I hate running out of milk. It's the worst. I don't care about the cereal, the pancakes, or even Hannah's oatmeal. Girl can have formula. It isn't about the cookies, casseroles or curries. It's the coffee that poses the problem. I never learn about the dwindling milk supply until it's too late - the coffee's been poured in my favorite mug. It's piping hot and aromatic, filling my foggy brain with hopes of Zing! and Woo-hoo! and Get 'er done! I open the fridge with charged expectation, ready to transform this black tar into a creamy beige delight and . . . no milk. The thought of black coffee sends my taste buds and esophagus into convulsions (can your taste buds convulse?). And then, the most beautiful and disturbing thought process invades what should have been a perfect morning . . . Icecream? Doesn't melt right . . . probably not real cream anyway. Formula? Powder doesn't dissolve in coffee . . . just clumps up and floats to the top. Honey? Vanilla extract? Orange juice? Mayonnaise? ANYTHING?????
I settle for a lump of brown sugar and a few drops of brandy extract. Disgusting.