lately, I’ve died a thousand times for fresh mozzarella covered in cracked black pepper & olive oil, cold whole milk with muesli & berries, humble ricotta smattered on a salad of grated carrots & beets. I love the cleanliness, the subtle sweetness (to be clear, we’re talking grass-fed dairy only, please & thank you).
I suppose in the way parsley tastes green, milk (& proper fresh cheese) tastes white. I could bathe in it, à la cleopatra. there is something so essential, raw, almost sexy about things both simple & satisfying. milk fulfills my animal needs.
speaking of sex (and, I suppose, love,) this essay is everything.
I first read Eileen Myles last Spring, in a New York School Poets class, which I took only to have an excuse to read Frank O’Hara and discuss his cleverness. (I love this photo of her, and if anything else besides February and her essay is to make me miss summer, it might be this white tee, and this elated pup.) this was the class in which I didn’t fall in love per se, but had a brief affair with a classmate from Boston–he had a charming accent, a warmth & a safety about him that made it easy to talk about modernism, textuality, poetry and hooey like that and actually feel like you were getting somewhere. there was depth, and negronis, and chain-smoking, and a kindling. he’s a writer, off in grad-school, talking about hooey. he looked milk-fed: tall, all-American (meaning, idiomatically, Irish).
’tis the season, I suppose, to be romantic, and nostalgic about romances, and to sexualize something as innocent and/or banal as a glass of milk.
cheers, lovers & lovettes.