I am now back in Wisconsin for my junior year. I got back four days before classes started to train for a new job with the Learning Enrichment and Disability Services office. That’s the long way of saying that I have to dress up to go in to work and answer the phone in an office close to important people at the college.
Since I’ve been here I’ve run, hugged lots of friends, had tea parties, experienced the ever-increasing smell of the Rock River, and gotten hit on by drunk freshmen on the lacrosse team. On the whole, Beloit’s a good place to be and more importantly than any of these things, I have eaten my first cheese curd in over four months! It was dill seasoned and I can assure you that they are still squeaky, cold and delicious as ever. I have yet to write a cheese poem, but here’s one I really enjoy by Jim Daniels, a poet and professor who’s a Detroit native.
If you are a fellow cheese-lover, or addict, you should check out this website of the American Cheese Society. If you think you don’t like cheese, try some brie with maple glaze on wheat crackers.
by Jim Daniels
At department parties, I eat cheeses
my parents never heard of—gooey
pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues.
I have acquired a taste, yes, and that’s
okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house
shaded by the factory’s clank and clamor.
A house built like a square of sixty-four
American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches
With—for the hungry man who disappeared
into that factory, and five hungry kids.
American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old
Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious
holes. We were sparrows and starlings
still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs,
our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax—
dig your nails in to separate them.
When I come home, I crave—more than any home
cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold
one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother
can’t understand. Doesn’t remember me
being a cheese eater, plain like that.