I put a drinking glass on the table, grabbed the Pepsi out of the fridge and poured it into the cup at the halfway mark. I grabbed the milk out of the fridge and filled the remaining half of the cup, blending the cream with the bubbly soda. With a spoon, I mixed the concoction until it was light beige in color. My twelve-year-old self was very experimental.

Then I took a test sip.

Then I took another test sip.

Then my little brother walked into the kitchen, saw what I made and said, “Ewww! Mommy, look what she’s doing! Gross!”

I put my fist in the air and said, “It’ll be grosser when I mix milk with your face!”

What I said really made no sense, but because of my threatening manner, he knew there would be trouble.

His lips met his nose, he planted his hands on his hips and said, “Mooommmmyyy!” Then he ran out of the kitchen to snitch.

“Snitches get stitches!” I wanted to say, but instead shrugged and drank the rest of my new favorite drink: Soda Milk. My little brother was so wrong. Soda Milk was not gross, but I guess, in hindsight, it was… exotic.

After making that drink, I realized that I liked mixing food. I don’t hold myself fully responsible for this habit, however, because my mom was an enabler.

A few weeks after the Soda Milk discovery, I was sitting in the kitchen while my mom was cooking. I said, “Mommy, can you make me that egg thing that I like?”

“Oh yeah, of course,” she said.

She grabbed a mug and set it on the counter. She went into the fridge, pulled out an egg and cracked it open. She separated the yolk and plopped it into the mug. I handed her the sugar and she dumped spoonfuls into the mug. She mixed the concoction until it was a happy shade of bright yellow.

Then I took a big, grainy bite.

Then I took another big, grainy bite.

Then my little brother walked into the kitchen, saw what I was eating and said, “Ewww! Mommy, look what she’s eating!”

The consistency of the egg mixture was thick. I lifted a heaping portion out of the mug and aimed for his mouth. “Have a bite, it’s delicious,” I said.

“Gross! What is that anyway?” he asked.

“Mommy found Pikachu and put him in the blender,” I said. “He is surprisingly delicious.”

In hindsight, that was a terrible thing to say to a seven-year-old who was obsessed with Pokémon. However, at the time, I had never experienced such an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction when I saw the look of horror cross his pudgy little face.

Soda Milk, Egg Thing and multiple other recipes gathered over the years and carried into my adult life. I can’t be the only one who eats “odd” combinations, right? Wave that weird food flag high and threaten anyone who dares to tell us we’re gross, my fellow culinary adventurers!

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