COLUMN: Finding the child within takes a little taste testing
I can still vividly remember when I got one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever received. I was talking with my father about growing up and the stresses that come with it. It turned into quite discussion until the pivotal moment when my dad sat back, let out a sigh and said, “Son, growing up is not always going to be happy, but you can never sell yourself short of moments to get silly. Always look for things that make you feel like a kid again.”
There are several reason why that snippet in time is forever logged in my memory, one of them being that he was naked at the time. The funny part is you think I’m kidding.
All analysis aside, I have always left my time of reflection constantly searching for those things that bring me back to my youth – those things that turn my Mr. Belding back into a Tommy Pickles, over and over, until I end up with a the happy medium of a well-cooked Uncle Joey.
Yes, it has been a long and ever-moving search to find my inner-child. The search has included everything from collecting pogs to watching cartoons. I have viewed “Hey Arnold” on Netflix so many times I’ve considered constructing my own Gerald field in my family’s backyard.
The quest for findings has been altogether arduous, that is, until I found my centerpieces – my childhood coup de grace if you will. As much as I shall always live with the memory of my tastefully nude father in an armchair telling me to be a kid,
I, nor my younger self, will never forget the day my heart was turned back to chocolate milk.
I was, of all places, at the Marketplace brandishing a plate of meat lasagna and buttered rice and looking for a beverage worthy of a man’s man, even though I’m sure I would have settled for one fit for just a man, I’m not that picky. I skimmed by all of the fountains until the milk dispenser somehow caught my eye.
Normally I pass by the dairy sector because as the scholars would verse it, milk is yucky. However, this time it was different. It was giving me that “come hither” stare that only a liquid that must be squeezed from cattle’s unmentionables could give.
In that moment, dare I say it, I was a dreamer. I filled a glass with said substance and ravishingly took a gulp.
Wow, and I mean wow. Never had I been so swiftly whisked off to a time when I was leaping on Moon Shoes, chomping blue Gushers by the barrel and memorizing all the lyrics to the theme song of “Growing Pains.” It had finally happened. I was a kid again. No teenage-laden, exasperated sigh could make me overcome the wave of nostalgia that was two-stepping on my taste buds at that moment.
Chocolate milk just has that power. It always has. It is the crowning jewel of every child’s life. Never has a refresher meant for children left so many demographics appeased. Kids were happy to have chocolate, and parents were happy the kids were drinking milk. Heck, even the color brown was thrilled that something in this cruel world would give course for people to be excited about seeing what for some times was a well-avoided color. By golly, no one could lose.
Sure, there were many other kids’ drinks that got us excited back in the day, but chocolate milk was undoubtedly the apex. It stood as an unstoppable force, a cycle with no foreseeable end. It stood atop the rest as if to say, “Stand back, inferiors. I’m in charge now. I didn’t make sweet affirming love to a cocoa pod for my health. People will look at me forever and see a glorious milk shake in simple form. And you? They’ll just scoff and doubt that your punch ever really came from Hawaii. Now, get on my level.”
Yes, all it took was one simple gulp of heaven’s sweet greatness to remind me of what a true gift chocolate milk really was – to the point that I’m even ranting about it on this page. You’ll never guess what I did next.
I threw it away. It’s far too rich for a full glass. All that sugar? What am I a cockroach? I’m going to get some Powerade.
– Steve Schwartzman is a junior majoring in speech communication. His column runs every Wednesday. He loves sports, comedy and creative writing. He encourages any comments at his email steve.schartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu, or find him on Facebook.