Previously I have discussed my anti-cheese stance – smelly, funny flat taste on my tongue and a desire to throw up. Yoghurt was at one time treated with the same disdain, but reading of finely crafted words and health journals convinced me it was in my best interest to indulge – for whatever reason.
High school classes in science I think- with Mr Hullin up the front and huge swathes of light cutting in through louvered windows. We learned that it was essentially milk that had gone off – infected with bacteria. Some part of the rear room of my mind filed this away and avoided it from that time until maybe mid twenty. A series of ‘exclusion diets’ had me eating brown rice and bananas for breakfast- super plain. I had read about these ‘lactobacilius’ and acidopholous doo hickies that were meant be good exercise for the gut, the problem I was tyring to fix… so I put aside the Bacterial fear and added it to the breakfast regimen. By week two of the diet things were great when I woke up , but by the time I had walked to the station, energy zapping zombies had invaded from inner space sapping my soul. I felt lifeless and dull, all grey on the inside…dead! How I wondered?
I eliminated the white slimey wet stuff and one week later things were on an ‘even’ if not better than even keel. At this point I concluded that I was lactose intolerant and that yoghurt – a super concentrated form of the species – was my number one enemy. At Indian restaurants I now learn to ask if there’s yoghurt in the dishes I want to order – they don’t usually tell you but 1/2 an hour after having a korma or a tandoor I might all face first into the desert- it’s a killer. Thirty olypmic weight lifters seem to drop by and crush me in a swell of lethargy and weakness. I must also admit I’ve never been a fan of the taste – reminds me of that cheese stuff, slightly pukey, slightly artificial or something.
