Le monde de fromage de Kate

By James Lileks

I’ve never understood why nations with great cheese don’t have better armies. Right now to my left I have a plate that contains six chunks of Stravecchoio Grana Padano, each wrapped in a gossamer-thin scarf of prosciutto. Any Italian worth his mettle would take one bite, contemplate the perfection this combination represents, and decide that his nation should – no, must muster the forces required to repulse anyone who would take such cheese from his countrymen. Cheese this fine would cause armies to cross the Alps to have it; surely they demand armies sufficient to protect it.
I mean, this is good cheese.
I met it for the first time Friday afternoon at the grocery store. One of the elderly demonstration ladies had set out some padano and prosciutto; I took a bite and swooned on the spot. I am not one of those epicures who will spend his ducats in search of a new sensation that will gladhand a few obscure tastebuds in the outlands of his tongue. I do not regard the variegated nature of the cheeseworld as a field I need to master. But this. This was sublimity. It was like meeting the mayor and the blacksmith at the same time – the taste was smooth and subtle, and simultaneously coarse and cheery. I had to have it. For the first time in my life, I had met a cheese I could not put off for later.

(Many thanks to my lovely friend, Grettir, for the “heads up.”)

An average man on an average day
excretes
two and a half quarts of sweat.

Not sodden enough for you? According to David A. Gershaw, Ph.D., “With people who are much more active, the heat and exertion can increase this output [output of sedentary person being a 'small amount of fluid' to 2 quarts per day] to 5-10 quarts.” Isn’t that how much fluid a car’s oil tank holds?
In case you were wondering, you can drink sweat.

Every Friday, at some point in my young life (1976-ish?), we would drag the TV upstairs from the family room (which had “pizza-vomit” carpet and a PLAID couch – that’s a story for another time), put it in the corner of the kitchen, and watch the Donny and Marie Show. This was utter bliss and rapture. I had the HUGEST crush on Donny Osmond. His purple socks, his perfect teeth, his “je ne sais quois” – he made my young heart throb. One of his myriad nephews, Aaron Osmond, was in my kindergarten class. All the Osmond nieces and nephews got to be on the Donnie and Marie Christmas special; Aaron had been on TELEVISION. He was FAMOUS. I was a painfully shy child, so I can’t imagine that I ever said that much to Aaron. Even so, he called me “Fishface.” Don’t ask me why; my family firmly maintains that I looked like Ramona Quimby as I was growing up.* But I didn’t look the least bit fishlike, so I was ambivalent about “Fishface.” Aaron Osmond (one of THE Osmonds) had chosen a nickname especially for me. Then again, it wasn’t so flattering.
Because of these formative experiences, I am now a largely dithering, conflicted person.
If only I’d won a lock of Donny’s hair.
*They even cut a picture of Ramona Quimby from one of those book club flyers and tormented me with it. I’ve seen more recent versions of the books and she’s much cuter now, believe me (they’ve especially improved her coiffure – I certainly could have used such hair improvement).

I didn’t fall down today (yet), but I do fall down on an alarmingly regular basis. I have a friend who says I am an “Edge Crasher.” Theoretically, this is a scientific term, but I can’t seem to find any evidence saying as much. One way or the other, it’s a nice way of saying “clumsy” and “gawky.”
When I was little, my family defined it as a “Kathryn” when people fell down (not just me). At some point I had friends who called me “Grace.” Mind you, I am selectively elegant and poised, especially when I’m performing. You can ask my husband. Hmm. That doesn’t sound good. I meant performing as in acting and singing. Then again, I’ve also biffed it in that venue one or two spectacular times. I’ve momentarily lost essential pieces of my costume (I can be thankful that my topless moment was when my back was to the audience), I tripped on a cord once, I tripped on the train of my dress another time – you get the picture.
So last week I fell down our wooden stairs. The week before that I tripped on my way into work and then fell in Kinko’s a few days later. On all of these occasions my hands were full and I could not catch myself. Also, I exclaimed in a rather loud and surprised voice. This didn’t help me go unnoticed, suffice it to say.
If I were a pirate, I’d have to be the dread pirate Achy BlueArse, the most feared pirate in all of…
the emergency room?

Arrrgh!
Sniff.

On My Black Scrunchie
A Haiku

My black scrunchie died.

Each hair cries, “Despair, ANGUISH!”

Catawampus strands.

“Never commit yourself to a cheese without having first examined it.” – T. S. Eliot.
I could live at the Juhl Haus Market & Deli (formerly the Cheese House which was formerly the Cheese HAUS – one must agree – “haus” is much better than “house” when it comes to cheese). They have a delightful selection of international items (teas, biscuits, chocolates, confections, fondue pots – even fairly obscure articles like vegemite). They make scrumdiddlyumptious sandwiches. They make simply divine lemon bars. BUT… More relative than this: the CHEESE’s the thing.
They have an mind-boggling selection of domestic and imported cheeses, everything from the rather staid cheddar, demure gouda and unadventurous havarti (a personal favorite, though), to a engaging ChÚvre imbued with Anise & Lavender, several flirtatious blues blended with fruit, and the piÚce de résistance, Fromager d’Affinois. This is a truly orgasmic triple-crÚme brie. I’ve never been an especially huge brie aficionado, but one taste of Fromager d’Affinois would make lactose-intolerant people want to commit hary-cary.
Moreover, as the Juhl Haus says, “Our impassioned cheesemongers are anxious to share their knowledge of cheeses with you as they suggest new ways of serving cheese, expose your palette to new tastes, and inspire your quest for the best in cheese.” No kidding – impassioned cheesemongers to “inspire your quest for the best in cheese.” I think I’ll embroider that on a sampler. And speaking of samplers, I do believe The Juhl Haus would feed you cheese tidbits all day: it’s DAIRY NIRVANA, I tell you! I only suggest you avoid the particular cheesemonger who thinks it’s hysterically funny to make everyone taste the “Bierkäse” (yes, that’s “Beer cheese”). Actually, I didn’t mind it, but I am, as you may know, an unabashed turophile. It made my husband want to heave.
RESEARCH NOTE: Gloom, bitterness and ANGUISH. It’s possible that Fromager d’Affinois is NOT a true triple-créme as I was told (and as one often reads), but a mere double créme. Please pardon me while I weep and lament over the shattered pieces of my erstwhile delusion. Then again – the horror – that means Fromager d’Affinois has only a 60% fat content as opposed the 70% of the “true” triple-créme.

A winkle is an edible sea snail.

Not to be confused with Mr. Winkle. He, unlike our sea snail friend, is harmless.
Winkle! Winkle!! WINKLE!!!!

The following is one of the tidbits from the “Fact of the Day” service. These nuggets of erudition arrive on my mobile phone each evening at 7:00 p.m. MST. I pay two cents every day for this privilege. Hold onto your seats:

An elementary rule of mushroom collecting is

never to place edible and poisonous specimens together.

I am rendered [practically] speechless. Would you have EVER thought of such a thing without having seen this “elementary rule of mushroom collecting?”
Thank you, Fact of the Day. Oh, the lives you’ll save.

Just so you know, in order to compensate for the vast, dire heap of twaddle that is my so-called existence, I have fancy pens on my desk (e.g. bejeweled, marabou-bedecked, some impaling wee furry animals – those are obscene in a cute kind of way – several furry AND bendable AND unusually long, one that talks…).
I have several of these, in fact.
And these.
OOOOOOH! I don’t have this…
But I don’t want this. It makes me sad.

I had cheese today. But it was still a wretched day. Sometimes cheese just isn’t enough.