Cheese on toast

Haddaway once asked us, "What is love?"

When he first asked this question of me, I was perhaps 14 years old. Back then, I loved my Amiga and the thought that one day we'd have jet packs or at least skate boards like in Back to The Future. I now know, this is not what he was asking.

As we all steadily trundle towards oblivion, I'm sure this question forms itself in all of our minds sooner or later. Perhaps when our thoughts have been possessed by lovers, or friends, or beautiful strangers.. Though our seemingly infinite universe with it's many wonders and questions (some of which even Brian Cox cannot answer) is slowly unravelling it's secrets to humanity, parts of our own basic nature are still a bit of a mystery.

What place in our universe of laws for love? Sure I love cheese, but do I love cheese? I don't lie awake at night worrying about cheese, or where it is, if it's happy, or who it is with and what they are doing. Well, I did once, but I broke the golden rule of fondue. (It was doing something really wrong in my stomach and seemed uncertain which end it wanted to leave from. I was really quite concerned) But I suppose it's out there, getting eaten. Possibly, hopefully, grilled onto a delicious pizza.

I suppose the scientist in me might say love is natures way of making us hang around other people and make sure they don't get eaten by something much bigger than us with sharp teeth. Or when they are hungry going off and finding something much smaller than us that we can take in a fight if we have a board with a nail in it. Survival, right? So we need love to survive, but ultimately, it could get us killed. Which brings me neatly onto the subject of cheese on toast.

I come home late. My beer scooter ran out of juice some 2 miles down the road and I had to walk the rest of the way. As I enter the front door, I hear thunder crack the sky and moments later the rain cascades down, relentlessly washing away the fug of the outside world. I can scarcely focus. I've had a lot of gin. And cider. And beer. And probably a jagerbomb or two that I'll remember about in the morning. Things could get ugly any moment. The only thing keeping me on my feet is a single overwhelming desire.

My heart beats faster as I enter the room. I open the door unceremoniously. I have come for one thing and I am going to get it. And there it is. A glorious, beautiful truckle of delicious tangy cheddar cheese. I am definitely in love. This truckle is my love, my light tonight. Four slices of cheese on toast I make that night. That's right, FOUR. When I examined the situation in the morning, looked like about 200g of cheese was missing. That's a lot of cheese. Truly delicious it was too.

To cut to the chase though - no dreams. It was all for nawt. My carefully planned experiment yielded no results. Shame really but that's life for you.

So what is love? Did we get to the bottom of that? I don't know. But this is nice:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbGwfasivNQ

I have to give cheese on toast a lowly:

1/10


Well it did taste damn good!

Cambozola (blue brie)

Smooth. Very smooth. Not very strong of flavour. It's like a ladies brie I would say.

So I was looking at the previously mentioned cheese quotes (some classic stuff here) and I noticed this quote:

“Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” 
― G.K. Chesterton, Alarms and Discursions

Well. Have they indeed? It just so happens that I am a poet and I think I will now be addressing Mr Gilbert Chestertons concerns on the matter:

Dappled sunlight strokes my face, my eyes
The rustle of leaves caresses my ears
A wind breathes softly like a lovers sigh

I long to touch your soft skin,
For your taste upon my lips
To feel your comfort deep within

I miss your smell,
And to see you glisten in the sunlight
But alas, I have no cheese

See now that only took me 2 minutes too. Work of art. I call it: "Picnic without any cheese is bloody down right disappointing"

So last night I dreamt that the Scottish were out to get us all. Quite simply it was a cull, if you were not Scottish, you were a goner.

"Eh, arrr yoo Scott-ish?"
"Err... Ay?"
"Okey dokey then!"


Phew! Avoided certain death there.. But something has to be done! If only I knew where my sword was.. It's not in the house, of that I'm sure. "But it is in the house!" she says. I take a moment to regard that face I know so well. I don't trust her.. The sword must be outside somewhere. Fearfully, I venture into the street. She tries to stop me but I ignore her tiresome bleating. To hell with you foul succubus! Outside it is quiet, overcast and cool and barely a soul in site. I walk on, eyes darting for the tell tale sign of a bloody thirsty Scot.. And then I see one, wild ginger hair, bagpipes kilt and all.

Blast it, where did I leave that sword?? It's not that woman's leg... (..? I have no idea but it made some kind of sense as I dreamt it.)

This makes no sense to me now whatsoever but a good effort by Cambozola:

9/10

Blue Shropshire

"If only women were like cheese, I'd consume a really delicious one whole and die happy!"


I'm not sure who said that, (me possibly, I just googled it and it came up with STD symptoms and this quote that I quite like - "A meal without some cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye") but it's odd how the things we love we want to consume. Not necessarily by ingesting it, obviously, I've never met a woman I ever wanted to eat but I guess if I ever feel that way about someone I'll know I've met The One.


So anyway, Blue Shropshire. It's an interesting golden colour with really strong blue veins running through it. No messing about with this one, I just stuck it on some Ryvita and knocked that sucker back. It's quite creamy with a lingering tasty fizz on the tongue.

Sometimes when I'm eating cheese, or in fact wandering about or doing anything at all really, I think to myself how the world is full of very odd people. I meet them everyday. Some of them think I'm odd, and they tell me so, or I can see by the way their beady eyes narrow as I stand there talking about my favourite things or offering my opinions about the threads of life that weave themselves around us like some ill fitting Christmas jumper from your aunt that you're not too comfortable with and has a ghastly motif. But I like these odd people, and as I sit here listening to Madonna (what?) I realise I'd be terribly bored without them.

Anyway, the cheese was entirely ineffective. Schaden.

I guess that means...

0/10