When things are a little calmer than they are just now (madly packing, boxes everywhere) I like to decant the milk. This requires a good pitcher, like the one I found at that little store I like so much, Old Faithful Shop. A very old jug would also be quite nice. Straight out of the bottle, too, if the milk comes in a bottle, and the bottle is a good one. Something that will fit in a bitty refrigerator is required around here. There’s just something about milk in a pitcher that soothes me. Maybe it tastes better. I like to tell myself it keeps better. Certainly, the children find it easier to pour.
I had a great grandfather who delivered the milk by horse and cart. I’m wistful that although we have a milkman in London, the goat’s milk doesn’t come in glass, so I just recycle the carton instead of putting little glass bottles on my doorstep. There’s something rather sad about milk in a carton, and ours doesn’t have enough life left in it to turn into cheese. I cannot wait to get raw milk from the local farm!
Perhaps it’s simply an aesthetic pleasure, like when the kitchen is already tidy, and I begin to get polishy, and buff the kettle and the hob. There isn’t much chance of getting to that stage for some time, as we’re in the dusty boxing up stage, the where-is-that-critical-object stage, the part where the good pitcher is bound up in squishy wrappings and prayers are said over it to speed it to the next house in one piece. I look forward to decanting the milk, and polishing everything else, in the old cottage in Sussex.