✍️✍️✍️ The Milk Makers: A Short Story

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The Milk Makers: A Short Story



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Story Time- The Milk Makers by Gail Gibbons

This is equivalent to about The remainder was sold as dry milk, canned milk, and other milk products. There are many different types of milk. Some depend on the amount of milk fat present in the finished product. Others depend on the type of processing involved. Still others depend on the type of dairy cow that produced the milk. Some states use these standards, while others have their own standards. Prior to , the federal standards required that fluid milk sold as whole milk must have no less than 3.

Other types of milk are based on the type of processing involved. Pasteurized milk has been heated to kill any potentially harmful bacteria. Homogenized milk has had the milk fat particles reduced in size and uniformly blended to prevent them from rising to the top in the form of cream. Vitaminfortified milks have various vitamins added. Most milk sold in markets in the United States is pasteurized, homogenized, and vitamin-fortified. Grade A milk refers to milk produced under sufficiently sanitary conditions to permit its use as fluid milk. Grade B milk is produced under conditions that make it acceptable only for manufactured products such as certain cheeses, where it undergoes further processing.

Certified milk is produced under exceedingly high sanitary standards and is sold at a higher price than Grade A milk. Specialty milks include flavored milk, such as chocolate milk, which has had a flavoring syrup added. Other specialty milks include Golden Guernsey milk, which is produced by purebred Guernsey cows, and All-Jersey milk, which is produced by registered Jersey cows. Both command a premium price because of their higher milk fat content and creamier taste. Concentrated milk products have varying degrees of water removed from fluid milk.

They include, in descending order of water content, evaporated milk, condensed milk, and dry milk. The average composition of cow's milk is This composition varies from cow to cow and breed to breed. For example, Jersey cows have an average of These figures also vary by the season of the year, the animal feed content, and many other factors. Vitamin D concentrate may be added to milk in the amount of international units IU per quart. Most low fat and skim milk also has 2, IU of Vitamin A added. Milk is a perishable commodity. For this reason, it is usually processed locally within Dairy cows are milked twice a day using mechanical vacuum milking machines. The raw milk flows through stainless steel or glass pipes to a refrigerated bulk milk tank.

In the United States, there are several hundred thousand dairy farms and several thousand milk processing plants. Some plants produce only fluid milk, while others also produce butter, cheese, and other milk products. The federal Food and Drug Administration FDA publishes the Grade A Milk Ordinance which sets sanitation standards for milk production in most states and for all interstate milk shippers.

The composition of milk and milk products is specified in Agricultural Handbook 52 published by the United States Department of Agriculture. It lists both federal and state standards. Testing of milk products includes tests for fat content, total solids, pasteurization efficiency, presence of antibiotics used to control cow disease, and many others. The trend to low-fat dairy products over the last 20 years is expected to continue in the future.

Sales of butter are expected to decline, while sales of low-fat yogurt and low-or reduced-fat milk are expected to increase. Overall consumption of liquid milk is expected to increase as the population increases. Giblin, James. Milk: The Fight for Purity. Thomas Y. Crowell, Hui, Y. Encyclopedia of Food Science and Technology. John Wiley and Sons Inc. Kroschwitz, Jacqueline I. Encyclopedia of Chemical Technology, 4th edition. Dairy Farmers of Ontario. International Dairy Foods Association. National Milk Producers Federation. Toggle navigation. Made How Volume 4 Milk Milk. Dairy cows are milked twice a day using mechanical vacuum milking machines. A clarifier removes debris, some bacteria, and any sediment that may be present in the raw milk.

The milk is then fortified and pasteurized. One thought still carrying it, or so it appears? No will, no hope, just this one thought hammering like the blacksmith that it is. Still considered a far too optimistic scenario. At times, screams. Definitely lost it. No dissimilation, ever? Well, then, fuck you! Here, I said it. Sorry, not sorry. Or the day before. As ever. No firmer grip. Strongest of holds. Same obsession as above, same absence of avail. Despite distractions, which, make no mistake, abound. Take, for instance, the time-based approach to the plague of sameness, which goes like this. Ten more milliseconds? Or instead one more millennium? As a manner of speaking: one more ideal length of time. Rot for the rest of it? I did not think so.

I know what you are thinking. Temptations to hide far away behind this wall run high. But do not be fooled, this does not work. Walls are as porous as your asshole. Do as I say, and you may just have a chance. First, do not move. Otherwise what? Have you never heard of the leap? The leap? AKA the jump, in straight edge circles. The big jump, I heard some call it once. It only keeps the dream running, makes you soft, dampens your fear. Remember, your fear is strong, your ass, porous or not, will need it. Ultimately, assessing the situation through the lens of detrimental health conjunctural risk factors DHCRFs , batshit experts may be led to determine that it would seem best not to not work.

Pseudo-philosophically put: at last, work; at best, be. Simple enough. No doubt the sky is a shield even to one who opposes it , but celestial inclination is the enemy. And it is here and it is now. With us. The enemy. It is working. Oh yes. Day and night. Towards its ethereal goal. Nothing shall be anything but. Clouds and breezes. The high stuff. Towards this and nothing else it is working. Working hard. Harder than you. Aware of the fog in Venice.

An odd state to be in when writing. I do feel that way every now and then, but by no means often, and I should say it is rarely pleasant. Were this all really about Venice I could wander along canals pondering this. This bit of unclarity may have been as much of a reason as I was able to provide in the current circumstances. The absence of reasons has been repeated, like so many stories of old, repeated ad nauseam. I am still retching. The boring grey prose, littered with the same long examples of itself.

