unrecognizable footprints and wafts of foreign scents. I feel empty inside, the usual clutter of a family lifestyle now dispersed and hidden. The vacuum cleaner traced lines on my carpet and the faint smell of Pine-Sol masks my true aroma. Classical music plays in the background, setting the atmosphere and playing with my heart. I would cry if I could.
What if there was no water cycle, but rather....the milk cycle!
Cheese Day
The alarm clock did not go off. This was my first thought as I regained consciousness after a dreamless sleep. The alarm clock didn’t go off! I leapt out of bed and rubbed my eyes clear of goop. My stomach sunk in panic at the thought of being late to class and I scrambled like a mad man in search of something to wear. Then it hit me. With my gradual awakening from morning grogginess I soon came to peer out the window with the childish longing that never seems to go away. Angelic rays of sun streamed through the glass, a barrier of protection from the freezing temperature outside. From the sky white curds fell in thick globs, layering the frozen soil into a dairy wonderland. “Moooooom! Please give me good news!” Euphoria rushed into my body with little warning as my prayers were answered. Thank God for cheese days.
Bundled up like an eskimo in the tundra, I was ready to expose myself to the outdoors from the comfort and safety of my layers. The air was crisp and powerful, with the magical abilities to turn my nose red and trigger my sinuses. My nostrils became a leaky faucet of snot, and there was no off handle. By the time I reached my gloved hand to clear the unfortunate drippage, the record temperatures had crusted it into a clear mold of my upper lip. Abrupt gusts of wind felt like a slap in the face, sweeping evaporated milk into my eyes and piercing my skin with its strength. The sun shone gloriously, acting as a spotlight to the beauty of nature’s wonders. I squished my boots into the dense thickness of cottage cheese and gained satisfaction with the squirting separation of fresh curds. With each step I took, imprints of my boot bottoms stamped the cheese firmly into the ground.
Trees stood strong and rugged ahead of me, an army of forest that was able to withstand the winter climate. Stripped of its leaves, branches now acted as a hanger, showcasing the shredded strips of cheddar that had not quite made it to the ground. I sprinted over to a low-hanging branch, eager for my first cheesicle of the season. I yanked the frozen precipitation from its resting place with a quick snap of the wrist. As I took a long-anticipated bite I could taste the bursts of flavor as the cheese melted into an ooey deliciousness that I craved all year for its special natural form. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I savored the moment, a brief liberation from the harshness of the outside world. Not wanting this youthful feeling to end, I bent my head back and opened my mouth up wide to the sky. The sides of my eyes creased into wrinkles as I smiled at the feeling of sticky curds pelting my face and tongue. I was temporarily blocked of vision with the overwhelming density of the precipitation. My face soon became covered with the trapped curds, just barely missing their intended landing zone on Mother Nature’s floor.
I trudged along the tree line, fighting through the thick cottage cheese around my ankles, until I came to the river, now frozen in its solid opaque form. The simplicity of a world in white was slightly tarnished at the riverbank. Apparently I was not the first to venture out here this morning, I thought to myself as I approached the muddy shore. The pudding-like footprints were a paradox to the pureness of the fresh blanket covering the land. Brown and creamy, the mud contaminated the tasteful richness of this necessity of life. My compulsiveness to maintain order to the innocent presence of the morning cheesefall brought me down to my knees. I began to take the rapidly solidifying cream and smooth it over the muddy patch as if I were spreading cream cheese on a bagel.
A nearby shallow area of the river caught my eye, as it had not yet completely frozen over. Frothy bubbles had formed and collected on the bank where the milk tirelessly struck the rocks. It thickened in areas with crevasses that sloshed the milk with greater force, and I could see floating blobs of whipped cream clinging to the rocks as a result.
The sharpness of the cheesey air gave me pangs of hunger. The once sweet aroma of milk in the summer had now transformed into the more aged varieties of flavorful cheese with the winter season. Drool quivered dauntingly on the inside of my lip, ready to make its escape as I dreamt of the homemade cheddar recipes Mom would make for the rapidly approaching Christmas season. Although I now embrace this winter weather, I will soon be done with the cold and ready for the cream-filled spring. A sweetness of butter and cream will fill the air as the cheese slowly melts and milk begins to percolate into the ground. I imagine these days, thinking of the months ahead before they come.
As I walked back home to relieve myself of the grumbles in my stomach, I puffed out breaths of hot air to entertain myself. With each blow wasps of steamed milk filtered through the air like belly dancers shaking their hips to a silent song. Impatience set in as I began to feel sopped and heavy with the collection of small curds that had formed on my hat and sleeves. I brushed off the sticky nuisance with a customary sweep of the hand as I neared the front door. “Straight to the laundry room!” yelled Mom, not wanting to deal with the dairy dampness.
