Cheese has quite a history. I don't know what it is, but I'm sure it's long and important and has something to do with a cow and curdles and somebody with a lot of time and girly cow germs on their hands.
I haven't always liked cheese. I remember one wasted childhood afternoon of trying to force myself to like cheese. I ripped up enough American singles to make a stack that went from the kitchen table to my chin and tried to down them all. I don't think that is a sane approach at trying to like anything. I mean, just try doing that with Michelin tires. It would be eight years before I gave cheese another chance, and he pulled through with flying colors. Cheese is my kind of man.
Last night, I began to soliloquize in my head about the glories of cheese... There are so many different kinds of cheese. There are so many people that like cheese. Maybe people are like cheese. Hmm... Stinky? French and weird? Stringy? Green? Is there a hidden moral in slicing off the fuzzy parts of a sharp cheddar that's been at the back of the refrigerator drawer too long? I should treat my fellow man better because of the blessing of cheese in my life. If cheese can sacrifice its aspirations of being butter or chocolate milk, I can certainly summon a smile for that stranger in the dairy aisle.
So give cheese a chance. And next time you're scared of saying hi to your Aunt Rosie because of her bad breath, just picture a big slab of provolone.