Time to buy a cow.

I don’t care for milk. I eat cereal dry, preferably right from the box, while laying next to Hubby in bed at night. He thinks corn flakes are gross, loves my crumbs all over, and I really enjoy annoying the crap out of him whenever possible. Ahhh, marriage. Anyway, none of that fun stuff requires milk. 

However, I do love pudding. “Real” pudding and not the crappy kind already packaged at the grocery store, or worse yet, what they try to pass off as Crème Brûlée at the Brown Derby. The Brown Derby Crème Brûlée I swear is an even more disgusting, knock off version, of the pudding snack packs we had in the 80’s. Barf. Maybe it’s worse because you think you’re getting actual Crème Brûlée. It’s a let down of epic proportions either way. Spare yourself the trauma. 

The other morning, I meander down to the kitchen with a plan to prepare myself pudding for later. Which, much like my cereal, I eat directly from the container with my own spoon. If Hubby is lucky I share. Unfortunately for him, I’m an only child and sharing isn’t really one of those things I excel at. He knows when I ask what flavor he wants, that I’m only asking to be polite. Odds are better than good that I’m eating that entire batch myself. At any rate, pudding requires to things. Firstly, a box of instant no cook pudding, (because I’m only willing to put in a minimal amount of work for my snacks). Secondly, several cups of milk.  I bought two and a half gallons of milk three days prior, you know, when I last stocked up on pudding mix. Open fridge… no milk. Worse yet, one lone empty milk jug where the last milk standing once was. 

Some weeks I buy several gallons of milk and end up tossing out half of it. Other weeks it’s gone before I’ve even touched it. Sometimes I buy just one gallon and end up pitching that before anyone touches it. I can’t win and right now, all I want out of life is pudding. 

I joke with Hubby that at this point it might be less stressful to just throw in the towel and get a dairy cow. Princess is obviously totally on board and is near immediately sending me cow photos. I ask Mr. Gatsby if he’s willing to milk said cow. Because Mr. Gatsby is equal parts goofball, (Hubby’s contribution), and smart ass, (they tell me he gets that from me), his response is to explain milking cows is already in his skill set… been there and done that. Mr. Gatsby is nothing if not a worldly man. Duh. 

So, while I am joking about the dairy cow, for now, I am entertaining less drastic solutions. If you have one, or some hook up on milk delivery, I’m uDDerly interested.