This morning, Gustavo woke us up with the offer of hot milk from a cow. Like, his cow. One of his cows that one of his workers was milking, about a 50 yards away. So we went.
Patricia gave us cups with panela, crushed raw cane sugar, in them, and we marched out back to where his two trabajeros were doing the morning milking. The squishy, wet sounds of cow pies hitting the ground surrounded us as Gustavo handed the cups to his worker, who filled them up with five or six squeezes straight from an udder.
We stood in the corral drinking hot sweetened milk as cows milked, mooed, pooped, and peed all around us.
I am pretty sure this is what afficionados call “raw milk.”
It tasted delicious, though the close proximity to poop was a little worrisome. We gave our leftover milk to Quito, the Great Dane and the big eater in the family, and waited patiently to get sick.
Miraculously, it didn’t happen. Over breakfast, Patricia asked us how our stomachs were. We said fine. She informed us that if we haven’t thrown up or had diarrhea within 10 minutes, we’re good to go.