Name: Sloane Daley
Subject: It’s always the cheese.
There were a lot of things I wondered when I was younger. Would the THIRDS be a good fit for me? Could I make the kind of difference I wanted to make? Would I make a good team leader? The one thing I never considered was how much of an impact cheese would have on my life. That’s right. Cheese. My husband, my beautiful, sweet, amazing husband, has a cheese problem.
Eating vegetables is healthy. Eating vegetables smothered in melted cheese is not. Eating fancy cheese does not make your meal healthier. It makes it more expensive. Smothering your “tiny trees” in melted Brie doesn’t change anything. And yes, it is very much possible for broccoli to taste good without cheese. For some reason, he found that statement particularly funny.
Ah, the nachos incident. I had no prior knowledge of this. Rowan never tells me when she’s going to do something that will send my husband into a spiral of overdramatic and melodramatic expression worthy of the greatest diva. I will be hearing about the goat cheese nachos for years to come. He now requests proof of where his cheeses come from.
Last week, at a restaurant, I sat back and ate my starter salad as I watched my husband ask for said proof from the poor waiter. It went something like this:
Dex: Can you tell me where the cheese on this salad came from?
Waiter: Um, the kitchen?
Dex: No, I mean, what animal produced it?
Waiter: (looks very confused). A cow?
Dex: Are you asking me or telling me?
Waiter: *blink blink*
Dex: Can you ask your chef from whence this cheese came, please?
Waiter: (looks at me for help).
Me: Is the cheese from a cow or a goat?
Dex: (Turns a little green and dramatically looks off into the distance as he relives the nachos horror in his mind. This goes on for longer than necessary).
Me: He’s allergic to goat cheese.
Dex: (Looks confused).
Waiter: Ah, okay. I’ll double-check (hurries off).
Dex: Why did you say I’m allergic?
Me: You might as well be. If you say you’re allergic, it’s much easier than explaining that you can’t eat cheese from Beelzebub’s spawn.
Dex: Why didn’t I think of that? (smiles) You’re so smart. (starts eating salad).
Me: Don’t you want to wait until the waiter comes back with confirmation?
Dex: It’s a garden salad. Who puts goat cheese on a garden salad? (Is halfway done by the time the waiter returns).
Waiter: (Realizes Dex has eaten half his salad. Is suddenly very pale).
Me: *sigh* (take the napkin off my lap and put it on the table).
Dex: (Sees waiter looking like he’s about to pass out). It’s goat cheese, isn’t it?
Dex: Motherforking shirtballs, why??!!! (Repeats several times loud enough for the entire restaurant to screech to a halt.)
Me: (takes money out to cover the salads and tip. Puts it on the table). Thanks. We’re going to go now. (Another restaurant we’ll never be back to).
Waiter: Should I call an ambulance? Does he have an Epi-pen?
Dex: (grabs my arm) The room is spinning, Sloane. This is it. This is how it ends.
Me: He’ll be fine. (I take my husband’s arm and pull him to his feet). You’ll be fine. Come on. I’ll buy you a donut on the way home.
Dex: Donuts. My sweet, safe, wonderful donuts. They would never betray me.
Me: (Decides it’s better not to tell him the bakery has started making cheese danishes with goat cheese).
Dex got his box of donuts because near-death experiences require at least half a dozen donuts. None with goat cheese. I couldn’t complain. That night he passed out from sugar overload, head in my lap, and I got to run my fingers through his hair while I watched my favorite TV show. I wouldn’t change a thing. Goat cheese aversion and all.
AKA Husband Extraordinaire.
AKA Keeper of the Donuts and Dex’s Heart.