The Bucket List

Some of my favorite stories growing up were of my dad's summers spent on Uncle Elmer's farm. The legend who milked over 100 cows by hand twice a day, had forearms like Popeye and a grip like a kitten, no doubt because he knew he could turn coal into diamonds in 30 seconds flat should the need arise.

I don't know why but these stories coupled with ones from my mother about pouring cream out the necks of old milk bottles engrained in me a burning desire to milk cows and eat fatty fatty cream from an early age.

Well, lucky me, the stars have aligned and my farm dreams have started coming true. Last week while overseeing an evening milking I got to squirt milk into my mouth straight from the cow. That's right. It was like getting shot in the face with a warm, hair-covered super soaker filled with delicious sweet milk. :-D I was tickled pink.

Next: Milkies. Now, for those of you who have never touched cow boobies before they are pretty great. I mean, what's not to like about a giant breast with 4 enormous nipples? Now, I always imagined that the udder would feel something like a giant smooth latex glove filled with warm pudding. I am not going to say that there aren't some titties out there that are like that, but put 4 growing calves on soft latex twice a day for weeks on end and you are going to come out with bloody nipples and some very emotionally and physically strung out mamas. Breast feeding moms out there, I'm sure you can relate. Solution? They toughen up and you get leather nips able to withstand hours of sucking, biting and inclement weather.

So there she was. Saphy. My cow. Lady of the giant nipples. I was ready. I had my silver bucket, my red box to sit on and enthusiasm to make an entire pep squad jealous. Go team. I walked into the paddock, said hello, set myself up, sat down, and reached for the boob. Now, in the split second before I made first contact my mind sent me a little reminder, “Hey you. Ice queen. Remember how nipples respond to extreme cold? Might want to warm up those icicles you call fingers.” I stopped immediately and started rubbing my hands together vigorously. “Whew!” I thought, laughing inwardly. “That was close.” With hands properly prepped, I reached out again and began. Saphy shifted away. Evidently my the fingers were not sufficiently thawed for the sweet lady. And thus started our game of cat and mouse. I would sit down, fumble around like a pubescent teen for a few minutes, she would get annoyed, move, and I would follow. Round and round we went until Craig came in laughing sat down with the old girl and milked her like a pro. In the end we got several liters out of her and then sent in the calves to finish her off.

I left the yard brandishing my silver pail like an Olympic gold. We took it to the house, strained out the crap that had fallen in during the "milking" and then left it to separate in the pantry. The next morning I came in and what did I see kids at home, but CREAM. ON. TOP. There wasn't a ton of it because our cows are not particularly creamy beasties but what there was I piled onto my oatmeal and into my coffee. It was just as awesome as I imagined it would be. Uncle Elmer would be so proud.