A student from a US university has recently been expelled after abusing a dining hall staff member who refused to serve him mac and cheese. Luke Gatti was refused service as he was carrying an open alcohol container. He was so desperate for his mac and cheese dish that he proceeded to verbally and physically abuse staff, before getting so out of control that he had to be pulled away by police.
I don’t condone abuse in any form, however, I have to say that I go a bit crazy for cheese every now and then. Perhaps not to the point of physically assaulting someone, but I can see how it could happen. It’s pretty obvious the kid is suffering cheese withdrawal. Nah, serious. It’s a totally legit thing. Cheese contains casomorphins, which have an opioid effect on the body. CHEESE IS LIKE heroin! I’ve gone through this with you before; cheese is freaking addictive. We’ve read or heard about the pain heroin addicts attempting to go cold turkey off the stuff; I mean, watching the movie Trainspotting was enough for me to happily never want to go near a needle. Thank GOD.
What I’m saying is, that this kid has obviously tried to go cold turkey on cheese. What’s made it worse is that he had a couple drinks, got to the point of the night where he was desperate to eat something carb-loaded and fatty and saw nothing but the cheese he’s been detoxing from.
However, there is another reason that this kid may have lost the plot over this cheese denial. The LA Times talks about a Skout survey, which says that 73% of cheese lovers (okay, specifically grilled cheese, but cheese nonetheless) have sex at least once a month, compared with 63% who don’t love cheese. Did his mates provide him with that statistic earlier on in the night? And did he have to prove to them that he still was eating cheese, and therefore getting laid? I wouldn’t put it past a bunch of young lads hitting the turps.
Former French president Charles De Gaulle got it right. He knew he couldn’t govern a whole country that has 246 varieties of cheese. A university kitchen has no hope governing a cheese-crazy student.
Cheese makes you feel strong emotions. This kid has totally proven that.
Cheese. Just a dairy product you say. Pfft. Just a dairy product?? I will have you know dear friends, that cheese is all over the headlines!
Many of the Lactose Lovers in this world know how great cheese is (and believe me, I’ll be going on about it for as long as this blog lasts) but today, I’m going to convince the Lactose Intolerants that cheese is amazing. And you know why? Cheese is a surprisingly hot (and rather ‘badass’) news topic.
Have you ever been in a nasty amount of pain before? So nasty that you needed morphine or some other [prescribed, I’m talking prescribed] opiate to take the pain away? It’s pretty darn effective, right? Modern medicine is a bit of a genius. I digress. This aint “Cheese Talk.” Why am I talking about morphine? Because “cheese acts like morphine.” It’s so dope (sorry, terrible pun there). But seriously, eating cheese releases opiates into the system, which generates pain-killing power. A little scary almost, considering how addictive opiates can be! The tasty, tantalizing [seemingly innocent] delight we know as cheese aint that innocent after all…
You see, cheese is really not an innocent party at all. It creates waves between and within countries. The Russian government “banned imports of high-quality European [and other regions’] dairy products” after the EU grounding of a budget airline subsidiary. And you’ll never believe this; because of the bans, Russia is full of counterfeit cheese products. In fact, up to 78% of cheese on the shelves in Russia is fake!!
So what invariably happens next? The crims get involved. Cheese is now that much of a valuable commodity in Russia that criminal gangs have lashed out against the halt on European cheese importation and now smuggle the stuff in themselves!
I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you. Apart from being one of the greatest foods on the planet, cheese is the most stolen food items on the planet. Some cheese is so precious, that even cheese-abound Italians steal it too. Even their banks will take cheese as loan collateral!! I know what you’re thinking; “Why don’t they do that everywhere?!!”
Cheese is pretty darn thrilling. Do you believe me yet?
As someone who’s obsession with cheese reaches beyond the limits of most average people’s imaginations, I am often asked why I love it so much. I mean, I get it; it’s only CHEESE [you say].
The reason that some would begin life-long interest with, well… anything I’d say would be during one of those wonderful experiences as a little child; one of those emotionally sound, delightful, never-want-this-to-end type moments or repetitions of moments over time.
Mine was the repetitions of moments over time and I guess, it is still happening as I get older. Cheese only gets better for me; it is never dull. I’m still more than happy to grab the ‘plain Jane’ Coon from the fridge and cut myself a nice thick slice.
