(I haven’t blogged in a while, and I miss it. So here is this… about cheese… just because tonight feels like a cheesy night.)
I have a guilty secret.
It’s something I indulge in quietly, when no one is looking, in the soft glow of muted light and the gentle crackle of waxed cellophane. I hide this passion of mine from my Love. I haven’t told my children. My co-workers would be shocked to know of my habitual indulgence in this sensual delight.
The full wheel, not the fraction. No. Nor the quarter, nor the half, my cheesy friends.
The. Whole. Wheel.
Here is the evolution of my cringe-worthy hidden addiction:
My Love: “Why are we eating mould?”
He: “Mould. It tastes like mould. Was this expensive?”
Me: “Noooo… it’s… mould? Seriously? Do you not revel in the delicate smoothness of creamy delight on your palate? Do you not inhale the warm mist of fermented dairy product that makes young girls swoon and swarthy men become tumescent with…”
He: “Mould. It’s gross.”
As a fully liberated, and entirely liberated and like, uber-liberated woman I have no shame in admitting that I like to please my man. With cheese. It’s important, in every relationship, to find the right level of cheese. We agree on cheese and crackers, with homemade moose sausage. We agree on cheese on ratatouille, on lasagna, in scallop potatoes… I feel that we are compatibly, and consummately, and concupiscently cheesy with one another…
Until the Brie.
I have a wheel in the door of the fridge. I eat it raw. I slice off bits when I come home after school. I gnaw on hunks carved in passing in the dull light of the refrigerator door.
I worry my children might visit and eat it without asking. They have been known to eat entire plates of leftovers with their fingers, cold, hovering in the half-open fridge door like coyotes over a frozen carcass…
It’s hidden under the garlic, stuffed behind the tabasco and Worcestershire Sauce (which is pronounced Wuss-teh-shure, in case you were wondering) and it diminishes daily. Secretly.
Hail Mary, Hail Cheddar, Hail Brie with a dash of cranberry and a twist of lemon on a pita crisp warmed ever so slightly under the broiler…
I brush my teeth after, like a closet smoker hiding the tell-tale whiff of a crime committed…
I omit to include the appropriate point value on my Weight Watchers food tracking oppressive page of suffering and self-denial…
I do not tell my Love, when he asks what we should have for supper, that all I need is his furry marvelousness and a hunka-hunka melted Brie…
I wash down the ill-gotten cheesiness with a glass of red wine, desperate to expunge the stain of Brevibacterium linens from my soul…
I do not tell my children to help themselves to the wheel of Brie… “Oh, look,” I say, instead. “Here’s a plate of archaic meatloaf and some green tomato chow from 1995. Mmmmm. Yummy.”
And I live under the burden of guilt borne of my illicit passion.
Do you know what is simply awesome with a hunk of brie?
And apples are zero points on the Weight Watchers food tracking oppressive page of suffering and self-denial.
And no one needs to know the truth…