Everything is better with Bulgarian buttermilk | OUR CORNER

I have been consistently receiving buttermilk abuse at the various newspaper offices I find myself at these days.

I have been consistently receiving buttermilk abuse at the various newspaper offices I find myself at these days.

I have a conspiracy theory this food crabbiness stems from another plot. Some seem to think I am not the Mr. Sensitive Bucket of Happiness I see in the mirror every morning (before I put my glasses on). Oh, how wrong everyone but me can be, and I do have to point this out… in a Mr. Happy way, of course. When I gently make my “I am right once again” dance I try to be sensitive while I fling my arms in the air and yell “touchdown, touchdown” and throw in the requisite hair flip just to be consistent.

The Mr. Sensitive world of rightness may have something to do with the pile of problems I am getting about my eating habits. Namely my discovery that buttermilk, especially Bulgarian buttermilk, is ambrosia on nearly everything.

Now, I remember my grandmother drinking buttermilk every morning and I thought that was nuts and disgusting.

However, age does a wonderful thing. It kills your taste buds and what was gross and disgusting as a child, becomes yummy, yummy as you near death.

I figure I have either turned into my grandmother, or I’m ready to croak.

Not only do I like buttermilk, I love it on my morning cereal mixture I call the slurry of superheroes – which is what I have been getting plenty of grief about due to the conspiracy.

My new favorite recipe is as follows. I soft boil two eggs in one-half inch of water for exactly 5 1/2 minutes at home before work.

I load those in a plastic container and head to the office.

Once I get to work I mix up a bowl of either old-fashioned oatmeal or steel cut oatmeal, depending on how adventurous I feel, with wheat bran and raisins. I put just a little water in the bowl and cook it in the microwave for two minutes. Once the oatmeal mixture is cooked I break the eggs into the oatmeal mixture and cover everything with as much Bulgarian buttermilk as I can fit into the bowl.

I stir it all up and start checking my emails.

Even when a whole bunch of heretics are mad and trying to get me fired, I still feel like Mr. Sensitive Bucket of Happiness. How could I not? Most of women in the office are gagging and calling me names I don’t understand because women never tell me what those special words mean. Another conspiracy revealed.

Buttermilk – the ambrosia of superheros, take my word for it.

 

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