I spent my summers as a youth in a beach community. Lazy days in the sun and surf and evenings socializing with friends. Rainy days we usually spent at Kerry’s house. Sometimes her older sister taught us all the current dances. Other time we played cards sitting around the big kitchen table.
I was always a picky eater. The rule in our house was you HAVE to try it. If you don not like it you could have a PB&J.
But the rules were a bit different if you were at someone else home.
*If served you eat what is on your plate with no comment
except thank you.
*If you served yourself you eat or drink all what you took.
One day the summer when I was 12 we were playing a game of gin rummy at Kerry’s house and I helped myself to a BIG glass of milk.
It was terrible yet I politely drank every bit. Later in the afternoon I asked “Your mom doesn’t buy brand X milk does she?”
Mary the older sister look alarmed. She asked “You didn’t drink the milk in the red bottle did you?”
“Yes I did”
“Oh no that has been soured for baking”
That was my last glass of milk. From that moment on I have been a black coffee drinker.
