The simple act of boiling milk

I have a friend who loves gadgets. Her kitchen is a mini showroom for Amazon products. She once told me that she purchased an automatic milk boiler to eliminate the distress of spilled milk on the burner.

It got me thinking. It's true. No one likes to clean up the singed residue of what was once the decadent, frothy richness of a bowl of milk. And why? Spilled milk reminds us of what we lack and what we often refuse to acquire: the will to be in the moment.

If there is one act that teaches us mindfulness, it is boiling milk. We have to be fully present, constantly stirring the pan, adjusting the heat, and knowing when to turn the flame off.  

But first things first. Let's start with choosing the vessel. Steel vessels have monopolized the traditional market as the gold-standard milk boiler. Most homes in India, except the ones that have opted for an automatic milk boiler, have a dedicated steel vessel exclusively for this purpose. While non-stick pans or even clay pots may be considered, milk and steel are naturally paired. 

Here's why. There is something reassuring in observing a steely yet shiny vessel restrain an opaque mass of milk as it progressively simmers to boiling point.  The distinct aroma that emanates and settles on the olfactory nerves does not impact impervious steel. 

Let me digress for a moment to the memory that springs alive from the remarkable redolence of a pot of bubbling milk on the rare occasion I choose to do so. It is the smell of my baby's toothless gums, freshly coated with warm milk. All the travails of a newborn's mother wash away in that moment. It was often the best part of my day when I inhaled a lungful of that gummy incense.

There's something innately maternal about boiling milk. In India, we address the cow as " go mata." "Go" stands for cow, and " Mata" for mother. Throughout this daily morning ritual in most homes, the matriarch of the house or the servant stands guard, stirring the pan lest a layer of charred milk sediment form at the base of the vessel. As with the spilled froth that cannot be salvaged, the thickened brown carpet at the base of a pan reminds one of one's lack of attention. The punishment: extra hard scrubbing at the tail end of the morning's pile of dishes.

At times, the act of stirring may seem counterproductive. Watching silently, you see tiny whirlpools of milk seething here and there. Then, with your steel ladle, you part the froth and stir as if to calm a geyser. The froth seems angry, but you remind yourself that it holds the best of the bowl.

You stay focused, noticing that the foci of hot springs disappear momentarily. This is the most dangerous moment. A ping on your phone, a loved one's plea to help discover their lost keys, socks, or tie tugs at your quintessential maternal cords. The greatest temptation at this point is to turn down the heat and address the distraction. And voila! Your return is marked by hissing, seething insurgence of the neglected milk as it tumbles down the edges of the hapless steel vessel that had been holding the fort until now. The flame has been partially or fully extinguished. The pungent, tarry scars of neglect are evident on a modern flame-free countertop. 

The greatest lesson to the negligent milk boiler is the mandatory wait before the mess can be cleaned up. Until then, your failure will be evident to everyone.  And for you to wallow in misery for the rest of the day. It was not the milk that tumbled headlong into the flame but the matriarch's veneer of competence.

In conclusion, the act of boiling milk is sacred. It is an act that cannot be coupled with any other. Nor is it one for a woman who prides herself on multitasking.   As with all relationships, there comes a point where the vessel cannot contain the agitation without a conscious effort to turn off the heat.