A few weekends ago on a whim, I signed up for a cheese making class. I don’t know why it’s taken me over 35+ years to do so, because one thing is true. I revere cheese. Or should I say, cheese is my Kryptonite. It weakens me. Yes, chocolate is tempting, champagne and wine are equally desirable (and quite frankly necessities), but the reason I will never be a Size 2 can be summed up in one word. Cheese.
There are several things in life that go hand in hand. Hot dogs and baseball. Peas and carrots. Bert and Ernie. Bo and Luke. Around these parts, the two delectables that go hand in hand are wine and cheese. It’s just how I was raised.
I showed up a few minutes late at this ‘advanced’ artisan cheese making class, and they were doing that ‘icebreaker’ thing where they ask everyone to introduce themselves. Quickly, it became evident I was out of my league.
To my left was a distinguished Frenchman who’d been making cheese for a decade. To my right, a Dairy Queen who knew everything there was to know about butter, eggs, and dairy products. Then it was my turn to talk. I was the self proclaimed rookie in the room. All I could muster after a long awkward pause was this: “Well. I’ve never met a piece of cheese I didn’t like!” They laughed. I don’t think it was at my joke. It was at my ignorance.