Malted Milk Memories
Malted Milk Memories Gramps had a certain look in his eye as he methodically improved his McDonald's shake. He had a habit of turning simple questions into full-blown lessons. Ask him the time, and he'd probably explain how to build a clock. I could tell this was about to become one of those moments. My question opened a door to the past, where memories seemed neatly stored like books on a library shelf. His big Horlicks can looked perfectly at home among blue mason jars on rough-hewn wooden shelves, beneath rusty hand tools hanging from knotty pine walls—the kind of scene you might expect to find at Cracker Barrel . I always liked places like that. They felt less like restaurants and more like a shared living room, where nobody was in a hurry. Neither was Gramps. I just hoped I wouldn’t be late for soccer practice. “Because, Sonny, before there were milkshakes, there was malt. And before malt was in milkshakes, it was in a drink called Horlicks. I like a ‘real’ ...