Wyn Drabble loves a bit of Greek yoghurt for breakfast. Photo / NZME
Wyn Drabble loves a bit of Greek yoghurt for breakfast. Photo / NZME
Today's breakfast is waiting at the other end of writing this column.
It's the carrot dangling at the end of the stick, if you like. It is also my topic for today. It's yoghurt (also spelled yogurt, yogourt , yoghourt or, by really bad spellers, yoggit).
More specifically, my carrot-breakfastis Greek yoghurt. That's a description that gets bandied about on a lot of yoghurt products but in most cases is really not applicable. Many are about as Greek as the pyramids.
According to my limited research, Greek yoghurt is the end result of straining off the liquid whey from non-Greek yoghurt.
The end product is denser than the original and has increased levels of protein and saturated fat. I'm willing to accept that without digging any deeper into the world of research.
My romantic association with yoghurt comes from the small Greek island of Antipaxos. The café on the edge of the tiny fishing port had a very limited menu but it did good coffee and sold yoghurt that dreams are made of. I breakfasted there every day of my stay.
It was, from memory, made from sheep milk and was thick and creamy and topped by a wrinkly skin a little like the one that, in my childhood, topped rice puddings.
This was to become my benchmark yoghurt and it is surely why so many New Zealand makers add the word Greek to their label. It's to lure us.
Yoghurt is produced by the bacterial fermentation of milk which sounds far from appealing. But in my university days, that didn't stop me trying to make my own.
In what was probably a perilously unhygienic flat already, the dangerously warmed milk would be left in a hot water cupboard overnight. There in the darkness, miraculous changes involving bacteria would occur. I'm sure that even the mice were impressed.
Looking back, the end result was not terribly pleasing – it shared some of the horrors of junket – but I was happy with my achievement. Besides, I had not yet tasted my benchmark.
There were some palatable yoghurts on the market in those days but, on a student budget, they were up there in the unaffordable bracket with things like home heating and warm clothing. But I do remember two favourite flavours which I don't see today: marmalade and lemon honey.
We interrupt this column for a handy yoghurt tip: you can rub yoghurt on to crepey skin and leave it overnight but, unfortunately, it won't do anything.
Turkish shepherds started turning milk into yoghurt about 3000 years ago probably as it gave them something to do during quiet times. It did not move west until much later and was apparently associated with the little story which follows.
Wyn Drabble.
In 1542, French king Francois 1 was suffering from what we might politely call gastrointestinal distress but French doctors could do nothing to help him. Suleiman the Magnificent, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, sent one of his own doctors to him with the magic cure, yoghurt.
Another source puts yoghurt's origins in India around 6000BCE so this firms my resolve to do no further research.
It's time for another handy yoghurt tip: spread yoghurt on your face as a natural exfoliant. Placing a thin slice of cucumber over each eye at the same time will go a long way towards making you look even sillier.
Well, must dash as I'm getting a little peckish. I'll stir a little honey through the yoghurt and then I will be transported back to the Ionian Sea. If there's any left over, I'll exfoliate.
The good news is that there won't be.
Don't cry over spilled milk. By this time tomorrow, it'll be free yoghurt. (Stephen Colbert)
Wyn Drabble is a teacher of English, a writer, musician and public speaker.
