Poets are mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.
G.K. Chesterton
 
Cheese and I go way back. Our 
shared history is fraught with cheese
topped casseroles, cheesecake, cheese
balls studded with nuts, porcupines
and an occasional embarrassing, “cut
the cheese” faux pas.
 
My father, a big cheese, read me a tale 
about the moon made of green cheese.
Still in my high chair, he handed me
a hunk of good cheddar he called rat
cheese. I banged my chubby fists on
the tray demanding more cheese.
 
A wheel of Swiss cheese arrived every
Christmas as routinely as figgy pudding.
With random holes the Swiss slices were
scary pale faces. I made a mask of cheese.
 
When the school photographer took annual 
photos, and ordered us, “Say cheese,” I worried
the gap between my two front teeth would be
obvious. Hoped my smile wasn’t too toothy,
as I mumbled, “Cheese.”
 
All cheeses please me; the gooey mess of 
a grilled cheese sandwich oozing mother 
love, homemade macaroni and cheese, rich
with warm dairy smoothness, buttery Brie, 
Parmesan melting into spaghetti, Gouda with
bright red waxy skin.
 
My palate embraces Ricotta, velvety smooth,
hidden like a Dali watch in savory lasagna, Bleu
cheese, unashamed to show visible veins, cream
cheese, so sensual, cottage cheese a sensible and 
versatile workhorse. 

On some busy days, I make sandwiches with
Kraft American cheese slices, an imposter, but 
perfectly pre-sliced. I make dip with Velveeta,
and even indulge in the ever shelf stable, Cheez 
Whiz. None of this compares with the indignity of
Wisconsin residents being known as “Cheeseheads,”
or wearing those wedge-shaped yellow foam hats.