Type: Semi-soft
Teat: ?
Trappings: Newcastle Brown Ale
Taste: Like victory
I’ve kind of had some shit going down lately. I know everyone has shit going down, if not lately than sometimes, because it’s kind of the nature of things. But I think I can safely classify this as out-of-the-ordinary, above-and-beyond shit, which unfortunately sounds a lot like an Activia commercial. Except that as I understand it, Activia is all about ensuring that whatever shit you have going on is, in fact, entirely ordinary.
None of which has anything to do with the fact that I’ve been battling a back/hip injury. The rest of my shit is just fine, thank you. But I’m not walking well, or sleeping well, or standing well, or sitting well, which is totally, totally fucking my shit up.
It’s hard to care about cheese when your shit is fucked up like that. Cheese is all about sensory celebration and reaching for the right adjective to describe it, and sharing something really tasty with people who also appreciate it, and figuring out what great stuff will make it taste even better, and bloomy rinds and milk fat. It is so not about ice packs and Vicodin. That’s a different blog.
Today hasn’t been much different than a lot of other days I’ve had lately. I swung my left leg around my office hallways with the swashbuckle-y limp I’ve developed, fidgeted through a presentation (that I was giving—co-workers, I hope you were in less pain than I, sorry for all the slides in that PPT), and then stuffed in some earplugs before being shunted into a tube. I regret that this was not, as one co-worker asked, because I was being shot out of a cannon, because I am pretty sure that’s more fun than an MRI. I’m pretty sure that’s more fun than most things, actually.
I digress. As usual.
Post-MRI and physical therapy (thanks, Potrero PT!), I made my way home. It takes me about 5 minutes to climb the flight of stairs to my front door these days, because I don’t have one of those chairs like the mean old lady in Gremlins.
As you can plainly tell, I’ve been a bit embittered by this whole thing. But today…I dunno. Today I felt…I felt kinda all right. So, I did what anyone would do: I called my parents, I pet my dogs, and I made a cheese plate.
So, I don’t know what these cheeses are. They were in my fridge, and they were clearly put there recently, so I decided to eat them. I’m going to guess that the one on the right is a sheep’s milk cheese, because of its buttery color and slightly grassy taste. The one on the left is, I’d guess, a cow’s milk cheese—slightly creamier than the other one, less toothy when I bit into it, and definitely milder in flavor.
I know that does not a thing to help anyone—including me—decide whether or not to buy and eat these cheeses. All I can tell you is that they tasted good and they made me happy.
Which to me is further proof that, as I have always suspected, cheese is the shit—and I mean that in a completely not-fucked-up way.
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