When we were kids, condensed milk came in small round tins built like little tanks. We would open them with the can opener that Dad had fixed on to the wall and carefully peel back the last bit of the lid so it didn’t cut our fingers. Then we would deliver the opened can to Mom in the kitchen where she would turn out something incredible with it. We would hang around her, mewing like hungry alley cats scenting fish, until she turned over the empty can to us. Then we would very carefully scrape, spoon, lick and wipe clean every little scrap of the condensed milk that was to be had.
Now it also comes in these squeeze tube thingies, which unfortunately have none of the drama and appeal of the little circular war tanks. Neither do I care about licking off the last of it because I no longer live near Mom.