Curdling milk into tiny little gross lumps. It’s an accident or a process – and sometimes the process starts off as an accident. Cottage cheese, ricotta, cheese curds. But milk? No thanks. I think of a hard thin, tin bucket. It is metallic grey in color. It clangs when hit, either by a swift farmer’s kick, or tap of a cow hoof. There is an echo, a reverberation that identifies it. There is a thin handle. That bucket can get heavy. Don’t let it sit for too long. Kraft Singles yellow American cheese squares. Individually wrapped and process. Something I ate as a child and never really enjoyed. It did make great grilled cheese though. Lactose memories through an hourglass of time. Is it plexiglass? Is it bulletproof? I and me and only knowing who knows what. Spots on a cow. Identifiers. Tags and brands. Farm life or retail? Processing it all through two lenses. Sometimes we don’t get to choose the cinematography of our lives. It just happens that way, transcending class and status, all the way up. Symphonies sound awakened by sizzling bacon and the chiming bell of bodega front doors. Anxiety leaps in the throat at the thought and prospect of anything. Rudimentary sizzle reel.
