My dad believed malted milk was a magic elixir that could fix any problem. He was an Ovaltine guy and always kept a jar of the chalky brown granules in our kitchen.

Didn’t make the basketball team? Have a glass of Ovaltine.

You weren’t invited to the sleepover? Ovaltine.

Your best and only friend is moving to Texas? Drink up.

Sometimes he served it warm from a small pot on the stove. Other times, cold in an old jelly jar decorated with Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.

The clink of the stirring spoon against the sides of that jelly jar equaled love in my house.

The world’s slights eventually became more injurious and couldn’t be assuaged by chocolate milk. The humiliation of my high school boyfriend cheating on me and the sting of rejection from my first choice college still smarted even as I wiped off the milky moustache. But nevertheless, I drank the beverage balm my dad offered.

Toward the end of his life, when the cancer stole his taste buds and his appetite, Ovaltine was one of the few things he could get down. One afternoon, I put two heaping scoops into a tall glass of whole milk. I stirred slowly; each plink of the spoon a reminder of the countless glasses he’d made for me over the past 40 years.

I handed him the glass, making sure he had a good grip before I let go.

He brought the straw to his mouth, took a sip, and smiled.

In my kitchen, you can always find a jar of Ovaltine, next to the Cheerios. Sometimes after a particularly bad day or aching disappointment, I screw off the lid and inhale the cocoa-malty scent.

Julia Bruce lives in Connecticut with her husband, her two children, and
her one-eyed rescue dog. Her work has appeared in the New York Times’
Tiny Love Stories, Herstry, and the Potato Soup Journal.