Cheese Stress
My relationship with cheese spans 30 tumultuous years. Its presence in my fridge is a source of stress one day, yet a source of relief the next. It has been my console at pity parties and my reward at celebrations; it is my Achilles heel of food yet my savior in cooking, and if there were one food I could have a love affair with, it would be cheese. So I did – until one desperate night when everything came to a crashing, grinding halt.
In the beginning, my metabolism was high, and our love affair flourished. It whisked me to destinations I’d never dreamed of, romancing me in the most idyllic of settings. I have swooned over hunks of nutty Parmigiano Reggiano amidst Italy’s vineyard-covered hills. I have closed my eyes and let the flavor of rich, powerful blue Stilton melt in my mouth in quaint English villages. I have feasted in Paris on nothing more than a round of soft, creamy Brie and a crunchy baguette, and I have spent indescribable lunch times in Greek tavernas savoring garden-fresh salads overflowing with chunks of feta. It was a culinary honeymoon neither my waistline nor cholesterol could handle, and its days were numbered.
The night we broke up still shocks me. There was no sexy cheese in the house so I never saw it coming, but in the end all it took was a packet of plastic-wrapped, chemical-laden, American processed, cheddar cheese slices.
It was the night before an important exam, and I was having trouble studying. I could not find my focus in the pages of my book so I looked in the fridge instead – there it was. If the exterior wrapper had not already been opened, things may have been different. Its contents sat waiting; the snack required minimal effort, and I was bored. Seven of the 16 slices were already gone. I could account for five – two in the sandwich I made the day before, and three I ate while making said sandwich – someone must have stolen the other two.
Growing up, processed cheese slices were considered an expensive convenience to be anticipated, savored, enjoyed and protected. We called it “plastic cheese” because of the wrapper. There were eight of us in our family and eight slices in a packet; consequently, sneaking an illegal slice meant pistols at dawn. Like a banana or an ear of corn, everybody has their own way of eating a slice of plastic cheese. My sister always kept hers flat and nibbled it slowly from the corner in, claiming it lasted longer. She is almost 50 now and still starts at the corner and works in. I like to fold mine like a blanket, bending one third into the middle, and then bringing the other on top. This creates one narrow strip three times as thick, all the better to bite into. To this day, I am unable to open up a packet of plastic cheese without taking one slice (yeah right!), folding it over, and savoring it in its purest form straight from the wrapper.
The fridge light lit up the dark kitchen. I reached in and unwrapped a slice while searching for something to eat. Nothing grabbed me so I took another slice and went back to my studies. Seven remained. There was no trash can by the desk so I returned to the kitchen to throw away the sticky wrapper. As I passed the fridge, I grabbed two more slices. Five remained. I ploughed through two more chapters then leaned back in my chair stretching my arms high above my head. My body felt stiff so I strolled into the kitchen to stretch my legs; two more wrappers got added to the growing pile. There were three left. I urged myself to be strong, but their presence was exhausting and their distraction agonizing. I berated myself for being so weak before caving in to the pressure. I cussed angrily, marched to the fridge, grabbed the now almost-empty packet, methodically sat, folded, and ate each one, and with no cheese remaining to distract me from my studies, I knocked out the last chapter in 10 minutes. Voila!
The next day, my husband went to the fridge to make his grilled cheese sandwich.
“What happened to all the plastic cheese?” he complained.
All of a sudden, childhood flashbacks of the consequences of being caught stealing another family member’s slice, consumed me. I was the eight-year old caught with my hand in the cheesy jar, and I panicked.
“I don’t know,” I blurted out.
It was then I knew it had to end – I was a grown adult lying to my husband about plastic cheese. My love had become the enemy to which the nugget of wisdom “everything in moderation” did not apply; for me, it was all or nothing. Guilt and shame engulfed me as I suggested last-night’s leftovers to my husband while uttering my confession.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I knew it was time to instigate the 12-slice program. Fortunately, I had eaten all the cheese in the house anyway, so the timing was perfect. The house was now cheese-less so I was already on step two – getting my husband’s support. He agreed to get his cheese “fix” when eating out so I would not have to keep any in the house. As for me, I granted myself “visitation rights” once a week in the form of the Olive Garden’s lasagna.
That was 15 years ago, and my craving and weight is now healthy and balanced. I do indulge, though, in a major cheese fling once a year on Christmas Eve. I research and shop to create the masterpiece of cheese boards, abundant with a selection of wines, crackers, baguette, and grapes. Yet, lying alongside the world’s finest cheeses, flirts my real desire – two unwrapped slices of plastic processed Cheddar.
I am older and wiser but I know one thing for sure: True love never dies.