A cowboy walks into a saloon: he’s tall, covered with dust; a gun is tied down low on his right hip. He moves away from the door, into the shadow, stands for a minute and scans the tables.
The bartender’s attention is drawn to the cowboy - and sensing an uncomfortable feeling that something is about to go bad-wrong, positions himself near the sawed off shotgun stowed near the cash box.
The cowboy’s spurs sing as he moves across the floor to the bar.
For a moment the barkeep is held prisoner: captured by the steely, slate grey snake eyes that fix him from the shadow of the hat. He can’t help but stare at the red scar that begins on the cowboy’s forehead, runs across the right eye and ends underneath the ear.
Forcing his self-control the bartender asks, “Can I help you stranger.”
In a husky whisper that is little more than a growl the cowboy says, “Milk.”
I like milk. I grew up drinking milk with meals. I have milk on my cereal, and sometimes have a cold glass when I don’t want wine or beer.
During the eleven years spent in the Indian and Eskimo villages of the far north fresh milk wasn't available. The milk of choice in the villages was Permalat.
Permalat is not reconstituted – synthetic – with additives for ‘freshness’ or preservatives; it is real, honest to goodness milk that has been packed unprocessed, in soft, air proof containers that require no refrigeration until opened. It will keep for months on the shelf with other non-perishables.
Permalat is ideal for people living in remote areas; people camping, hunting and fishing; people traveling in RV’s; or couples like my wife and I who want to keep milk on hand but don’t run to the store every couple of days.
I am a milk aficionado – and this is good milk. It comes by the quart in 2% and whole; and both, to me, taste slightly richer than supermarket milk. It could be that drinking it for many years I have developed a taste for it; but I don’t think so. It is good milk.