Cheese: Make the most pretentious statement you possibly can about it.

Alex James to thread.

This gorganzola tastes a little bit like Kafka's tears.

Stilton is like the soul: Oh how easily it crumbles round the edges, oh how the veins running through it remind us of the insideous ennui at the centre of us all. And like the soul it can be devoured at will, leading the devourer to a long and feverish night of dark, dark dreams.

Drawn as I am to the invidious cheese, the infamous cheese, the cheese with no name, I open a Kraft single and contemplate its unearthly smoothness. Dare I consume this prandial leaf of the machine age? Dare I not?

Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.

I mentioned that nowadays fermented cheeses never had cheese mites. In my young days if one forgot to cover up a piece of Camembert one found it swarming with maggots the next day; but these have vanished since cheeses were protected by chemical products added to the milk. I mourn for the days of mites - one had only to scratch the rind to get rid of them - and for me this is symbolic of our time, which sacrificed quality for convenience.

bravo

What a top thread.

I *am* cheese.

Le fromage, c'est moi!

We sing it, like a mantra: "Let us go then, you and I,
When the edam is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table..."

Brooklyn is where the cheese is at.

Bizzarely, I found these pages on Monday night:

http://wais.stanford.edu/Religion/religion_041122_staugustineconfessions.htm
http://wais.stanford.edu/ztopics/week110104/religion_jesuschristcheesenohoax_110104.htm

"However, only the last sentence, italicized and underlined by Christopher, has any relevance to our "Christ is cheese", or rather "Cheese is Christ" argument,and it does not advance it very much. We speak of paradise as a land of milk and honey. Augustine just adds cheese. Here is a question which Tony Mahowald could answer: Was Augustine just a Church Father and not a saint? St. Augustine was a much later, quite different person.. He was the apostle of the English and Archbishop of Canterbury."

The World Cheese Championship is being held only minutes from my house. True.

Cheese. Ask not what it can do for you, ask what you can do for it.

i liked cheddar before it was famous.

Multivalent, the taste of cheese
Upon the tongue
Pursuing taste first, and digestion second
Basking in the nether regions, soon to be expunged

Derby
by: Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Derby, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, Derby,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So Derby, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Derby, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Derby, Derby, you bastard, I'm through.