A long time ago, people didn’t have grocery stores. They had to hunt for their food outside. It was messy and sweaty, but the people didn’t have a choice. If you wanted to eat, you had to take down a boar.
One day, a woman got tired of running and sat down. She wondered if there was a better way and spotted a field of grains in the distance. It occurred to her that plants didn’t put up much of a fight. You could just pluck a plant and go. Hence, bread was born.
The people rejoiced. They forced the woman into a hut to make bread. No one had to spend every single day running after a wild boar that refused to cooperate with the slaughter. The villagers could harvest grain from a field that didn’t run, pound it into flour, and make the woman bake the bread. Times were good.
Centuries of bread eating passed. And after a while, the bread got old. Don’t get me wrong. People were grateful that they didn’t have to run after their food every single day anymore. But after a few days, the bread got a little dry. And sometimes, the people wanted something with a little more pizzaz than just bread and boar.
On another random day, a villager was running from a bear in the woods. This person, known as the Milker, was responsible for milking the local cows or oxen or whatever uddered creature they had in the fields back then. Not wanting to sacrifice a single drop of freshly expressed milk, the Milker fashioned a small lid with a handle out of animal bones lying on the ground.
Suddenly, the Milker heard a noise coming from the woods. It sounded like a bear, so the Milker covered the milk jug, strapped it to his chest, and took off. In his haste, he didn’t notice that the lid was upside down. The jug was sealed tight, but the milk swirled around the handle.
The Milker ran as fast as he could, because bears are fast. The milk sloshed around in the jug, never spilling but repeatedly hitting the handle. The Milker was too self-absorbed to notice what was happening to the milk. All he could think of was escaping the claws of an angry bear.
The bear, which was really a raccoon, eventually left the Milker alone. When the Milker reached the village, the milk was still. Sweaty and breathless, but still curious, the Milker sank to the ground and pried open the jar. To his amazement, the milk was solid.
The villagers wanted to stone the Milker for ruining the milk, but a wise old person suggested that the punishment for the Milker’s stupidity was eating whatever was in that jug. They dragged the Milker to the town square, and force fed him chunks of dry bread slathered with whatever evil was in the jug. To their dismay, the Milker didn’t die from it. He actually appeared to enjoy it.
A little girl wanted to try it, so because she was useless, they let her try it too. One by one, each villager sampled what was in the jug. It was amazing. They unstrapped the Milker from the flogging pole and told him that he would make more if he knew what was good for him. So, he left the village to find the raccoon and recreate the process.
Hence, butter was born. And from that day forward, the people ate their dry, stale bread with butter.