I went to the grocery store with a specific list. The list detailed all of the items we needed to restock the fridge, as well as a few baby-related items. Mostly essentials, but one or two luxury items as well.

The dairy section was the locale of the latest temptation to impulse buy. It came from the most unlikely of sources, but the powers of persuasion were strong. The typical routine has me grabbing two glass bottles of skim milk from the Shatto Dairy for Stacy and I, as well as a similar bottle of whole milk to beef Elli up. Two green caps and one red cap. Easy breezy.

But this day, the pint bottle of light tan milk donning the silver lid was calling my name. "Christian," the Root Beer flavored milk called out to me. "Psssst. Yo, dogg. Pick me...pick me!"

I don't know why, but I obeyed. It must have been a Jedi mind trick. Even as I wound my way through the isles to gather up the remaining items on my list, I found myself trying to figure out why in the name of all things bovine I would buy root beer milk. It really does sound like a horrific combination. But instead of casting the bottle aside, it kept its seat in my cart and was eventually scanned, bagged, payed for, and sitting next to me in the car.

I couldn't wait. I busted the bottle open in the car to find out whether or not I had been taken for a fool by a bottle of milk. The thick liquid passed my lips, rushed over my taste buds and washed past my uvula before making its decent into my dark innards.

Delicious.

And so it is that I came to find out that root beer milk is actually a beverage of joy and beauty. Reminiscent of a root beer float, the combination of fatty whole milk and sugar is one of sheer brilliance. Part of me wanted to guzzle the entire bottle on the way home, but I kept my sensibilities about me. I nursed the bottle in thirds over the past few days, just recently finishing off the last sweet drips of creamy nectar.

I can't wait to go to the store again on Thursday.

Fair Dinkum