As a child, I used to fancy myself as some sort of a gumshoe girl detective, as if I could emulate Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden (I think for a whole year I even signed all my school assignments as “Trixie”… but the only thing with the whiff of mystery about that would have been for my teacher, who had to figure out who this “Trixie” was, and what exactly she had done to Bettina*)

But now, in France, I’ve found a case worthy of my perceived abilities of detection: where has all the fresh milk gone? Writing about French cheese really made me ponder this one, because I thought that in France there would be no question of the quality of taste over the quality of health. Look, I’ve got to make a contentious statement early on, set the stage and what not, but UHT sucks. I can’t think of any more eloquent way to put it.

I’ve got a contact in the milk industry here. I’ll investigate. But please leave your houses and don’t remain white-knuckled on your computer chair for the next 24 hours. Go enjoy a nice cuppa, splash it liberally with fresh milk, and I’ll be back with the answers to the hard-hitting questions soon…

* Actually growing up outside of a German-speaking country with a name like Bettina was always traumatic for me, so I would invent all sorts of nicknames, and long to have been called Rebecca or Rachael. For instance, throughout high school I was known as “Fred”, which would always result in hilarity and confusion whenever a friend called my home, spoke to my parents, and inevitably forgot what was my real name. (For the record, I like my name now).