My dad is one of those people who grew up poor and is now not poor, but old habits die hard. That statement may not have anything to do with the rest of this story, but it might, so I figured I'd lead with that to cover all my bases.
Growing up, my dad would always have some form of sustenance ready for his three kids in the morning. He is a rad dad. Half the time it would be something delicious, like pigs in a blanket or croissants. The other half the time it would be some horrendous combination, like toast with both butter and peanut butter. They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but butter and peanut butter is a punishment nobody deserves.
One thing was always consistent, though -- a giant cup of milk. Now from this point onward, I know I'm going to risk sounding more and more like a spoiled brat, but in reality, I love milk. Me and milk are tight. Milk is responsible for cheese and ice cream, two of my favorite things (not together), so you know I have no problem with milk.
I just can't drink "old" milk.
No, I'm not talking about expired sour milk, although I definitely can't drink that, either. I'm talking about milk that has been poured out and sitting for longer than ten minutes.
I don't know how to explain it. The first 9.99 minutes after it leaves the jug? Cold, fresh, and anything 1% fat and over? Money.
Once that timer hits ten minutes, though? The taste of the milk completely transforms. Like I said, I don't know how to explain it -- it's just science.
But my dad would never believe me. I've had a lifelong struggle with alarm clocks, so I wasn't always the most punctual person to the breakfast table. I take sole responsibility for that, but nobody should have to drink old milk.
After the first couple times, I told my dad to not pour me milk. If anything, I could pour it myself, right? In theory, yes, but every time I came downstairs, there it was. A glass of milk waiting for me. He just couldn't help himself.
Don't get me wrong -- I'm grateful. More so now than back then, probably. But I started asking my dad what became a recurring question in the house: "Is this new?"
My dad's automatic response: "Sun, gah!"
For my non-Cantonese brethren, that's a yes. Specifically, the direct translation would be "new," followed by one of the thousands of interjections Cantonese people tack on to the end of every sentence.
So I took a big gulp. I don't know what was worse, the poison going down my throat or the knife in my back.
Maybe it was just bad milk, I thought. Gotta give my father the benefit of the doubt, right? It's all good, just a one-time strange mishap.
I reminded my dad that I would get my own milk, but the following day, there it was again, a full cup sitting on the counter.
I inquired with a raised brow: "Is this new?"
"Sun, gah!"
So I took a smaller sip this time, a little more skeptical than the day before. And my suspicions were justified -- this was definitely old milk.
We reached an impasse. My dad couldn't not pour me milk, and I couldn't drink old milk. So I did the only thing I could think of. I would wait until he left the kitchen, then I'd pour it down the drain.
Everyone judging me for wasting milk right now, please stop. It wasn't just me. My siblings followed suit. That doesn't change much of anything, but at least it should spread the judging around. If I'm going down, I'm taking y'all down with me.
My dad caught one of us in the act, and he wasn't all that giddy about it. What followed was an unpleasant discussion, but I thought that was the end of him pouring milk for us. But he just adapted.
The next time, there it was, taunting me. Another cup, brimming with milk.
"Is this new?"
"Sun, gah!"
So I grabbed the handle on the mug, and it sent my Spidey sense tingling. The handle was cold. Cue the dramatic music.
My dad had poured the cup of milk, placed it in the fridge, waited until I was almost downstairs, pulled it out of the fridge, placed it on the table, and told me that he had just poured it.
I trust my dad with everything in life. Except for an honest answer to the "Is this new?" question.
But it's easy to flip the script and see things from my dad's lenses. He just wanted to make sure the three of us had our fill of vitamin D. His motives were pure. His inability to tell the truth was limited to milk.
Or so we thought.
Fast forward a few years, and my brother Jason was home from college for the weekend. Only problem? He forgot his toothbrush and asked our dad for one.
My dad disappeared into his room, reemerging a few seconds later with a toothbrush. No plastic wrap. No container. No nothing.
"Is this new?"
"Sun, gah!"
Jason went in for a closer inspection. The stick was slightly worn. The bristles were pointed in different directions. This toothbrush was definitely used -- on someone else's teeth, on the bathtub, on the toilet seat -- your guess is as good as mine. My brother looked up, prepared to protest, and my dad just had the goofiest grin on his face.
The best part? Jason ran into my dad's bathroom to investigate, and my old man had a handful of brand new toothbrushes still in their boxes just waiting to be opened. That nasty toothbrush from who knows where that my father had tried to pawn off onto my brother wasn't even close to being the only extra toothbrush he had.
Needless to say, nobody asks my dad "Is this new?" anymore.
