Phish Tales

Hello, hello, hello. Perhaps, you’ve seen me in your refrigerator, standing as tall as my miniature stature allows, extolling the virtues of the wholesome, creamy liquids of life. But have you ever wondered what becomes of me when that refrigerator door swings shut, enveloping me in darkness? Where does a tiny dairy devotee go when the artificial twilight falls? Let me pour you a glass of insight skimmed from my daily existence.

When the lights snuff out, my world doesn’t spiral into an abyss of nothingness, oh no. It expands, it breathes; it transforms into a sprawling, magical dairy farm, hidden in the folds of reality, accessible only to the likes of pint-sized purveyors like myself. Picture this: rolling hills pocket-sized, cows no larger than your thumb, and pastures so green, they’d make emeralds weep with envy. This is my dominion, my nightly pilgrimage—the Meadows.

My first task? Greeting the cows, naturally. They’re the unsung heroines of the lactose world, and I know them all by name. Donna, Bella and Tiny Tina—they’re not just livestock; they’re confidantes. I ask about their day, rub their tiny heads, discuss the weather and the state of the world. They moo; I interpret. It’s symbiotic.

Then comes the milking, an exercise in patience and dexterity. Imagine milking a cow the size of a thimble, drawing sustenance from udders as small as matchsticks. It’s a nightly ballet, hands dancing from one miniature cow to the next, the barn a stage for my pirouetting fingers. The milk? Oh, it’s the sweetest nectar, a microcosm of flavor, a testament to the fact that good things—no, the best things—do indeed come in small packages.

But the work doesn’t end there. Oh no, there’s the churning of butter, a task so rhythmic and meditative that I lose myself in the rotations, turning cream into golden bricks of flavor. There’s the crafting of cheese, where I play alchemist, transforming the ordinary into the pungent, the creamy, the crumbly. I am a conductor, and the dairy—my symphony.

Amidst these tasks, I traverse the pastures, ensuring every blade of grass stands perfect, every flower blooms with the enthusiasm of a sun in petal form. I confer with the bees, those tiny agents of sweetness, and ensure their alliance in making the meadows a utopia of milk and honey.

As dawn’s light begins to creep beneath the refrigerator door, my world starts its gentle contraction. The hills roll up, the cows shrink away, and the vast landscapes pull inwards, like a storybook closing. I take a deep breath, the smells of fresh milk, newly churned butter, and sweet, sweet honeycomb filling my senses, a reminder of a night’s hard work.

So, when you swing open that refrigerator door and find me there, beaming up at you, know that my enthusiasm isn’t just salesmanship. It’s the pride of a night spent in toil, of hands (albeit tiny) calloused from work, of a heart swollen with the joy that only comes from doing what one loves, in a world as fantastical as it is minute.

From my chilly corner of your world, I offer not just dairy, but a piece of my own, a snapshot of a life unseen, a testament to the magic that exists in the quiet, in the dark, in the spaces between.

Yours in cream and camaraderie, Harry Hood, Your Minuscule Milkman