Why Are There 42 Types of Bagged Milk and NONE That Open Properly?!

📝 By Linda Furiously – Mississauga, Ontario

Okay. Listen. I’ve stayed quiet long enough. I’ve tolerated a lot as a Canadian: snowstorms in April, potholes you could rent out on Airbnb, and yes, even that one neighbour who won’t stop grilling at 8 a.m. in February. But now—now—we need to have a serious conversation about bagged milk.

Because I’ve just come back from the grocery store, where I was faced with no fewer than 42 varieties of bagged milk—2%, 1%, skim, ultra-filtered, grass-fed, lactose-free, lactose-added (??), oat-infused, vitamin D enhanced, vitamin D removed, locally sourced, Ontario-only, “Quebec-style,” and one bag that just said “Smooth Flow.”

And guess what?

NONE. OF. THEM. OPEN. PROPERLY.

Is This a National Endurance Test?

I don’t know who designed these bags, but they clearly hate people. And dairy. And joy.

You try to cut the corner neatly? Too small—nothing comes out. Try again, a bit bigger? Suddenly you’ve got a firehose of milk launching itself out of the bag like it’s trying to escape the country. One time I cut the corner too well and the milk didn’t pour—it folded over itself, like some kind of dairy-based slinky.

And don’t even get me started on those times when the cut is perfect… and then the plastic bag separates inside the pitcher, turning it into a lactose crime scene.

I have never, in my entire life, poured milk from a bag without experiencing a small existential crisis.

Oh, You Think You’re Smarter Than the Bag? Cute.

Every Canadian has that one friend who claims they’ve “figured it out.”
“Oh, you have to snip it at a 45-degree angle!”
“Use sharp scissors!”
“Cut it with love and respect for the cow!”

No. No you don’t.

I’ve tried every angle known to Pythagoras. I’ve used surgical-grade kitchen scissors. I’ve begged the milk for mercy. It still either dribbles out like it’s shy or explodes into my cereal like it just saw a ghost.

Who Approved This System? Who Hurt You?

Somewhere, in a dimly lit back office in 1970s Ontario, a group of engineers said, “Yes. Let’s put a liquid in a floppy sack and pretend it’s the future.”

And then everyone else just went, “Cool, let’s build society around it.”

And now we’re here. In 2025. Still snipping corners off dairy balloons like we’re prepping for a low-budget science experiment.

Every time I open one, I feel like I should be wearing goggles and yelling “CLEAR!” like I’m about to defibrillate a cow.

And Let’s Talk About the Pitcher

Oh right, the milk pitcher. That one specific plastic vessel that you can only buy at select stores, in exactly one size, and if it cracks, you’re done. You’re pouring milk into your soup pot or a recycled margarine tub like some unhinged frontier person.

Heaven forbid you visit another province where they use cartons and suddenly you’re the one bringing weird soft triangles of fluid to the Airbnb.

The Worst Part? I’ll Still Buy It.

Yes, I’ll complain. Yes, I’ll sigh dramatically every time I open one. Yes, I’ve said “I’m switching to cartons” 17 times this year. But I’ll be back. Why?

Because it’s $1.37 cheaper than the jug and I’m a Canadian with a mortgage and four Tim Hortons reward cards. This is who we are now. This is our heritage.

Conclusion: We Deserve Better. But We’ll Take What We Can Get.

Bagged milk is a metaphor for Canada: confusing, slightly chaotic, mostly polite, and leaks everywhere if you’re not careful.

But until the day comes when someone invents a bag that opens cleanly, I will continue to stand at my kitchen counter, silently weeping into my pitcher, wondering if this is what Sir John A. Macdonald had in mind.

And if anyone invents a no-drip milk bag cutter, I’ll take three. In exchange, I offer my eternal gratitude and half a Boston Cream