I like a cheese. I like a cheese, and I like the cheeses and the biscuits. Also...lonely in literary? Would you share a cheese, write something nice about cheese, for me? Do it - a cheese-themed situation, do that for me... Consensual cheese, no cheese triangles injured in the making of a fantasy - I assured authorities.. And began - a major study in cheese - today, baked Camembert: circular, lovely, crisp cheese in her box. Cheese confined in the box, placed in the oven. Cruelty...until finally cheese - [was] removed from the ovens, here at the high academies. 'Voila..!' her lid - discarded over a shoulder, and garlic - (was once inserted.) The garlic poked - horns of a lady immersed in her own Camembert. Sliced with knife - cheese oozed, a river of molten cheese groaned over board, and dripped... '...Stop now, stop the river of cheese,' cried a bystander in his gown. I smelled - only the middle of her cheese, reached for a hunk of my bread. Cranberry sauce waited on a shared table. I scooped Camembert and consumed her, yes. Yet, eager in my palate - she was hot, burned the inside of the mouth, in the swallow[ing]. Flesh hanged from this roof-top of a mouth. Exactly, the gallows - scaffolding of cheese decorated my cavern, I screamed: 'Cheeses...crisps, not crisps, water...please.' Cheese had defeated me. I shall finish her later, revenge the dish, best serve, for now a cold cheese [to my guests, you are welcome at my table, for the cheese - brothers, and sister cheese masters for our cheeses of the world section.] Give me your cheese, America...or Spain, or Speculative moon cheese permissible.
Oh god, why... All I wanted to say was 'Cheddar' or 'Red Leicester.' Draft frenzy scaled heights of Holland.
To continue — here it has fewer names, although names are available. Semi-cured or cured satisfy even the most jaded. A good one comes form the farm up the road. To be eaten with ham [jamón say the locals, aggressively, looking you right in the eye]. The pig is dry-cured. Pig and cheese smoked for months, separate all that time. Longing. You don't take a number. You ask who is the last. You would never know because queuing is alien [it is; it really, really is]. Finally, a man in white will serve you. Don't say serve, not here. You will be given stuff; he is your equal. The man in white is surgical — in fact there are two, one for the cheese and one for the pig. They will give you slices. Slices with which you could make windows. Slices on plate. A ring. Petals. Pig. Cheese. Pig. Cheese. I want red wine. That's also good here. It makes the triangle you said we mustn't hurt. Cheese, pig, and red wine from this land. Right here. The small one who fills up our life. He scampers, whizz, smile, whizz, smile, cry! Cuddle, smile. He knows nothing of cheese. He shuns it. Spits petals and paints the floor. I wait for the day when he will become and man, and we might break cheese together.
Mi God, sounds like a P.O.U.M fantasy of mine: bare-chested, the Asturias, a kilo of cocaine strapped to my thigh. High hills, wolves, Franco's men down in the valleys, nnnh. Okay, excellent entry filed under Manchego, thank you.
Franco's men are harder to find these days. Those en contra, who roam the hills, have more time on their hands. Some of them have joined the wolves, beating their chests as they run; others weep for battles lost and battles never to be fought; the lucky ones have unstrapped their coke; they are filled with energy; they create: One corner, yes. It's @matwoolf's rincón.
Not water, wine. Burgundy. Kills the heat, intensifies the flavour. Yum. I don't care how cruel it is to the cheese. Cranberry sauce? Never thought of that. Now I've thought of that. Nope. Would fight with the Camembert (and the wine) and win. Grapes, if you must. Grapes and walnuts and garlic.
Aaargh, @matwoolf. Is this worth a trip, or what? Kinda on your route-ish if you visit Devon? http://www.renoufs.co.uk/
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I would make a fabulous cheese farmer, am envious - when the old boy appears on our screen, a six o'clock Sunday tea-time, blames Europeans for the rennet surplus, bless his teeth, the cap, crook and tweed jacket. Behind him, we see a happy flock of cheese rolls in sunshine till golden red or yellow cheeses. What a life, the cheese farmer. Devon's off the agenda @J - I boycott Devon till the county's annexation. I have only a Lacanau fantasy - about a month away...see below
Yes, I believe you would. The cheeses, they give you time when you need it, and they require less hay than dairy cows. As for the video, I was hoping no one would find it. They tricked me, you see. All those humans, they signed release forms, were actors, got paid. No one pays a dog, but they do pay its owner. Grrrrr Sorry, you were talking about cheese...
How long would you keep flogging it if you were certain it was dead? Approval? Maybe. Probably. Fear. Always. There was a Dairylea triangle in his lunchbox each day. He would look at it as he huddled in the corner of the dinner hall, away from the other children, especially the ones with lashing tongues and grasping fingers. ‘Ge’roff!’ he would cry, and they would grasp and lash all the harder. There were spaceships in that triangle, time portals, stealth planes, and faster-than-light tachyon drives. He decided to make one in his grandfather’s shed. He chose a spaceship – even a grasper could see that Dairylea had modelled their cheeses on Lucas’s Star Destroyers. He launched that afternoon, just after tea. Star Destroyer captain was a lonely old life. In the dinner hall, one of the graspers wore patent Jedi shoes. ‘I’ll split you a cheese if you keep them off me,’ said the captain. ‘You got Star Destroyer cheese,’ said the other. The captain smiled, not so lonely now Enough. Enough cheese. Walking away.
