In the mid-eighties I was present for a curious spat between an old friend and his wife, who was then in law school.

OF: Damn it, I told her to pick up some half-and-half. How does she expect me to drink my coffee without milk or half-and-half? (poking around the refrigerator) Hmmm. Maybe this would work.

RC: What’s that?

OF: It’s Pam’s breast milk. (their firstborn, obviously, was still nursing) Let me try it. It’s got to be better than nothing. [SPOILER: It wasn’t]

The thin grey fluid is poured into the coffee, which turns the color of spent dishwater.

OF (tasting): Ick!! (spits)

RC: Not good, huh? (OF pours contents of cup into sink)

****

I will not attempt to produce the exchange that occurred when, after a long day of studying tax law, OF’s wife returned to be bitterly reproached by her husband for failure to maintain dairy inventory, nor her startled and affronted reaction (grave offense had been taken) on learning that her fluids had been misappropriated for profane purposes. It got ugly…

curd-ially,

(Many people, reading this account, might assume my old friend to be more than a little self-absorbed. They would share this opinion with his ex-wife of three decades, although she herself has turned into an appalling piece of work during the intervening years.)