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How I stopped being a normal person about cheese

I was a normal person. Relatively yes, anyway.

Every time someone wearing an apron asked, “Do you want cheese with that?” I would say things like “Of course” and “Obviously”. You know, normal stuff.

When that question arises now, well, I always say these things, but only after doing a milk calculation.

Back when I was a civilian, I walked into a local grocery store for a breakfast sandwich and drool on sweaty patches of Velveeta stacked in lactic ziggurats. My fridge was never without pepper jack, the most exotic cheese in my repertoire at the time, with Trader Joe’s burrata, its spongy center bursting into a gush like a McGriddles.

Cheese was my all-time food, a welcome guest at any meal, and something to mindlessly chew on for Chip bag. Whenever I saw a pristine party tray full of Colby’s cubes tossed from a toothpick, I greeted it as warmly as a friend. Maybe hotter.

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Cheese was the deciding factor that took veganism a refrigerator too far. Eggs, I could do without them if need be; cheese, absolutely not. It could only be stripped of my life, just like the internet, in the event of an indescribable global tragedy, perhaps one involving zombies.

And somehow it never occurred to me back then that I had only glimpsed a small corner of the larger sprawling cheese landscape through a keyhole. , maybe by squinting.

There were clues. Clues. Hansel blue cheese and Gretel-esque crumble marking a path not yet taken. One evening, I invited a few friends to a wine and cheese party like adults. I went to the nearest overpriced gentrification shack in Crown Heights and picked up five vacuum-sealed wedges – Gouda, Brie, Jarlsberg, and the extra sharp and garlic cheddar – pairing them with some rosemary and olive oil triscuits. (At that point, I was miles away from knowing that cheesemakers consider flavored crackers a Class A food crime.) After proudly posting this murderer’s row of curds on Instagram, we started to post it. devour. Five minutes later, I noticed a depressing comment that a bartender friend had left under the photo: “Basicass Cheese Plate”.

Basic? Didn’t he see that there was five cheeses?

The heckling stung. Who was that guy to tell me – an enthusiastic, inexhaustible cheese lover – that I was doing something wrong? And what missing cheese did he think would raise my board to the level of respectability? Was it Manchego? Rather than think any further, I let the offensive comment creep into my mind and returned to my basic cheese life.

#stopped #normal #person #cheese

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