Milkman

There are some memories that are so deeply entrenched in me and so dear even though they seem so random. Like the milkmen that came to our door to deliver daily milk. I still remember two of those guys very clearly - one of them had really blue eyes and a girlie voice, and this other one had a beard. But this is not the memory itself. The memory is him putting the metal pitcher into the bigger metal thing, filling it up with clinking sounds here and there, and in one big move, pouring it over to the yellow enamel pot in my hand - the milk looking like a solid white thing for a moment, and the pot getting surprisingly heavy, even though it's expected.
(sutcu, teneke masrapa, tencere are the Turkish words you are looking for)
Then you thank him, and he goes away, and you put start boiling the milk, and then there's the "cream", Sunday breakfasts, honey and cream, dad's pjs.
These memories are so much easier to come back to me here for some reason. It's like, whenever I see a gallon of milk, I remember the milkman and the memory of the milk-pouring ceremony ("bi dakka tencere getireyim"). Whenever I see the boys having breakfast, I remember my grandmother feeding me breakfast, the butter, the sourcherries on the butter (soldiers in the snow). And the sound of pigeons.
And my other memories with my grandmother, which are basically the only things I remember from my childhood? They keep coming back to me these days and accumulating in the back of my mind. That will be a whole another post.

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