My inspiration for Spilled Milk comes from time I spent in rural Ireland as a city kid, totally clueless about herding sheep. Pulling into the train station, one could see several scattered murals painted on the sides of old brick buildings. Normally, one would call it graffiti, but it was too beautiful for that desgination. And I bring this up because hindsight reminds me this is how the world used to operate with paintbrushes delivering splashes of color hastily undercover, predawn, whereas now, a quick meme on social media now seems to suffice. I lived in a small cottage outside of town fronted by white beehives garlanded by a constant humming and thrumming. For electricity and hot water, I had to drop a punt and some change into a locked box, set a timer and hurry.

Not far up the road from my cottage stood a lone country general goods store run by another sheep farming family that maintained shelves of sultanas, biscuits, chocolates and colorful velvet ribbon sold be the meter. Inside the front window, the star attraction was a set of arm-deep glass jars filled with penny candy, including wax-paper wrapped toffees.

I brought my guitar with me on foot some 6 km/~4 miles on foot into town to a pub run by a Scotsman who encouraged me to play. So I did.

He asked what I’d like to drink, on the house, which caused the patrons to whip around in disbelief, “He’s never offered anyone a free drink on the house, not even on Robert Burns’ birthday”. (What was the drink?  His wife suggested I try a glass of honeyed Irish Mist.). Come 10:30 PM, I was urged to continue playing but upstairs to avoid the Garda when they came around to ensure curfew. And that’s how I landed an offer to perform at the local arts council as “the girl who’d managed to get an entire pub full of Irishmen to shut up on the weekend to listen to music they couldn’t sing along to.”  This was the description of me written out by hand for the arts council administrator on an unfolded piece of paper left at the front desk, accompanied by a rough portrait consisting of 2 circles drawn onto a blank face for my eyeglasses.

Snowcream Dairy was the second (an only other) place, apart from town, that had a phone box where I could feed a jangle of punts to call home, long distance.  If you haven’t tasted Irish dairy, it’s far creamier and sweeter than the American version because European dairy regulations insist on a higher butterfat ratio and utilizes a different process for pasteurization.  Interestingly, a 2001 study done at the University of Leicester has proven that music played to dairy cows increases their milk production.

Whether you use a dollop or a splash or choose to spill forth Spilled Milk, you’ll be able to enjoy its creamy, velvety splendor and sweetness.  Wear it while listening to your favorite music, and, who knows? Maybe you’ll feel calm, relaxed and (pardon the pun…) “moo”-tivated.