classy but trashy

Cheese, by Any Other Name

Every parent wishes to keep their child safe and protected for as long as possible—to shield them from the harsh realities and often unyielding evil of the world. Once that time comes, when the baby bird inevitably jumps from the nest, the parents hope and dream that their offspring will be equipped with at least enough guidance and knowledge to be able to make informed decisions based on a well balanced upbringing.

Despite my parents’ best efforts, however, my innocence was officially lost at about 6 yrs old. I didn’t see my first R rated movie, start prodigiously reading Stephen King novels or fall prey to some demented predator…no… the fall from naïveté that took place here occurred in the ballroom of the Northern Queen Inn, with a “cheese plate.”

I remember it like it was yesterday… We were at the famed Nevada City hotel for a wedding reception—outside the old wooden water wheel was aglow with an outline of twinkling lights. Inside, the guests swayed under a classic disco ball, myself twirling across the dance floor in a dress my mom had undoubtedly made. At a party which was already sparsely attended by anyone my own age, I didn’t really know any of the other kids. Plus, at one year old, my brother wasn’t much for conversation so I kept myself entertained by dancing about and making frequent trips to the hors d'oeuvres table—a boring party activity combo that continues to come in handy to this day!

It was on one such visit to the buffet that my life was irrevocably changed. My eyes flitted upon what I concluded could only be what the caterers were trying to pass off as a cheese plate. Having up until this point only been exposed to my mother’s rendition of this appetizer staple, I was accustomed to seeing beautifully garnished platters adorned with three dimensional cheese chunks of varying textures and colors. Needless to say, I was more than a little baffled by this black plastic tray before me, covered with uniform (already sliced!) pieces of white and orange cheeses and accompanied by the same kind of meat found in my lunch sandwiches for school. I noticed there was no bread. Weird…maybe someone had eaten it all? But, as a certified cheese fiend, who was I to judge?! I grabbed a slice of cheddar and twirled my way back onto the dance floor.

But wait… What was this!?

This slice of what I had assumed to be cheese was certainly unlike anything I had ever experienced. There was a soft creaminess to the flavor and a texture more akin to slightly dried out play doh than what got chopped off the big block at home. I halted my one girl do-si-do show and made my way out to the patio in order to get a closer look at this new culinary marvel.
My dad happened to be standing out there, chatting with another guest. Smiling, he asked,
    “What have you got there?” I silently held my discovery out to him and he quickly bent down to snatch a bite.

    “Mmmm! Cheese!” he exclaimed. He smiled warmly at me again before turning back to his acquaintance.

Ok, I thought to myself, so this really is cheese. That part I had gotten right. Now it was just a matter of figuring out what kind of cheese it was. I was certainly going to want to remember such things for future reference and fortunately I knew just the person to help with such an important identification.


    “Hey mom?”
    “Oh hi, sweetie. I saw you dancing out there. Are you having fun?” My mom held my brother on her lap and nibbled from a plate of goodies before her, occasionally giving Cory a little taste.
    “What kind of cheese is this?” I had no time for small talk. Although I offered her what I had left of my slice, she barely glanced at it before replying,
    “That’s American cheese.” I couldn’t help but notice she’d made the ID with a certain level of flippancy, as though this American cheese weren’t really cheese- “It’s not really cheese,” she added. I looked at her, perplexed.
    “Well,” she went on, “It’s not made with natural ingredients. There are lots of chemicals and no nutrition in it, that’s why we don’t buy it. And it tastes fake.”


I tossed the remains of my slice in my mouth, spun away and headed straight back to the food table. As far as I was concerned, if that was what fake and nutrition-less tasted like, then sign me up! Throughout the night I continued to grab slice after slice of the chemically goodness between jaunts back to the dance floor.
No longer a solo twirler beneath the disco ball stars, I knew I’d always have a trusty partner, Processed Cheese Product.