Moo

My esteemed friend Aurora sent me this link yesterday about a Manhattan chef who made cheese out of his wife’s breastmilk.

I’m an adventurous eater, and there aren’t a lot of things that make me go “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWW,” gastronomy-wise, but that is beyond the pale. What’s next – breastmilk yogurt? Breastmilk ice cream? Breastmilk cheesecake? Plus, how long would it take to produce enough breastmilk to make, for example, a wheel of gouda, or a brick of cheddar? That’s just ASKING for cracked nipples.

I sampled my own breastmilk once (and c’mon, you know you did, too) but that one drop was all I needed to be persuaded of breastmilk’s utter untastiness. If my own breastmilk made me gag, the idea of ingesting an unknown woman’s breastmilk is completely incomprehensible to me. Milk from a cow with whom I’m not personally acquainted, or even a goat or sheep, is just fine, but milk that has been inside another woman’s body and passed through her nipples, intended for her baby, does not make my taste buds tingle with anticipation.

Biologically speaking, perhaps it makes more sense for humans to drink human breastmilk. Breastmilk is designed for human beings, just like cows’ milk is designed for cows. And there’s no real biological difference between a boobie and an udder. But boy howdy – those cows know how to do it right. Give me ol’ fashioned cow whipped cream on my pumpkin pie ANY DAY instead of BoobiWhip.

But I suppose lactating woman/cow comparisons are inevitable. I know I felt rather bovine while I was nursing – swollen, leaky, and regularly needing to have my milk removed (and it didn’t matter to my boobies whether it was by baby or by pump). In fact, I had a dream (oh no – here we go with the dreams again) while I was nursing that I was taken to a small booth, much like a department store dressing room, and told to wait until morning when someone would come ’round with a bucket and a stool. It made sense at the time.

However, I suspect this enterprising soul who concocted the fromage de decolletage was less interested in pleasing the palette than he was interested in making boobcheese so that he could SAY he did it. And that is something I understand, and even sympathize with. In a small, dark, secret part of myself, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to have sex, and to give birth, and to become a mother. SO THAT I COULD SAY I DID IT! So that I could taste the experience for myself – to savor it, or else scrunch up my face in disgust. These acts connect me with every woman who has ever conceived and carried a child and brought it forth with tears of pain and joy, and then thought, “NOW what do I do?” So, Mr. Cha-cha Cheese, I guess you and I are not so different after all.

But I still won’t eat it.

[Via http://motheroad.wordpress.com]