People used to tell me I ate way too much cheese. Told me so often in fact that one day I started to believe them, until I asked my dairy worker father, ‘Hey Daddy, do I eat enough cheese?’ To which he said “No way!”. I don’t remember the reason he gave me, not that I would have been upset. There were too many crackers to garnish, too many nachos to make, too many cows to milk, too many years to enjoy.

 We used to have a game, my brother and I, about eating cheese. Because we ate cheese everywhere. And every time, either he or I would whisper a great big number to the other, pretending that we were keeping track of the immense number of calories we had ingested. That we were sure this one had to be nine hundred eleven million, six hundred sixty-six thousand, two hundred twenty.

 Cheese tastes better than tofu does. Cheese goes well with nearly everything. It can go on bread and meat too. It pairs well with veggies, and certain fruit, and other cheeses. Cheese is liked by old people and babies. I love cheese like I love memes. Cheese is the processed center of my unhealthy dietary decisions with which I eat all my meals. Some people use cheese sparingly, but I’ve eaten cheese throughout my entire past. Each bite is an entire celebration. Each holey Swiss, each cracked piece of Havarti is a flavor bomb or a subtle enhancement.

 Now I’ve seen exotic cheeses clenched in exotic wrappings, labels screaming at the customer like 10 year old Twitch streamers when they lose at Fortnite. Each retailer sees their cheeses as their lifeblood and others as lackluster competitors. Even if cheese alone is only cheese. But this is not about advertising, no cheese is not about advertising.

 This is a poem about love, and cheese. Cheese snaps in your mouth with a burst of flavor. One time I stole my brother’s cheese and it felt perfect in my hand. Smelled delicious; perfect texture. But he snatched it back saying “No, that’s my cheese!”

 Kids eat chocolate, but grown-ups are cheese connoisseurs. You need a nice flavour, but not too strong, but it can’t be too mushy, but it can’t be too stale.

 But cheese is not about the specifics. When did it become so complicated? I always thought it was so simple. The other day my brother looked at the cheese on my plate as if seeing cheese for the first time, and with a mischievous look in his eyes, and with all the strength a wimp like him could muster he said: “You eat way too much cheese, give yours to me.”

 And before the untempered rage can escape me I shake my head at him and stuff both mine and his into my mouth. Nine hundred eleven million, six hundred sixty-six thousand, four hundred twenty.