“blah blah blah Vermont Cheese blah blah”
My ears perked up. My computer screen-glazed eyes widened. My stomach rumbled. Those two words were all I needed-speedier than a subway rat and with a more voracious appetite to boot!Strangely enough, this Vermont goat cheese didn’t wet my whistle. The rind was too pungent, and the after-bite residue lingered a moment too long, like wet chalk on your fingers. I didn’t want a second bite. I wanted a piece of gum.
Has a year in New York really soured my stinky cheese taste buds? This time last March I was consuming this dairy delight with the best of them, selecting the smelliest of the aged from the artisan shops on Rue Rivoli, taking pleasure in the intense aromas and the complex possibilities a good ripe cheese offered for pairings.
Now I can’t even handle some American goat.
It’s a sad day for the old cheese snob from within, a bit of her has departed.
Perhaps tasting cheese is like riding a bike though. Once you learn you never really forget. It just take some practice.