The clear plastic pitcher of milk was suspiciously placed in the middle of the table. I sneak over to sniff it in case Mom actually switched to soy. After all, she’d hinted at some big compromise before going to the store. Maybe she’d given in. No. It smells like the regular old milk, produced by enslaved cows. So what was her surprise? Meat-free sausage like the lousy stuff she’d tried last Sunday brunch? Or engineered sterile eggs, that would be just fine except for having been genetically engineered?