Monday, March 20, 2006
To brie or not to brie (the conclusion)
My triumph over brie
Am I older? Not exactly. Wiser? I doubt I’m that either. Nonetheless, without time or wisdom, a lesson has been learned. I left off thinking about a little parmesan and possibly some cottage cheese. Before long, I had started thinking that I might be able to handle going back to dairy. Just here and there, but I might be able to handle it now.
Not long after hopping on the wagon and swearing off the brie wheel, I already began to underestimate the effects that amazing creamy cheese has on me. After months of careful avoidance, there it was again, laid out on a plate: the brie. So what is the lesson learned? Tempting, always, but this time I was wise to that wheel’s whiles. And apparently, once you lose your ability to stomach it, dairy forever haunts you and never gets better. Just when you make that realization, though, that cheese is everywhere.
And here comes the inevitable encounter with the unavailable, but infinitely accessible, man. Like a tray of brie in puff pastry being passed through the room, the unavailable man is everywhere. Just when you think that tray is gone and you’ve passed the test, up comes that waiter again. Was he making a commission each time he went by with that tray? With each dodged-tray pass, my resolved avoidance grew just a little bit stronger.
The illusion of flavor euphoria that brie on fresh sesame lavash produces is one that belies the truth: I cannot handle that cheese any better than I can overlook the fatal character flaw of the unavailable man wishing for freedom and taunting you into believing them.
Now that I’ve gotten past my eating cheese, how do I move beyond other people who not only love the un-digestible, but can stomach it also. I guess the hardest part of knowing what isn’t good for you is watching the person for whom your downfall is an uplifting force. That childish resentment that nags us into adulthood makes us want what we can’t have.
Is the ultimate confidence knowing, not only that something isn’t good for you, but also that others will embrace and enjoy that same substance? The unavailable, but inherently accessible is, in fact, unavailable because it is available to someone else. So, I may not be much older, but I could be just a little bit wiser. I recognize that I will never be able to stomach dairy, be it brie or a cheesy man—it’s not my style.
Am I older? Not exactly. Wiser? I doubt I’m that either. Nonetheless, without time or wisdom, a lesson has been learned. I left off thinking about a little parmesan and possibly some cottage cheese. Before long, I had started thinking that I might be able to handle going back to dairy. Just here and there, but I might be able to handle it now.
Not long after hopping on the wagon and swearing off the brie wheel, I already began to underestimate the effects that amazing creamy cheese has on me. After months of careful avoidance, there it was again, laid out on a plate: the brie. So what is the lesson learned? Tempting, always, but this time I was wise to that wheel’s whiles. And apparently, once you lose your ability to stomach it, dairy forever haunts you and never gets better. Just when you make that realization, though, that cheese is everywhere.
And here comes the inevitable encounter with the unavailable, but infinitely accessible, man. Like a tray of brie in puff pastry being passed through the room, the unavailable man is everywhere. Just when you think that tray is gone and you’ve passed the test, up comes that waiter again. Was he making a commission each time he went by with that tray? With each dodged-tray pass, my resolved avoidance grew just a little bit stronger.
The illusion of flavor euphoria that brie on fresh sesame lavash produces is one that belies the truth: I cannot handle that cheese any better than I can overlook the fatal character flaw of the unavailable man wishing for freedom and taunting you into believing them.
Now that I’ve gotten past my eating cheese, how do I move beyond other people who not only love the un-digestible, but can stomach it also. I guess the hardest part of knowing what isn’t good for you is watching the person for whom your downfall is an uplifting force. That childish resentment that nags us into adulthood makes us want what we can’t have.
Is the ultimate confidence knowing, not only that something isn’t good for you, but also that others will embrace and enjoy that same substance? The unavailable, but inherently accessible is, in fact, unavailable because it is available to someone else. So, I may not be much older, but I could be just a little bit wiser. I recognize that I will never be able to stomach dairy, be it brie or a cheesy man—it’s not my style.
