A Love Letter to Cheese
Never in my life have I loved a food the way that I love you.
What's that? You aren't worthy of such admiration? But yes, my pungent nugget, yes you are! If only you knew the affect you have on me.
When you are blue, your veins -- almost varicose in pattern -- are beautiful to me, allowing me to forget that within them runs threads of mold. And in tasting your creamy, yet crumbly goodness, I'm reminded of all the ways I love you -- blended with butter atop my steak, mashed into a cloud of potatoes. You are my sole reason for ever ordering buffalo wings.
When you are sharp, I savor each small cheddary slice atop a cracker, or even plain. I long for the apple pie that beholds studs of your flavor within its crust; and I dismiss naysayers who question the combination, preferring to believe such people don't exist, don't matter and just don't understand you the way I do.
Even when you have holes, I don't see what isn't there -- I see what is... a nutty, mellow Swiss treat, made only more charming by its imperfect shape. And besides, with gentle melting and a kiss of kirsch, I can nestle you gently in a fondue pot.
When you are a creamy brie wearing your best white coat of chalky rind... when you are bold and tangy logs made from goat's milk... when you are a wedge of parmesan grated over hot pasta... when you are a salty feta nestled among stuffed grape leaves... when you are shaped into tiny white balls and soaked in brine... I love you still.
Even when you are processed down, dyed yellow, sliced and wrapped individually in plastic sheets; I love you still. Like how my husband loves me even if I leave my shoes strewn about the house, put on too much self-tanner, or wear clothes that do not match: the very best of you makes me forget all about the worst of you, and I cease to remember that you are anything but perfect, always.
Oh, Cheese, why is it that you don't love me back?