The first time I remember actually being fascinated by cheese had nothing to do with eating it. It was the first time I saw it melt.
I reckon I was about 6 or 7 years old. It was a Saturday morning and my mother had popped a couple of slices of bread under the grill. She took them out, placed three slices of cheddar on each and put them back in. She told me to come over and have a look at what was happening. I had never seen anything melt before and the vision before me was something incredible: watching the clean-cut corners of the straw yellow cheese start to curl, then give way to the heat as it oozed wonderfully down the sides of the toast. Then that final, delicious bubbling on the top as the cheese started to brown. I was dumbfounded and delighted all at once.
Apart from the well-known fact that cheese is my all-time favourite food, and I live to eat it, it was the science of cheese that piqued my interest first. I loved that it could do that. Learning about cheese; how certain types are made, where they come from is the basis of my fascination with cheese.
I’ve got to put it to her; my mum sure did change my life in an incredible way that day. I am forever thankful!
I’m woken up by a much-too-early barking call by my mother’s dog, Barkley (pun unintended) who has decided that the three Kangaroos he can see at the edge of the property are too exciting to bare looking at. I roll over and watch him through the window, enjoying looking at the foreign scene before me. The straw-coloured grass, blue-eyed sky and wire fences dissecting the land before me. Nothing like the geometrical, stone and concrete, energetic city that I am used to. This feels different. A little strange perhaps, but refreshing. The air feels, and even looks cleaner than the smoggy city. The low cacophony of birds and insects I can hear makes me think they’re feeding off the clean.
Mum suggests that we go to the General Store to have a coffee. Just as we reach the perimeter of the place, a number of people call out her name, saying “hello, g’day, howyadoin?” I’m a little thrown off by the amount of people that know her, and the amount of people that know her name. I feel odd standing there looking at these strangers whom my mother appears to know so well. I react unusually and start patting Barkley, because I don’t know what to say.
Mum decides that we sit with one of her mates who she calls ‘DTP’. Realising my chance to speak, I ask him what the letters stand for. “Danny The Plumber” he says. I think that’s hilarious and decide that this guy is alright, mainly because he is talking to me and I feel like less of an idiot now.
I look around and realise that everyone is not exactly wearing their ‘Sunday best’. Most are wearing work clothes, or garments with rips and stains on them. I find this odd because when I go out for coffee, I tend to dress a bit neater. I realise this is part of the reason that I felt uncomfortable when I walked in.
After another 20 minutes I’ve spoken to nearly everyone near our table. It is so strange to have met so many people in such a short amount of time; especially since they made me so nervous at the beginning. I ponder whether it is that easy to assimilate in a country town? Is it because of my mother that they’re talking to me, or is it because of me? Could I live here I wonder? Although I feel like I am a city girl through and through, this morning here, in the country has been more bearable and enjoyable than the first 6 months I had moving to a new city just a couple of years ago…
I rush in, nudging fellow humans as if we’re all exiting a packed stadium. The warmth covers my body like a blanket. The seat covers resemble a classroom carpet; tacky, colourful, yet functional. A man in the corner hugs a pole to hold on to but looks so detached from it as he absorbs himself in a game on his phone. It’s as if the pole isn’t even there. The collective morning scowl of each commuter makes me feel uneasy; if your eyes meet, you must quickly look away before one of you bears the fangs that must be hiding somewhere in your mouth.
I look at those sitting down with their eyes shut and trying to sleep. Their heads appear disconnected, swaying to the movement of the train, bobbing like apples in a barrel of water. Then there’s the very awake supermen in the corner, lively as children, talking animatedly about Linux and HTML like they’re more interesting than the coming of Christ. Other passengers look over at them and look away, furious at them for appearing so fabulous in the morning.
The doors open, and I step off at my destination. The cold hits my face, neck and hands like a whip. But then, I look up. I see what I have come here for. Beautiful buildings both intricate and old, and square and new tower over me, enveloping me in some sort of embrace. Noisy men selling papers on corner streets, people dressed in a mixture of corporate and crazy outfits and people of different ethnicity all gathering together for another day.
Roads filled with traffic, cars beeping, and people yelling. Fast walking, speed talking and mobile phones everywhere. Food shops everywhere, with anything you could dream of eating. Pubs, clubs and cafes galore. This is what I live here for. This is what I come here for. This is the place I want to be. My city.