Dairy Queen

Quite easily you can apply the above title to me. I am hands down the dairy queen. We spent a considerable amount of time in Switzerland, the home of cream heaven. Yes, limited funds inhibited our butter consumption, but apart from that, cheeses and fantastic milk were flowing like milk and honey.

The place my family lived next was close to a dairy farmer. My mum would cycle there daily to get us warm milk straight from the horses mouth, I mean, cows udder. We would drink it immediately upon arrival and the cream top, almost like a cork stuck inside the bottles’ neck, would be considered a delicacy.

The hubz enjoyed complete opposing tastes when growing up. His dad, and subsequently he himself, hated everything dairy. They never even went as far as touching anything dairy, let alone consume it. My cheese consumption has plummeted since we are married, since it would always mean cooking two dishes, and I frankly can’t be bothered.

So there was my birthday, the hubz disappears into the kitchen and is very secretive about it. A few hours later he emerges with a most delectable dairy dessert, only for me to enjoy. It had all creamy goodness, including raw eggs, something he too, despises, and topped off with more creaminess covered by yet another cream layer. Easily the best gift ever.


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