“Ever had raw farm milk?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay. Well, it’s thick, and yellow, and fatty, and we had a cow growing up, and my dad would make us drink a glass of it every day, and I’m pretty sure it was borderline child abuse. Now, the thought of sitting down and just slugging back an entire glass . . .” He shudders. “I’ve never been happier than I was the day that cow died.”