I really wish I liked cheese.

I feel like there is an entire gastronomic universe out there that I am unable to reach, constrained by the persnickety-ness of my own taste buds.

If anything, I’m a finicky cheese eater. I’ll eat lasagna and pizza, but wrinkle my nose in distaste at the thought of a cheeseburger (What? Sully the taste of hormone enhanced ground beef?!).  A grilled cheese sandwich?  No, thanks.  A cheddar topped Triscuit?   Pass.  And to all the holiday hostesses out there, I’m truly sorry that I can’t get behind the softened cream cheese with the red pepper jelly.

I can only barely trick myself into slathering a cracker with some pecan and Kahlua topped brie.

I doubt that Robert Frost and his “should I” or “shouldn’t I” food choices were the source of inspiration  when he wrote “The Road Not Taken,” but I see myself as that traveler, standing at the fork in the road, deciding, deciding, deciding.  Ultimately, I take the non cheese path and indeed, that has made all the difference.

One of my dreams is to live abroad.  While I have had the chance to visit several foreign countries, I’d really like the opportunity to make some European city or town my home address.  And yet, who can truly live in Europe and not eat cheese?  It’s everywhere! In France, I was forever ordering things sans fromage or pas du fromage. The waiter’s looked at me like, “Mon Dieu! Zut Alors! Nous sommes en France! Il ya un millier de types du fromage ici!“

Anyway, the point is I love food. I enjoy cooking, I enjoy baking. I like the satisfaction that comes with a well executed recipe and the thrill that follows a well consumed meal.  I made that pesto and spinach stuffed flank steak for DH a few weeks ago and seeing his surprise at a new dish, the pleasure of his first bite — it was like getting the high score in skee-ball.

I’ve been keeping up with a former college pal who is now a sous chef in DC.  His posts are like transcripts from Top Chef, without Padma Lakshmi and her inanity.  He was talking about a birthday dinner he treated himself to at the Ritz.  His description of Humboldt fog goat cheese and its subsequent photo has me wiping drool from the corners of my mouth. See for yourself here.  Yet and still, for as luscious as that cheese looks, for all of his exquisite descriptions, I just can’t do it. 

I keep egging myself on, encouraging myself to be brave and slide a piece of cheese into my omelet.  What’s a few grates of Parmesan atop some spaghetti?  Some blue cheese crumbles holding hands with pecans and craisins in a salad?  Ugh. I just can’t.

Oh, cheese, how I’d love to love you.

But alas, I cannot.