An hour later I was washing down the last of some superb enchiladas with cold, sweet milk.

Roe Deer and her child, who would share sweet milk.

She poured them each a bit more of the hot sweet milk.

Better than fine, he thought, trying to recall when he'd last had a glass of cold, sweet milk.

The following night it doesn't freeze, just sweet milk at room temperature.

The air outside was hot, like milk straight from the udder, soft, sweet.

It is her milk, sweet and salty, that the herdsmen drink.

His childhood revolted, and rejected the sweet milk of our nature.

Vietnamese coffee with sweet milk and ice is great.

I seen new potatoes in butter and sweet milk.