The Love and Loss of Lactose Intolerance The walls white. This was before the pediatrics office got funding and painted a themed mural in every room. The parchment paper crunched with every excited fidget. At age 7, I still enjoyed the doctor’s office. I loved the pungent clean smell and colorful balanced diet charts and giant stickers I’d get at the end. So somehow, I felt excited as Dr. Yim gently knocked on the door. She didn’t step in fully, one foot in one foot out, as if barring me from leaving, and read me a list:
“Walnuts, grass, cats, and dairy.”
Huzzah! I got four! Only a few minutes later did I realize, those were four whole things I couldn’t partake in any longer. No more coffee table walnuts. No more rolling down grassy hills. (I feared cats so avoiding them would not be a problem.) And no drinking milk. Never again. Oh well.
Slowly, I got over walnuts, grass, and dairy. All was well. I found avoiding walnuts to be quite easy. Except for the occasional banana bread, they were nowhere to be found. As for grass, that was a bit harder. Instead of avoiding, I rebelled. Flying down hills, spinning out of control, brought too much joy to cut out of my life. The itchy rash felt worth it.
Milk. Milk was a whole different story. The more I thought about it, the odd white liquid unconsensually grabbed from cows, the more I despised it. I couldn’t bring myself to think of willingly pouring myself a cup of milk and drinking it. My new allergy diagnosis was a blessing. “I’M LACTOSE INTOLERANT!” I’d scream if pirates were hypothetically holding me hostage, forcing down a fresh cup of milk down my throat1 . Lactose intolerance was the perfect excuse, my savior, and it wasn’t even a lie! Like I said, all was well.
To be clear, straight up milk in a cup was the only type of dairy I wouldn’t consume. Ice cream, cheese, yogurt I would gladly. My lactose intolerance wasn’t too harsh, thank goodness. Just some stomach ache and light diarrhea. But as my caffeine dependency increased, so did my need for milk. We all know that cow’s milk, well all animal milk for that matter, was off the table. So thus began my journey into the alternative milk world.
Soy milk, the feasible answer. My dear mother has been ordering decaf soy cappuccinos since before nut milks ruled the LA millennial world. Thus, I started to steal small portions of her Trader Joe’s soymilk creamer to put in my iced coffee. It was… well, something was off. The sweetness overpowered my craft brew. Soymilk wouldn’t do.
1 Side Note: For some reason, fearing being held hostage by pirates consumed a lot of my childhood. I once taught myself to write upside down. Because, what if the pirates said they’d let me go only if I could write upside down? I had to be prepared.
Oat milk, the king of mylk. At the recommendation of every vegetarian in my vicinity, I purchased a hunky box of Oatley. Loved the packaging, hated the unexpected diarrhea. They must’ve slipped some contraband lactose in there cause boy the amount I spent in the bathroom was equivalent to if not greater than drinking “regular” milk.
Almond Milk, the unexpected answer. The first translucent white sip: light, bland, tasteless. It was perfect. Almond Milk moved in a week later. We were soul mates. We went through thick and thin together. We were in love.
We saw each other every morning and every night. We went to the beach, camping even! We were inseparable.
Almond Milk stood up for me, and I for Almond Milk. It protected my digestive track like no liquid ever had before. And anytime someone mocked me, called me weak, I defended Almond Milk. It’s safe to say, my relationship with Almond Milk was the healthiest I’ve ever had.
Yes, “had”. All great things must come to an end.
A series of unfortunate events led to me calling it off. Tired after work, I decided to stop by a newly opened indie coffee shop.
“An iced chai with Almond Milk”
Nothing out of the norm. Gazing over their screen-printed merch, I noticed the barista unscrewing a cap off a glass bottle. What scared me the most was the clearly handwritten “Almond Milk” label. Of course they make their own Almond Milk, this’ll be interesting…
It wasn’t interesting, it was disgusting. It was as if I bit into a literal almond and let it sit in my mouth for 3 hours. This wouldn’t do. Almond Milk shouldn’t taste like almonds. It shouldn’t! At home, I didn’t even open the fridge to say “hi” to Almond Milk, it must’ve slipped my mind.
The next day, to clear my thoughts, I went to a bookstore. One of the books I purchased was titled “How to Save the World for Free”. A quick read, quite interesting, quite life changing. Did you know that it takes like a ton more water to produce almond milk than any other alternative milk? I didn’t. Darn it.
All that support, all that care, all that love, was it a lie? How could I, a self-labeled climate conscious individual, drink Almond Milk knowing this information? After a long night, and some tea, I came to my conclusion.
I had to call it off.
And I did. However, I encountered a small glitch. My ex-lover Almond Milk’s rent doesn’t expire until I drink the bottles my dad bought in bulk from Costco. I almost angrily threw them all out but took some deep breaths and realized that creating unnecessary trash wasn’t very anti-climate change of me.
