The Sublime Profanity of Chocolate Milk
Why the school-lunch staple is this Vermonter’s shameless everyday drink
At the Christmas Eve Children’s Lovefeast at the Central Moravian Church in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, where I make my once-yearly cameo at a house of worship, they serve a “non-sacramental meal” of chocolate milk and cookies. It’s not exactly the Eucharist, but it binds us together as much as any ritual. As the choir breaks into “Good Christian Men, Rejoice,” the grand doors on either side of the altar swing open, and pairs of men and women in glorious white outfits come bearing trays of chocolate milk-filled mugs.
If I were to trace my deep appreciation for chocolate milk to its source, the Lovefeast at the Moravian Church may well be the primal scene. It’s exceedingly light, generally a strike against any high-quality chocolate milk. But then again, so is the service, for which I’m ever grateful. It’s the ritual-inspired nostalgia I like as much as the taste — we sing, commune, worship, and then drink, and suddenly I’m somewhere else.
It’s 1985, one of those endlessly accumulating summer days and I’m with my younger brother, Chris, and G…
