I wrote a story about cheese. I was originally going to make the main character a cantankerous Mature Isle of Mull Cheddar, but to show that I have no hard feelings towards those from south of the border, I made it a story about an English cheese.
This is part 2. Click here to read part 1 first… or it will make even less sense.
The Cheddar was a changed cheese. The indignity of having her sell-by date inspected in front of all the other stock had taken its toll and she sat, morose, on the Marked Down Cheeses shelf. Each morning she tried to rally, but soon her label lost its crispness, her rind lost its gleam and became dented after shopper after shopper dropped her carelessly back among the Monterey Jack wedges.
The Montereys wouldn’t even speak to her after the “melting” comment. Always had a mean streak, that one, the wedges said to one another.
“Perhaps the marbling process is to blame, “ suggested a sad, misshapen hunk of Brie.
“Such a grating personality,” quipped a nearby Asiago triangle.
But then, on Tuesday, it happened! The Cheddar hardly dared to breathe as she was inspected, price-checked and lugged to the till. As she jostled down Queen Street in a 100% cotton eco-tote, the Cheddar shed sweet milky tears of joy.
The Cheddar took stock of her new surroundings. She beamed at her new companions, a debonair Boursin and an erudite Wensleydale. Her heart thumped when the fridge door opened and she spied the cheeseboard, the chutneys, the knife waiting on the kitchen table. The Boursin was the first to go, followed by the Wensleydale. She heard their papers rustle and the satisfying, cold, wet crump as they nestled into place on the board. Then, finally, it was her turn. The fridge door opened. Light shone as the Cheddar was lifted off the enforced glass shelf. She closed her eyes as she soared, anticipating the grain of the antique pine cheeseboard, imagining the cool touch of the ivory handle of the knife, picturing the perfectly chosen condiments. All her days she had been preparing for this moment and here she was, firm, poised, ready to meet some quince jam. Oh, how she wished that haughty Aged Stilton and those bitchy Montereys could see her now.
The Cheddar felt herself fall through the air and land on the table with a jolt. She opened her eyes with a start. Where was the cheeseboard? Why was it so hot? Was this a… chopping board?
“How dare you!” she shrieked as she was cut into a few manageable lumps. Her last words, “But I’m a Somerset Sharp Cheddar…” were drowned by the sounds of bubbles as the Cheddar slowly melted into fondue.
Other random, weird things I’ve written recently:
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