I haven’t always hated milk. I, too, was a child once. I just don’t drink the stuff anymore. It all started when my mom wanted me to stop drinking from the baby bottle; she had this wonderful idea of coating the tip of the tsupon with siling labuyo extract. She figured I’d drink from the glass from thereon. However, I ended up finding milk a bit too spicy for my taste buds.

            Funny thing was that I wasn’t even aware of that then. Not until someone, a family member perhaps, told me the story. What I do know is that I just hated the taste of milk. Period. However, with the added information, I could finally tell people about my misfortune should they ask or should I run out of things to say about myself.

            I do recall a few bits and pieces from my childhood tribulations involving milk. How could I possibly forget the countless hours my dad and I spent on opposite sides of our dining table? He, losing patience on me, and I, staring teary-eyed at the glass of milk standing under the yellow spotlight from the bulb directly above it. A scene from an interrogation room, I must say. Milk would be the torture “device”. Anyway, I had always been at the losing end of those encounters where I ended up downing the glass while pinching my nose. The last gulp would always be followed by me crying while repeatedly shouting, “Ayoko talaga ng gatas!” in between sobs. One day however, Dad put a glass of Milo in front of me instead of milk, as if saying, “I give up. At least drink this.” Milo tasted different that day but I drank it nonetheless. A few days later, I refused to drink Milo as well, and they had it replaced with Ovaltine. After a while, I refused that on, too. Turned out they were both mixed with milk. I had discovered this when I mustered all the courage in me just to drink a glass of Milo at a retreat back in high school. I wouldn’t have done so had they served anything other than that there. In retrospect, it seems strange that my buds could still identify milk even when it is mixed with other drinks. Why? Consider the fact that I hate it and that I hadn’t had a taste of it in years. This got me thinking that perhaps, the milk incidents that I have had from the previous years must have really been imprinted on my mind. Eventually, my parents gave me Chocolait, the chocolate milk drink, the symbol of their surrender. They were glad that I accepted that one without any resistance at all. No, “glad” is an understatement. “Ecstatic” would be a better adjective. They were ecstatic about it, probably offering many thanks to God for that miracle. And so, Chocolait became my source of calcium for a long time, along with evaporada in champorado and halo-halo.

            Ever since I knew about this little trivia about milk, siling labuyo, and I, it had been part of my personality, a need-to-know about me. It would have been easier to say that I’m lactose intolerant should people ask why I refuse milk, right? That won’t require any explanation. However, that won’t be true. The person I would be talking about wouldn’t be me.

Now, even with the knowledge that my fear of milk was caused by the siling labuyo and not by the taste of milk per se, I still can’t bring myself to let milk touch my lips. I can’t even withstand its distinctive aroma. Try me. I’ll definitely gag.

            What I do find odd about this is the fact that I didn’t develop any aversion towards sili or other spicy food when in fact, it was their hot, burning feeling in my mouth that triggered my fear of milk. There, I admitted it. I fear milk. I am afraid of it. I wouldn’t dare come near it. I can’t. You can kill me with it. Put simply, if I were Superman, milk would most definitely be my kryptonite.