the secret history of the mongols , passage 57 it was the fat time of year : the waterside meadows that pitch of green that screams at the eye ; the foals lusciously at suck , and pinched from their mothers teats , ayrag galore ayrag that buzzes on the tongue like a bee , caresses the throat like a kiss , floats in the belly like a wafted balloon frothy and fizzy , tart and sweet , churned , fermented , a sort of yoghurt-beer .