I love to drink buttermilk.
For all that I know I may be the only one left.
I don’t drink it often. It’s not something we keep in the fridge unless there’s baking to do. And when I do drink it, it’s only a few sips. But there’s nothing finer than standing at the counter, eating a piece of homemade chocolate cake with a juice glass full of glorious, ice-cold buttermilk.
The only time we have it in the house is when there’s some baking to be done. And usually that leaves a small amount that I polish off. Most people find it sour, too thick, too heavy. They think it’s like something gone bad. But for me it’s rich, tart, a wonderful substance, something that is the perfect balance to something light and sweet.
There is something basic, fundamental, about the taste of buttermilk. In it I taste my childhood, life on the prairie, some elemental connection to food as something that you grow and make yourself. For me, that first taste of buttermilk is accompanied by a sense of well being, knowing that I am home, safe, and well. It is bottled nostalgia. And a sip or two every now and then is enough.
I’m not recommending it for you. Buttermilk is not even something I’d call an acquired taste. But I’m betting there are foods, tastes that do the same thing for you. Things that evoke thoughts, memories, and feelings. Use them sparingly. But on occasion, have a sip, a taste, and stay connected with your roots, your core self.
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