Kate battled late afternoon traffic in New Hampshire to work on her college essay with Diane at our house. They sat at the kitchen table and blended active verbs and colorful adjectives to create a compelling narrative while I struggled not to “Pollack” our kitchen creating Diane’s weekly smoothie.

As I listened to sentence juggling, I filled our old blender with fruit, flax seeds, and orange juice. Instead of Odwalla’s green potion, I added Bolthouse Farms vanilla chai tea with soy protein. Then I reached into the refrigerator and pulled out an old carton of pure soy milk. Maybe too much soy, I thought, and then I shook the container to make sure it was still fresh. We buy this stuff by the truck load, and that’s a good thing because once opened soy milk spoils quickly. It never smells bad, it just turns into one long clot.

Listening to the buzz at the table, and multitasking, I popped a pizza into the oven and then raised the soy milk to my mouth for a quick, freshness-confirming taste. One gulp and the sides of my mouth slammed together like a collapsing Big Dig tunnel. I pulled the carton away from my lips and stared down at the top. Surrounding the spout and waving up at me was a trim layer of mohair-like carpeting in three shades of hackle-raising green. I tried to spit out what was in my mouth, but like the Alien spawn, the spores had found a host and they wouldn’t let go.

I clutched my throat, fell over backwards behind the oven island and heard Diane say, “What are you up to now, weirdo?”