This unshakeable aftertaste of lanky heirs roaming Gothic mansions corridors and conveniently silenced deceased hence phantomatic maidens. The silliness and the pallor. The dash of morbid drama. Idea for the present. The want, the unwill, stressed as obstinately as possible, relentlessly highlighted, until its presence is not a threat any longer. Until it is the brush, the surface, the sweeper and the swept. Somewhere in the grey groove. Between peak and vale. An inn with a spa. Somewhere a ridge or two away. Amid hail and war. A camp. The sky is orange and all I can think of is my little servitude. Yes, I said servitude. Of the will, of the rest. Servitude, pet name for my tyrant. A curiously, almost charmingly circular notion.

That I think of it as my tyrant is of no relevance. The true master always ends as the crumbs of its servants. This one, mine or not, fan of French toast or not, will know this fate also. From this Friedrichian peak I behold the long-term situation, whence none of this matters. Nothing comes of it. Something comes, which so far has only been the Negative silence, or a reduction, for various obscure reasons, to this: a mere, an arbitrary, absence of absence. A longer pause would have been preferred, but could not be granted: the fingers need to be at it again, and kept on to it, at all times.

Which begs the question, do I have to have them at it every second if I want to be free? What sort of freedom is that? It would be nice if I could stop for a while. Maybe that would save my skin. I felt like a mariner the other night. On the cusp of a broader, more decisive outlook. All mists ahead, ready for the fathomable threat of waves. Maybe instead of saving my skin I could come up with thoughts on my still all too succinct inquiry into the nature of the Game. Under Game, read: the industrialisation of desire; sexual strategies of self-alienation; the lurid lures of pervasive lust; ruthless thrusts for progress; orgiastic urge meet archaic abuse.

Countless sadistic joys and woes weaving a brand new Bayeux Tapestry of fanaticism. Or you could just save your skin. If done in style, it might just get to that point where all question-begging would become, there is no other word, stupid. Something close to what the mariner had known when in the throes of the writing of her novel, which was, incidentally, the point at which the latter became, it sounds as stupid as it is, a work. More precisely: the point at which it might cease to become at all. At long last. Something, when transposed to the realm of the individual, akin to the dissolution of all fiction, and conversely the utter completion of the self. And the other even more more immediate desire to flee.

It was not always the case but of late I am all about the outside, the wild trail, the quiver of horizons. Anything but this, the cell, the castle, the swamp. She somehow successfully turned this illumination into something, valiantly stepping back into the yesterday-smelling scurrilousness of writing. She had wanted to see what it was that was truly fucked.

She went for it. She discovered the most probable, cruel and fucked-up brawn in which the Turtle of the World is likely to have been cooked up. She held fast, she ploughed through. Why are they all still here? Maybe it is I who is too querulous to do something about it? Just the bed, the cage, the cell, the swamp again. Despite the work, despite the tedious entreaties and the competitive soul sales, nothing more.

All this leading nowhere, that is here, and what matters still ever so very far. Very possibly also me forgetting my life, but that is a detail. Not running any more. Not reading Hegel. A quick Great Logic fix would do me good. Please discuss, as for me I am not sure. Or I am just too ambitious, that is, too imprisoned. This cage, that wall, and, in lieu of the head, the thought machine perched on my throat like houses atop medieval bridges or alien spaceships above cities, all willed, all fuelled by the inexorable pull of the ego. I too will stop. Impossible to think that this could be too nice. An excess beyond conceivability. Then the voice comes back. Seek, Reek.

The two important things. Those two, they seem to me to be the core, if nothing else. One, there is no way. You dirty little specular image, you obviously can, and off you go, to this page! And no wonder! It is a place of might and decay, as one would expect, high and low, dispensing the shivers and the frights, your kind of dive. Very private also, you would not like that bit. I call it the forge. The forge?!

Why such vague, old idea?! The bloody forge?! You disappoint me. Also, something is wrong with the the vain clamour of archaism. Wannabe prophetic. Coherent with the medieval bullshit. After all, it is true that people have forgotten the old love for iron. Now I disagree with myself. After all, were it even possible for me to live here or there, to fashion the truth of starts, to pass as someone real, to work together with myself, to do something actual, to come up with friends, then it might come to pass that I would be who I have become. I cannot see any variant of myself fit for the life I know even after training. Some have tried that very last option, it proved all too dangerous. A life like in the Ironbound when the Yank world was young… Something important.

As important as tankers and gas. How to go from here to here, art of the detour. How to rebuild, to think and, hopesomely rebuilt, to know change, when it barges in, on tiptoe. Once done, and when bored again, as it may occur, as has to others, if the chronicles are true, you may be wise to make a movement out of this. You are not wise. Not a bad name.

Nice to have one. What would be its tenets? Let me think. Name first, think later. For now. At best, it could be a beginning. Consider the destruction! The constant unthought, the repetitive endlessness, guillotined! Sure, sure. Beautiful words, but to what effect? Always down here. Below ground, as it were. Better breakfasts, depending on taste, for many. Stuck with this humming. Hum away. Hum on. Deep in the grey blurting. Empty images. Known disgusts. A dork in the dark, with no hope of being.

No future anywhere. Nor any tense, really, for that matter. I was saying that you can make me laugh. Except this is not hardcore, and not even when said with the haha haha haha haha haha of Rrrepetition. Funny, although inconsequential. Let me tell you something. If in the end you do hear me? Soft, dusty spot. If only it could be conjugated with the present… Would have to seem absolutely necessary. Not just seem. Goes without saying.

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