I was a follower of Krishna, the Buttery Blue One, long before I heard his name. Once my short arms could reach all the way to the butter compartment in the refrigerator door, my family would find little toothmarks, claw marks, in the resident cubes.

Neither underfed nor suffering from an eating disorder, I was simply helping myself to unbridled unctuous delight, found fortuitously close at hand. A step beyond wanting my bread buttered on both sides, this rogue partaking was an unabashed foray into pure sensation.

Krishna ran with butter in his hands, stuffed into his mouth, smeared on his face. No wonder the ardent gopis, those devotional female cowherds, couldn’t stay away from him. Num-num-num-num-num. Hot buttered pursuit.

Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit. Please.

Butter came out of Africa (like the rest of us). It’s surmised that 10,000 years ago some fortunate nomadic...

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