It was weird because I hated strawberry anything and yet strawberry milk, damn.
The whole memory harked back to my childhood and remembering how my uncle, a milkman, would come home after his delivery and bring me a carton of strawberry milk.
God knows my mother had tried to get me to eat the actual fruit, but of all the winter berries, it was the one I would not touch. Even the smell made me feel ill.
I also liked the sickly pink colour of the milk; it reminded me of candy and bubblegum and all those fun things I used to stuff my face with as a kid.
Just this morning I had eaten a donut with sprinkles. In fact, it was why I had chosen it from a myriad of delectable treats. The bright colours called to me and asked me to taste them and I had willingly obliged. I think it had something to do with my childhood obsession with fairy bread: those white slices of bread spread with butter and covered in hundreds and thousands.
Food made me happy.
And this morning there was no thought in my mind of any type of real fruit when I had strawberry milk to consume.