My mom used to say, “Jinho! Drink some milk! Don’t you want strong bones?” When I was a toddler, I would nod in agreement. At that age, I was educated by the leading health experts of the time, SuperWhy and Caillou, who told me that you couldn’t be healthy without some milk.
Once I got a bit older, I would argue with my mom about the health benefits of milk. Scientists online told me that there is no conclusive evidence that links bone health to milk intake. When I tried to explain this to my mom, she laughed, said that I was right, but poured me another glass.
After a few years, I began to drink milk habitually, and I started to like it too. I liked milk because of its versatility—milk can be cool or warm, refreshing or comforting, frothy or still. On a sultry afternoon, a cold glass of milk can alleviate the suffocating heat. On a frigid morning, a frothy mug full of milk can lend warmth to the cold that seems entrenched in your hands. After eating a spicy pepper, milk can restore your sanity.
Milk complements everything: a pain au chocolat, a salad topped with vinaigrette, a comforting bowl of doenjang-jjigae. Milk soothes as it warms you, refreshes as it cools you, pleases as it caresses you.
Fans of the other truly iconic beverage, water, would assert water’s superiority over milk. But instead of as rivals, I prefer to think of milk and water as an inseparable couple. As water refreshes us with its vapidity, milk comforts us with its intensity; as water enchants us with its clarity, milk seduces us with its versatility; as water sustains our lives, milk fulfills it.
The verbosity aside, milk reminds me of dear moments.
As a child, I was asthmatic and prone to illness. My mom, concerned that I would be weaker than other kids, cared for my health in every way that she could. She fed me a Korean diet of rice, vegetables, fruits, and proteins; never once did she feed me a single ounce of processed food. She encouraged me to pick up sports, spend copious amounts of time outside, and read novels. She made me sleep for long periods of time. When she was particularly worried about my health, she would feed me ginseng, a Korean medicinal root, hopeful that it would improve my health. Her endearingly nonsensical insistence on my milk consumption, too, was an example of her fixation on my health.
In the past, I used to think her concern was paranoia, especially when considering my current health. My last asthma attack was in 2nd grade, and I haven’t carried an inhaler with me for over 7 years. When I play soccer, I run up and down the field with just as much enthusiasm as my friends. I rarely get sick, too.
I used to think that I was healthy in spite of my mom’s attention and care, but recently, I have begun to wonder whether I am healthy because of it. It’s a conjecture that can neither be proven nor disproven, but it has made me much more grateful for my robust health.
When I drink milk when I’m with my friends, they give me a questioning stare: despite its ubiquity, very few people have milk as their drink of choice. With the growing outcry against animal cruelty, people will likely become even more reluctant to consume milk. Perhaps in the near future, milk will become an antiquated beverage, a beverage only consumed by the quaint.
Regardless of whether milk is popular or not, I will continue to drink milk religiously. I will appreciate its versatility and treasure its creamy texture. I will remember that SuperWhy and Caillou, usually infallible in their moral and scientific instruction, misinformed me about the bone-strengthening qualities of milk. But most importantly, with each glass of milk, I will remember the fretting concern with which my mom worried for me, the fervent intensity with which she cared for me, and the adoring warmth with which she loved me.