I haven’t fully moved on. Anytime I order a coffee, or coffee-adjacent-drink, “with Almond Milk” comes out automatically. I remember all our good times any time I open my fridge. I recall every scrumptious Almond Milk drink as I fall asleep (and shed a few tears). I regret that first sip all those years ago.
I hope this is for the best.
Thank you, Almond Milk.
“Walnuts, grass, cats, and dairy.”
Huzzah! I got four! Only a few minutes later did I realize, those were four whole things I couldn’t partake in any longer. No more coffee table walnuts. No more rolling down grassy hills. (I feared cats so avoiding them would not be a problem.) And no drinking milk. Never again. Oh well.
Slowly, I got over walnuts, grass, and dairy. All was well. I found avoiding walnuts to be quite easy. Except for the occasional banana bread, they were nowhere to be found. As for grass, that was a bit harder. Instead of avoiding, I rebelled. Flying down hills, spinning out of control, brought too much joy to cut out of my life. The itchy rash felt worth it.
Milk. Milk was a whole different story. The more I thought about it, the odd white liquid unconsensually grabbed from cows, the more I despised it. I couldn’t bring myself to think of willingly pouring myself a cup of milk and drinking it. My new allergy diagnosis was a blessing. “I’M LACTOSE INTOLERANT!” I’d scream if pirates were hypothetically holding me hostage, forcing down a fresh cup of milk down my throat1 . Lactose intolerance was the perfect excuse, my savior, and it wasn’t even a lie! Like I said, all was well.
To be clear, straight up milk in a cup was the only type of dairy I wouldn’t consume. Ice cream, cheese, yogurt I would gladly. My lactose intolerance wasn’t too harsh, thank goodness. Just some stomach ache and light diarrhea. But as my caffeine dependency increased, so did my need for milk. We all know that cow’s milk, well all animal milk for that matter, was off the table. So thus began my journey into the alternative milk world.
Soy milk, the feasible answer. My dear mother has been ordering decaf soy cappuccinos since before nut milks ruled the LA millennial world. Thus, I started to steal small portions of her Trader Joe’s soymilk creamer to put in my iced coffee. It was… well, something was off. The sweetness overpowered my craft brew. Soymilk wouldn’t do.
1 Side Note: For some reason, fearing being held hostage by pirates consumed a lot of my childhood. I once taught myself to write upside down. Because, what if the pirates said they’d let me go only if I could write upside down? I had to be prepared.
Oat milk, the king of mylk. At the recommendation of every vegetarian in my vicinity, I purchased a hunky box of Oatley. Loved the packaging, hated the unexpected diarrhea. They must’ve slipped some contraband lactose in there cause boy the amount I spent in the bathroom was equivalent to if not greater than drinking “regular” milk.
Almond Milk, the unexpected answer. The first translucent white sip: light, bland, tasteless. It was perfect. Almond Milk moved in a week later. We were soul mates. We went through thick and thin together. We were in love.
We saw each other every morning and every night. We went to the beach, camping even! We were inseparable.
Almond Milk stood up for me, and I for Almond Milk. It protected my digestive track like no liquid ever had before. And anytime someone mocked me, called me weak, I defended Almond Milk. It’s safe to say, my relationship with Almond Milk was the healthiest I’ve ever had.
Yes, “had”. All great things must come to an end.
A series of unfortunate events led to me calling it off. Tired after work, I decided to stop by a newly opened indie coffee shop.
“An iced chai with Almond Milk”
Nothing out of the norm. Gazing over their screen-printed merch, I noticed the barista unscrewing a cap off a glass bottle. What scared me the most was the clearly handwritten “Almond Milk” label. Of course they make their own Almond Milk, this’ll be interesting…
It wasn’t interesting, it was disgusting. It was as if I bit into a literal almond and let it sit in my mouth for 3 hours. This wouldn’t do. Almond Milk shouldn’t taste like almonds. It shouldn’t! At home, I didn’t even open the fridge to say “hi” to Almond Milk, it must’ve slipped my mind.
The next day, to clear my thoughts, I went to a bookstore. One of the books I purchased was titled “How to Save the World for Free”. A quick read, quite interesting, quite life changing. Did you know that it takes like a ton more water to produce almond milk than any other alternative milk? I didn’t. Darn it.
All that support, all that care, all that love, was it a lie? How could I, a self-labeled climate conscious individual, drink Almond Milk knowing this information? After a long night, and some tea, I came to my conclusion.
I had to call it off.
And I did. However, I encountered a small glitch. My ex-lover Almond Milk’s rent doesn’t expire until I drink the bottles my dad bought in bulk from Costco. I almost angrily threw them all out but took some deep breaths and realized that creating unnecessary trash wasn’t very anti-climate change of me.
I haven’t fully moved on. Anytime I order a coffee, or coffee-adjacent-drink, “with Almond Milk” comes out automatically. I remember all our good times any time I open my fridge. I recall every scrumptious Almond Milk drink as I fall asleep (and shed a few tears). I regret that first sip all those years ago.
I hope this is for the best.
Thank you, Almond Milk.
