Well that was a much looser yogurt than I had signed up for. You know there is nothing better than a thick pot of greek yogurt, full fat or 2% fat if possible. I like a drip of honey on it, or a hand split overripe fig dragged into the creamy middle. I go to artisanal shops and get some artisanal dairy and the labels are pretty and classy enough, so I assume that the more rare it is, the more toothsome, the more sour, the more funky and rich it will be. Some days this is true, but not today. It’s thin as milk and lumpy like an unblended vichyssoise.
I discovered the Fage brand of greek yogurt – the undisputed winner, the kind that makes me weak in the knees, each time I slip the wax paper top off the creamy head of a new container – while living in new york with Princess Farhana. She made eating it look so refined and elegant and decadent, as she does with most things, and I had to copy her.
Back then I would take a large fuji apple and cut it into 16ths with a bad, dull knife. I would eat the apple shards and take a bite of yogurt and this was my communion and my sustenance and my apple yogurt life. At the end there might be a tiny spoonful of almond butter to punctuate the meal, to put a period onto its completion.
I try other brands of yogurt, thinking yes there must be one that is more strained, one that is higher in fat content, one that will hold the spoon up unaided in the middle of the pot, but there is none but Fage. My refrigerator is full of these dairy mistakes I have made and now I must go to the store again and face Fage facts.