It has been said before that I do not suffer fools gladly and, by my own admission, I may sway to the lower than average levels of tolerance for certain and many things. Randomly, milk is one of those things.
There is no medical proof to my intolerance of calcium fortified commodities. My name is Pandora, and I am a self-diagnosed lactose-intolerant.
Perhaps it is my vague recollection, or suppression, of being forced to drink warm curdling milk through a straw at school as a child that serves as the trigger to my lactose-overdose and which I hold fully accountable for my abhorrence to the white stuff, but by default it includes everything else that would appear to derive from the under belly of a cow.
It is with despair, therefore, that despite setting out to enjoy an evening of gastronomic delight this weekend I was, in fact, served up with delight-turned-fright-night as I watched my fun-undo in a cheese fondue - cheese breads, cheese sauces, cheese toppings, cheesecake, cheese crackers, cheese boards.
One by one every plate destined to annihilate my palate. Turophile, I am not.
I have no doubt, however, that there are many of you that think there is nothing better than some feta - even my own uncontrollable shudder with the udder has a few unexplained exceptions that permits a semi skim dash on my cereal, an occasional peppermint mocha, a Bailey's over ice and, controversially, I have acquired a somewhat novice cheesetolerance via pizza. That, however, is as much calcium as I can attest my bones have been grown from. I am by no means a reformed cheesephobic. For me and my olfactory receptors, in fact, this cheese fest was not goudha…
So, as I continue to play Houdini with the haloumi I wonder…from where have we derived our obsession with Camembert and the glee with Brie? Is cheese the new social canapé, or am I pre-destined to be the one who is cheesed off, going crackers and truly on the whine?
‘Til next time, Pandora
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