The alarm clock did not go off. This was my first thought as I regained consciousness after a dreamless sleep. The alarm clock didn’t go off! I leapt out of bed and rubbed my eyes clear of goop. My stomach sunk in panic at the thought of being late to class and I scrambled like a mad man in search of something to wear. Then it hit me. With my gradual awakening from morning grogginess I soon came to peer out the window with the childish longing that never seems to go away. Angelic rays of sun streamed through the glass, a barrier of protection from the freezing temperature outside. From the sky white curds fell in thick globs, layering the frozen soil into a dairy wonderland. “Moooooom! Please give me good news!” Euphoria rushed into my body with little warning as my prayers were answered. Thank God for cheese days.
Bundled up like an eskimo in the tundra, I was ready to expose myself to the outdoors from the comfort and safety of my layers. The air was crisp and powerful, with the magical abilities to turn my nose red and trigger my sinuses. My nostrils became a leaky faucet of snot, and there was no off handle. By the time I reached my gloved hand to clear the unfortunate drippage, the record temperatures had crusted it into a clear mold of my upper lip. Abrupt gusts of wind felt like a slap in the face, sweeping evaporated milk into my eyes and piercing my skin with its strength. The sun shone gloriously, acting as a spotlight to the beauty of nature’s wonders. I squished my boots into the dense thickness of cottage cheese and gained satisfaction with the squirting separation of fresh curds. With each step I took, imprints of my boot bottoms stamped the cheese firmly into the ground.
Trees stood strong and rugged ahead of me, an army of forest that was able to withstand the winter climate. Stripped of its leaves, branches now acted as a hanger, showcasing the shredded strips of cheddar that had not quite made it to the ground. I sprinted over to a low-hanging branch, eager for my first cheesicle of the season. I yanked the frozen precipitation from its resting place with a quick snap of the wrist. As I took a long-anticipated bite I could taste the bursts of flavor as the cheese melted into an ooey deliciousness that I craved all year for its special natural form. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I savored the moment, a brief liberation from the harshness of the outside world. Not wanting this youthful feeling to end, I bent my head back and opened my mouth up wide to the sky. The sides of my eyes creased into wrinkles as I smiled at the feeling of sticky curds pelting my face and tongue. I was temporarily blocked of vision with the overwhelming density of the precipitation. My face soon became covered with the trapped curds, just barely missing their intended landing zone on Mother Nature’s floor.
I trudged along the tree line, fighting through the thick cottage cheese around my ankles, until I came to the river, now frozen in its solid opaque form. The simplicity of a world in white was slightly tarnished at the riverbank. Apparently I was not the first to venture out here this morning, I thought to myself as I approached the muddy shore. The pudding-like footprints were a paradox to the pureness of the fresh blanket covering the land. Brown and creamy, the mud contaminated the tasteful richness of this necessity of life. My compulsiveness to maintain order to the innocent presence of the morning cheesefall brought me down to my knees. I began to take the rapidly solidifying cream and smooth it over the muddy patch as if I were spreading cream cheese on a bagel.
A nearby shallow area of the river caught my eye, as it had not yet completely frozen over. Frothy bubbles had formed and collected on the bank where the milk tirelessly struck the rocks. It thickened in areas with crevasses that sloshed the milk with greater force, and I could see floating blobs of whipped cream clinging to the rocks as a result.
The sharpness of the cheesey air gave me pangs of hunger. The once sweet aroma of milk in the summer had now transformed into the more aged varieties of flavorful cheese with the winter season. Drool quivered dauntingly on the inside of my lip, ready to make its escape as I dreamt of the homemade cheddar recipes Mom would make for the rapidly approaching Christmas season. Although I now embrace this winter weather, I will soon be done with the cold and ready for the cream-filled spring. A sweetness of butter and cream will fill the air as the cheese slowly melts and milk begins to percolate into the ground. I imagine these days, thinking of the months ahead before they come.
As I walked back home to relieve myself of the grumbles in my stomach, I puffed out breaths of hot air to entertain myself. With each blow wasps of steamed milk filtered through the air like belly dancers shaking their hips to a silent song. Impatience set in as I began to feel sopped and heavy with the collection of small curds that had formed on my hat and sleeves. I brushed off the sticky nuisance with a customary sweep of the hand as I neared the front door. “Straight to the laundry room!” yelled Mom, not wanting to deal with the dairy dampness.
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