A Nut-Milker's Dream Come True
The Joy of Owning an Almond Cow
As an avid zero-waster it pained me each week to reach for that carton of almond milk from the grocery store dairy aisle. It felt as if the naysayers of the community were peaking around corners tsk-tsk'ing at my waxed-cardboard carton of deliciousness. Of course that likely wasn't the case, but I felt like an imposter who openly shares my views of cutting back household waste and then (not even discretely) adding wasteful packaging to my very own grocery cart. BUT - smoothies... am I right? I couldn't just cut almond milk out of my life. It was my one Achilles' heel in the zero-waste world.
Over the years I had carefully swapped out my garbage producing lifestyle with reusable or homemade versions of store-bought products. With every successful transition it felt like a mountain I had climbed. Hand soap and dishwasher tabs? I now refill in bulk using my mason jars. Bread bags and granola bar wrappers? I now make my own, resulting in zero packaging. I had even tried a few times to make my own almond milk, which turned into a grainy wasteful mess resembling my days of early motherhood and the spit-up blankets covering every surface.
You can understand my excitement then when one night while doom-scrolling my phone I saw an ad for the Almond Cow. "What?" I said out loud and sat up immediately. It felt like one of those "ah-ha" moments that Oprah speaks so endearingly about. In an instant I believed this shiny metal kettle looking appliance could solve all the world's problems. Or at the very least the niche zero-waste and vegan population's problems. I was hesitant to mention it to my husband after viewing the price. Was it worth it? Almonds were expensive to buy on their own. Do we even have room for one more appliance on the counter? Instead I did what every wife who wants to convince their husband of something does, I showed him the ad. "Isn't this cool?" I asked enthusiastically. He nodded, clearly not feeling the same way though. I rambled on about how great it would be while his eyes were glued to the golf channel. All the while, nodding away at my nut milk woes. On the next commercial he finally looked at me and said "so why don't you just order it then?". I repeated the price to ensure he knew what he was signing up for. He shrugged and said "go for it." Not gonna lie, I did an internal happy dance.
The day the Almond Cow arrived I was ready. I had purchased a 5lb bag of almonds from a local bulk shop. I tore open the pretty box (pausing to appreciate their little sentiments printed on it. I swooned a little on the fonts they chose. Everything just looked so perfect.) I immediately washed each part and put it all back together, ditching the electric pepper and salt shakers to make room for my shiny new toy on the counter. I added the almonds, the water, the maple syrup and a pinch of salt. I pressed the button and held my breath. After a few seconds it shut off and I peered inside. Milk! Just like that! No squeezing of nut milk bags into strainers. No blood, sweat and tears to make this silky beverage. I was in love. I grabbed my phone to take a picture of my final result and sent it to my husband. His reply, "wow!" followed by, "did you know the price you gave me for that was in American dollars, not Canadian?"
Oops. Too late!
About the Creator
Christina Hunter
Author, Mother, Wife. Recipient of the Paul Harris Fellowship award and 2017 nominee for the Women of Distinction award through the YWCA. Climate Reality Leader, Zero-Waste promoter, beekeeper and lover of all things natural.
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La Dolce Vita Estiva
We lived in a typical wartime house on the south end of town. A single maple tree dotted most front yards, though ours had a swing my Dad built. I was always proud of that. It felt like a little notch above the other neighborhood kids. I imagined it felt similar to when someone in the neighborhood had a pool, though nobody in ours did. Each backyard was nothing more than a bland rectangular patch of grass, and on sunny days my sister and I dragged our deck chairs to the middle of it, plugged our ghetto blaster into the extension cord and fed it through the kitchen window to blast the Cranberries or Counting Crows. Sometimes we listened to the radio to hear of any concert ticket contests we could try for. We lathered our bodies in tanning oil, and spritzed our hair with lemon juice, setting a timer to remind us to turn over every twenty minutes or so. Two whole months stretched before us with nothing to do. Those summers tasted like sun-drenched peach juice dripping down my chin, and salty, soggy chips from wet hands diving into the bag after a swim at the local beach. The hours ticked by while our parents were at work; too young for jobs ourselves, we basked in the freedom to choose what the day would bring. I can still taste the penny candy from the variety store on the main street. We'd swing our little paper bags around for all the neighborhood kids to see as we walked back home from our splurge. Some days I'd buy the giant jawbreaker and lick it while we walked until my tonge was raw and stained red and blue. We tried all the new flavours of pop from the dispenser, and mixed them together melting a popsicle into it and called it swamp water. In the evenings, Dad would put the sprinkler on and ask us to pick snap peas and cherry tomatoes from the little garden that lined the edge of the yard. We'd split the skin of the peas open pulling from the vein and count how many were in each, popping them in our mouths like m&m's as we worked. Back then we still ate meat, and so those summers tasted like grilled hamburgers with too much ketchup and mustard, homegrown garden salads and buttered and salted corn on the cob. Mom proudly used the corn holders I had made at school which were bright orange melted plastic and hard to hold with greasy fingers. On Sunday evenings after dinner, Mom, my brother, sister and I would get on our bikes and head over to the park to listen to the music playing on the barge. Dad didn't like the crowds and said the style of music wasn't great, so he stayed back. Some evenings it was an Elvis impersonator, or an old-folks band that played songs I'd never heard of. But it brought a crowd, and families sat on picnic blankets or camp chairs until the mosquitos came out. That or the donation basket started getting passed around which split the crowd up pretty quickly. On humid evenings we were allowed to get an ice cream from the concession stand, but mostly we swam near the shore while Mom listened to the music. She knew all the songs, and sang along to each one.
By Christina Hunter2 years ago in Feast
Vale Perficientur
"My tears need a minute to find the edges of my face. If you'll please excuse me." The sarcasm stabbed into Juliana’s heart. Antonia glared at her from the pit of the Lyceum as her student fought to hold back tears that had nothing to do with the pain in her fingers. “You’re better than this, again.”
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