I’ve written before about a cheese, a particular cheese, its addictive properties, and the angry Italian dwarf who guards this cheese and will only sell it at his leisure.
The angry Italian grocer has very specific targets for his wrath -- just me and a couple of other innocents. For example, recently he waved his knife and yelled at a mortified young woman when she didn't ring in with the right answer on, "I aska you, Provolone, you wanna strong, medium, or mild!"
"For god's sake," I hissed at her. "Tell him strong, quick, before it's too late."
He hated me from the very first; that would be about 5,000 days ago. He took such an instant dislike to me, it was almost primal. In fact, in retrospect, I guess, kind of flattering.
But back to the cheese, this one cheese he sells. It’s crack cheese. He can keep all the other stuff in his store -- the wilted lettuce, curdling olive oil, and highly suspect Napoli Pickle Surprise. But the cheese, for the cheese, I'll endure almost any humiliation.
“I gotta fifteen sandwiches to make, so you gotta wait,” for example.
I used to stalk out of the store, here, at this point in the script. But I knew I'd be back; he knew I'd be back; I knew that he knew, etc. So why be coy?
But now there’s a new wrinkle.
Lately it appears, I’ve developed an allergy to this cheese. Hours after eating it, my face breaks out and my eyes get red and puffy, and I sneeze uncontrollably. At first I placed the blame on a long hike or too much sun. But after some clinical trials, I determined these were, undeniably, cheese-related symptoms.
Which makes my cheese orgy, practiced in the privacy of my own home, a little disturbing. But what are you gonna do?
I can stop any time, of course, but at this stage I classify the symptoms as uncomfortable, mild to medium, but not dangerous. Of course, if I start gasping for air or passing out, then we'll have to see about cutting back a little. Probably. Let's hope it doesn't come to that.