Alice Adams: Roses, Rhododendron

The other day, I broke from my own morning convention and fetched my AM coffee from a coffee chain whose name shall not be uttered on this page. It was quite likely the simplest order the coffee-servicer had fulfilled that day: a no-frills "medium coffee," with nothing even vaguely representing an "-ino" suffix, no "shot" of anything. And as I strugged at the -- what's it called -- the "fixin's counter?" -- to take a swig and scald my mouth so that I might make room for a dollup of milk, I heard the cashier ask the patron behind me in line: "Space Milk?"
SPACE MILK!?
Why had I not been offered Space Milk? What was Space Milk? Is it anything like what those fellas took straight-from-the-statue in A Clockwork Orange? Does it prevent against disease? Would it have prevented the suffering now endured by the nether regions of the topmost area of the inside of my mouth?
I'll probably never know what it is. I'll probably never know of its mouth-warming ambrosial effect. But I can have friends who are capable of writing songs that are somewhat peripherally related to Space Milkiness, and I can exploit all of this right here, just for you.