Sunday, March 18, 2007

Ooo, what's that Smell?

Yesterday after the movie, Evil Book Lady, her husband Testosterone on a Stick, The Husband and I wandered around College Park, one of the little subcities in Orlando. We were early for reservations, so we took a walk. One place we happened upon was called Harmoni, an Artisan Meal Market -- I love that word Artisan. Makes everything sound hand made by people in peasant shirts who lean against roughhewn stone walls -- where there was much goodness to be had, the free samples of bread and cheese being first among them.

The fellow behind the counter came out to point us at various goodies and recommend cheeses, jellies and breads. We aren't exactly experts on the subject of cheeses and wines, so we listened. We picked up some Ricotta Solida -- solid ricotta -- and some chili pepper jelly. The combination is delicious. The guy also recommended a little square of a goat cheese rolled in pecans. We like goat cheeses on the whole, so we spent the $13.00 and brought it home.

Today I decided to try it out. I got some of the good crackers and opened the plastic. While I was opening it, I noticed that the sink drain seemed a little stinky. The cheese looked good -- it was marked as "partially ripened" and I thought about how some cultures think eating cheese is disgusting because, to them, it is rotted milk. Those cultures tend to eat things that wiggle, because they are so fresh.

I spread the cheese on crackers and I took the plate to where The Husband was.

Me: There's a really rotten stink in the kitchen. Did you leave something in the disposal?

The Husband: Nope. (he walks into the kitchen, leans over the sink, and sniffs) I don't smell anything.

Me: That disgusting, rotted smell?

The Husband: Nope. (He takes one of the crackers, as do I). Is this the goat cheese?

Me: Yeah, I thought we'd try it. (I bite into it as he sniffs it)

The Husband: (sniffing) It's the cheese.

Me: (the taste, which matches the smell, hits me) BLEAHEAHEAHEAHEAHEAHEA!!!! (trying to spit out what was in my mouth)

The Husband: (backing away from the plate and the cheese) Oh good god, it's the CHEESE.

Me: ( spitting into the garbage) It tastes like AMMONIA! Gahhh! Beagh! YEARGH!

The Husband: It's a real, unholy, stinky, cheese.


The Husband: Mom will love this stuff. She loves a stinky cheese.

It took several swallows of water, three pieces of the ricotta, and two tablespoons of Nutella to remove the taste from where it clung, slime-like, to the back of my tongue. The deadly cheese is sealed in a ziplock bag, awaiting deportation to the MIL. It does not taste like ass. It tastes like ROTTED MILK WITH AN AMMONIA CHASER. I've smelled similar aromas near garbage cans and litter boxes. Neither stimulates my appetite. The memory makes me gag.

I don't feel the same about goat cheese anymore, either. And I'm going to regard friendly guys at Harmoni in a whole new light, too.

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