|Chronicles of Cheese: I've Gone Crazy|
|January 11, 2006|
It was a really long day.
This very sweet couple comes up to the counter and the woman says softly, "We'd like you to recommend some nice cheese to watch the birds." I automatically grab ahold of some very buttery Morbier, but as they taste it, I start to wonder, "Why? What are the birds doing that needs to be watched?" and immediately after that, "Wait, what birds?" and "Why cheese and birds? Does she mean Hitchcock?" They took the Morbier I wrapped for them and I never got my answer because I was too scared to ask.
Next up, a group of middle-aged men walk in and one of them bellows, "Do you have Jaarlsburg?" We don't. "What about Provolone?" Sorry, not that either. "Well, what kind of Italian place is this?!" Basically, I'm standing there firmly on my own two hands going quietly out of my mind because I'm thinking, "The kind of Italian place that's...not?" And then I realize that I'm just staring wordlessly at this guy who gleefully thinks he's insulted us for being an understocked Italian place, and there are just so many thoughts running through my head...like the fact that Jaarlsburg isn't even an Italian cheese?...And Provolone is sold down the hall?...And why is he going on about us calling ourselves an Italian place? DO we call ourselves an Italian place? I've never heard us call ourselves an Italian place. Are all the other cheesemongers calling us an Italian place behind my back?
I manage to babble, "We're Cowgirl. Cowgirl Creamery." But somehow that isn't exactly what I want to say. I look frantically up at the sign above the store and say again, "We're COWGIRL. COWGIRL CREAMERY." I think I even started emphatically jabbing my finger up at the sign, somehow strangely convinced that would make a difference. Then it dawns on me that I'm trying to convince myself as much as the guy of this fact, because I'm so totally confused by what he just said that my brain is stalled and I can't kick-start it for anything. But I have to kick-start it because I have very important information to impart! There's something I need to tell him! I JUST CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT IT IS!
Finally, a fellow cheesemonger gently steps in and says calmly, "We're not an Italian place, we're Cowgirl Creamery." YES! That's exactly it! We're NOT an Italian place, we ARE Cowgirl Creamery. I'm so relieved that Dina has finally figured this out for me that I nod vigorously and say, "We're Cowgirl. Cowgirl Creamery."
It was a really long day.
In other news...
Ring in the New Year or Wednesdays with my friend's Lemony Snicket Cocktail
Grill up my favorite childhood lunch gone gourmet. Get a load of that smudge of butter drollopping off the edge.
I'm working on an exciting new project with the women of SmartsCo. Stay tuned. If you dare!
I'm kidding. I'm looped.