Does the Body Good

People who are married love to tell About-To-Be-Marrieds that the whole relationship changes after the big day. I doubted that this would happen to us. After all, Andrew and I had been living together for three years, what was left to discover about each other?

That was before we moved to Europe.

As it turns out there was something I didn’t know about Andrew: the man consumes a freakish amount of milk.

When we lived in Ottawa Andrew would sometimes tell me he drank a lot of milk. I’d nod and smile, but in my head I’d think

1. That’s a weird thing to be bragging about

2. I come from a family which consumes mass quantities of dairy – my brother can eat a block of cheddar cheese in one sitting, and I know my way around an ice-cream scoop, Andrew’s milk claims would have to be pretty extraordinary to impress

Well, I began to see the light upon our arrival in Belgium. There are a number of reasons why I’ve finally clued in to his love of lactose.

Firstly, I am now the sole person buying groceries, so I know exactly what food is entering our house.

Secondly, they don’t sell milk at NATO, which means that Andrew can’t partly-quench his milk addiction with the daily 500 ml fix that he used to get at work in Canada. (This daily fix is something I only found out about since moving here, and it was really quite shocking -- like finding out that he was hooked on crack or shopped at Moore’s Suits)

Thirdly, it’s actually quite challenging to buy milk in this country: There is a bewildering variety of milk-like products. There is “lait battu” which translates literally as “whipped milk.” Now, here’s a piece of advice. If you buy whipped milk, thinking that it’s like regular milk, only whipped, sort of like a milkshake and you bring it home and your husband says, “I don’t think it’s going to taste like a milkshake,” and you poopoo his objections and pour yourself a nice tall glass to PROVE HIM WRONG, if you do these things, then make sure you’re facing the sink when you take that first swig, because FYI it doesn’t taste like a milkshake. Whipped milk is actually SOUR milk. Your mouth will not be expecting it, so you’ll want to spit it back up as fast as possible and then wipe the smirk off your husband’s face.

There is also UHT milk which has been treated at an ultra high temperature. It sits on the shelf in the grocery store rather than the fridge and can last up to nine months. It’s totally unnatural, and frankly its very existence gives me the willies.

Fourthly, I’m more aware of Andrew’s dairy proclivities because there seems to be a general shortage of milk in Belgium. For a country that loves its cheese, it seems a lot less fond of its milk. They only sell it in one litre containers, so you have to buy five or six at a time. What’s more, if you have failed to stock up for the weekend, and you’re running low, you’re in trouble because almost no groceries stores are open on Sunday. You can't go to a corner stores to grab a litre, because they don't sell milk (which breaks the first commandment of corner store ownership, in my books: Thou Shall Provide Milk) and the few grocery stores that ARE open on Sunday will actually run out of milk.

Run Out Of Milk. The words now send shivers down my spine, because I see what happens to Andrew when he doesn’t get his lacto-fix. This kindly, loving man will become wild-eyed on a Sunday morning. “Are we out of milk?” His voice will have a hard, bitter edge. In vain I will try to pacify him – throwing yoghurt, cheese, even in desperation, butter, at him. To no avail, the man needs his milk What will then ensue is a forced march to every open grocery store in Brussels on an increasingly desperate search. Another Sunday wasted on the Quest for Milk.

I’ve wised up now, and if you open our fridge on a Friday night you will be greeted by a blinding white row of milk containers, gleaming in their pristine lactose-y-ness. Just don’t expect there to be any left on Monday.

My husband drinks a lot of milk.