It was a beautiful Saturday at the farmer’s market in Madison, Wisconsin. The Capitol building loomed tall, surrounded by booths offering an endless selection of baked goods, fruit, vegetables, honey, crafts, and flowers. Steve and I slowly strolled through the market, soaking in the various scents and sights.
A man selling cheese beckoned us to his stall. On a table there was a row of labeled containers, each filled to the brim with small samples of “5-Year Aged Cheddar,” and “10-Year Aged Cheddar.” I looked at the prices, and whispered to Steve, “Seriously? How good can this cheese be?” The vendor seemed to sense my cynicism, because he launched into a lecture on the process of producing such quality of cheese. As he talked, he handed us a bit of the 10-year aged stuff. I popped it into my mouth. It was salty and earthy and sharp. “Holy crap,” I said. I knew I was experiencing one of those unforgettable food moments. All the other cheeses I had tasted prior to this were mere counterfeits. This was truly real cheese as it was meant to be. We spent the rest of the morning sampling some of the best cheese of our lives.
Forgive me for my unbelief, Wisconsin cheese man. Thanks for converting me. I’m a believer.
A man selling cheese beckoned us to his stall. On a table there was a row of labeled containers, each filled to the brim with small samples of “5-Year Aged Cheddar,” and “10-Year Aged Cheddar.” I looked at the prices, and whispered to Steve, “Seriously? How good can this cheese be?” The vendor seemed to sense my cynicism, because he launched into a lecture on the process of producing such quality of cheese. As he talked, he handed us a bit of the 10-year aged stuff. I popped it into my mouth. It was salty and earthy and sharp. “Holy crap,” I said. I knew I was experiencing one of those unforgettable food moments. All the other cheeses I had tasted prior to this were mere counterfeits. This was truly real cheese as it was meant to be. We spent the rest of the morning sampling some of the best cheese of our lives.
Forgive me for my unbelief, Wisconsin cheese man. Thanks for converting me. I’m a believer.
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