The Metaphysics of Cheese

I have no idea if this is the place for this rant, but here goes.

Having gone for a run in lovely 24C weather, and feeling like I had thus earned a glass of grape "cordial" along with some cheese, I took out the last bit of St Albans and warmed it up in the microwave so it would be a bit easier for my ryvita crackers to deal with. What struck me was the stunning aroma, that thrice dead gym sock odour that accompanies all decently aged cheeses warmed to perfection. Instantly I was reminded of a rather embarrassing episode which occurred in my second year of college. Having met a young woman with whom I was very interested in sharing life altering experiences, I took her out to a very cheap dinner and then back to my college room for some wine and cheese and late night chat.

It was a winter night. My dorm room was cold, so I had earlier thought to turn on the ancient radiator in my room so as to make things more comfortable. What I had forgotten was that two pair of recently worn running socks were drying on that same radiator. When we entered the room, it was not only as balmy as a Saudi June afternoon, it also smelled as if I were a serious manufacturer of cheesy comestibles, mostly of the blue, roquefort, or seriously aged havarti type. She turned to me and said her favourite cheese was gouda.

My heart fell.

Gouda! Isn't that the sort of cheese that people who don't acutally like cheese eat? Or if not that, then extra mild chedder? The cheese that isn't cheese. The cheese that those same people who used to eat Elmer's glue in grade school preferred. The sort of people whose favourite sandwich is breast of turkey with mayonnaise on white bread, and a glass of milk. Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy breast of turkey and I even at times enjoy mayonnaise, but enjoying gouda may well be proof that the devil exists (Wal-mart and television notwithstanding)

Being a non-believer, it somewhat grieves me to say that we've been blessed with noses and a clear sense of smell, and to not put that to good use is to some extent a crime against existence itself. In support of Darwin, god bless him, our noses have evolved to what we have now because wisdom teaches us that the ability to smell powerful things is a form of higher development. This philosophy leads quite naturally to the conclusion that Gouda is the instrument of the devil and that the finest stinky cheeses may in fact be an argument for monotheism, or some sort of theim.

If there is a god, then she gave us noses so they may be well used; they are not meant to be insulted by things like non-aromic cheeses which lend themselves more to reminders of wall paper paste than to things worth experiencing more fully: smelly cheeses, for instance. Life, god or no god, is meant to be experienced, else why do we have the senses we do? But I begin to foam and rave, curdle, as it were.

Suffice to say, the aforementioned young woman and I went nowhere, much to my delayed delight. She probably found some Wonder Bread eating lover of mild cheddar while I have gone on to the joys of curried rice, garlic pasta, and St Alban's heavenly ordoriforous curds and whey. I speak both metaphorically and literally. Long may the finely sliced, well aged, smoked cheddar reign. Long may the bluers of cheese mould gloriously on.