Milk. It was for me

One of the great blessings in my life has been whole milk. Cow’s milk—the real kind. The pasteurized, 3% fat version still sitting in grocery coolers, quietly minding its business while the nutrition police glare at it.

I’m here to defend it.

I know the debates. I’ve heard the lectures. But I also know this: I was the youngest of three brothers. Rusty was 6’5″. Michael was 6’4″. I was six years behind—and I was short. Not “late bloomer” short. Short short.

In the eighth grade, I was the shortest boy in the class. By ninth grade I had grown some, but not enough. Too short, too skinny, too weak to make the basketball team—unless they needed someone to carry towels.

So I made a decision. If I wasn’t going to grow naturally, I’d give nature a push.

I started drinking a gallon of whole milk a day. Every day. My dad, to his credit, didn’t argue—he just brought me my own gallon home each evening. No sharing. No rationing. I drank it straight from the jug like it was medicine.

At the same time, I built a picture in my head: me as the tallest brother. At the time, that idea bordered on delusion. But I stuck with it. Milk—and a little stubbornness.

To be fair, it wasn’t just milk. I ate like a farmhand. Meat, potatoes, pie—none of this sprouts-and-legumes nonsense. And it all got washed down with whole milk.

My dad warned me it would catch up with me at 40. He wasn’t wrong—just early. The bill came due eventually. It always does.

But here’s the part that sticks: I ended up 6’7″. I became the big brother. The same kid who couldn’t make the team was suddenly looking down on everybody.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But I’ve lived long enough to see the experts change their minds every ten years. Eggs are bad, then good. Fat will kill you, then sugar will. The food pyramid—pushed on us for decades—turns out to be, at best, misguided, or more likely a fraud.

Now we’re told what to eat again. Different voices. Same certainty.

I don’t pretend to have the grand answer to America’s diet problems. But I do know what worked for me.

Whole milk.

Kelly Burke was born in Knoxville where he spent his younger years, followed by high school years in Atlanta where he graduated from Georgia Tech, and Mercer Law School. He has been in private practice, a magistrate judge, and an elected district attorney. He writes about the law, politics, music, and Ireland. He and his wife enjoy gardening, playing with their Lagotto Ramanolo named George Harrison, and spending time with their grandchildren. To see this column or Kelly’s archives, visit www.kellyrburke.com. You can email Kelly at dakellyburke@gmail.com.