Rosemilk-rosemilk-rosemilk.
The words came, with a sudden forcefulness, as I lay soaking in a sunken pre-war bathtub filled with mineral water.
I don’t live far from the Roosevelt Baths in Saratoga Springs, and ‘take the cure’ whenever I can. This was my second visit in less than a week since a stubborn cold had progressed to a weeks-long ear infection. Feeling lethargic and a bit discouraged, I knew a mineral bath would shift the needle, even if just a bit. In addition to self-care measures, I’m a believer that just about any ailment can be traced to a psycho-spiritual root – also known as a cloying emotional imprint that’s begging for a little air. My lingering ear infection had been impervious to two different barrages of potent antibiotics and my patience was dissipating.
What am I purging with this infection? What do I need to heal? More to the point, what do I need to feel?
I bobbed placidly in the mineral water’s murky depths and felt my throat tighten – still my default response to punch back tears. A random thought was suddenly on the radar: my status (along with legions of others) as one of the infants of the 60’s and 70’s, swindled out of basic and inherent nutrition. Both infants and mothers of the era were caught in the devious crosshairs of the dairy lobby, whose profiteering mission was aided by the American Medical Association, which reportedly approved evaporated milk as the baby formula of choice for the masses because it was ‘safer and more effective’ than breast milk. Never mind that invaluable antibodies and nutrients were being omitted – canned, short-sighted convenience was where it was at back then.
Consequently, my three siblings and I were routinely plagued with ear infections throughout our childhood years. They were painful recurrences in more ways than one. All we could do when afflicted was lay on one side, grimacing as the mandatory medicated eardrops (heated in a double-boiler on the stove) trickled towards the red and swollen eardrum. Later, we’d mitigate the pain with the companionship of an electric heating pad, pressed protectively against the side of our head. This went on for days until the infection would mercifully and mysteriously evaporate. But there was always a next time and we lived in dread of it. Would things have been different without corporate interference? My guess is, probably, but we’ll never know.
Historical trends show that our culture began looking askance at breastfeeding (considering it ‘uncultured and low-class,’) at the turn of the 20th century. By the time the 50’s and 60’s rolled around, the act of breastfeeding (in public or private) was unthinkable. I remember vividly, as a high school junior in 1981, watching Good Morning America in astonishment as a group of radical young moms declared their determination in taking back their right to breastfeed. Looking back, I’m astonished at the women’s courage in being at the vanguard of redefining a perfectly natural practice and eradicating labels such as ‘savage’ and ‘disgusting.’ While the more convenient and sanitized practices of the 60’s and 70’s may have made society feel more at ease, there were millions of babies deprived, at a crucial stage, of irreplaceable nutrition, as well as Madonna-child bonding the way nature intends it.
Couple that with having a mother who possessed an aversion to affection but was perversely gifted with a bent for criticism, and it adds up to a pretty discernible Mother Wound – a term now categorized as an actual psychological phenomenon, and why not? Who on this earth has the power to affect us more deeply? Psychology Today describes the Mother Wound as ‘rooted in a loss or lack of mothering.’ Often handed down through generations, it can and does have a direct bearing on self-worth. Not a new topic for me – I’ve been hard at work on healing it for years, and while I’ve made tremendous progress since the age of 20, life has ways of handing you remnants of unfinished business – even in the unlikely setting of a mineral bath.
I sat with the emotional ache a bit more, gazing at the soft glow of the flickering candle at the edge of the bathtub. Abruptly, my thought-train took a hard left and was speeding towards a vision of ice cream. Not all that unusual given it was hot, humid July afternoon, but the image of a dish of soft vanilla, ceremoniously crowned with a swirl of aerosol whipped cream wouldn’t budge. The billowy purity of it called to me. Even though I knew how wonderful it would taste, I’m not usually seized by ice cream cravings, so I gently inquired why I might be suddenly having one. I assessed both the desire as well as my deep-dwelling needs which lay beneath it. All too often, my bursts of insistence for a particular food translate to an unmet need. Without judgment, I did a quick survey and relaxed into the truth: Undoubtedly, the ice cream would taste good, but would it fulfill what I needed? And with a little kind-hearted exploration, I realized my actual needs were emotional comfort, empathy, plus a little something that tasted good, which is about when I got the rosemilk bulletin. Satisfied, I settled back into water, knowing my cupboard was already stocked with organic rose petals and hemp milk.
Petals, gently steeping
An hour later, I was at the stove, alchemizing the ingredients. I’m long over the siren call of toxic convenience foods and instant gratification, and was happy to engage in the process of steeping a quart of warming hemp milk with a heaping cup of dried rose petals. Stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon I avoided a boil, which would burn the milk and damage the delicate oils of the rose petals. When the milk became a pale pink, I shut the heat off, covered the pot and let it all steep for 30 minutes. The incremental straining of the petals was labor-intensive and involved scooping out small handfuls of soggy petals and squeezing the liquid out over a mesh sieve them until all the milk was wrung out.
The milk was reheated to just above warm, then I whisked in some cacao and frothed it all in the Vitamix. The result was astonishing. I’d never tasted anything quite like it: potent and delicate at the same time. The flavor combination was otherworldly, but it was the feeling it left me with that I’ll remember the most.
The rosemilk brought the grounding and comfort I was seeking, along with an unexpected revelation: If not for the mandated diet of bottle formula, my mother never would have begun watching Days of Our Lives. But alas, it coincided with my 2 p.m. bottle-feeding. My mother became enraptured with the soap opera and it’s drama-infused storylines and so did I – as soon as I was old enough to follow the storylines. Days of Our Lives proved to be a longstanding bonding agent in our sometimes-tumultuous relationship which we otherwise never would have had…always a silver lining.
It’s said that roses are a wonderful agent for heart-opening, and so is cacao. It’s also heartening to know both are high in phytonutrients and antioxidants…in other words, no risk of elevated inflammation or an energy crash.
Creamy consolation…made with Love
The combination of rose petals plus cacao in a creamy base of a nutritious milk not in existence in the 60’s made it the healing agent that ice cream never could be. Not that I’ll never eat ice cream again – far from it. But it wasn’t what I needed that day. I finished my mug of rosemilk, and even though I wasn’t out of the woods with the ear infection, crawled into bed and slept like a baby that night.
