Difficult to cheese

One of the great thrills of my childhood was dining at the David Jones top-floor café with my Grandma – Margie. “Order whatever you like dear,” she would declare with great pride. My request was always the same, “I’d like a cheese sandwich with no crusts please.”
“Is that all you want? You can have anything you like remember!”
“No, just a cheese sandwich thank you. But don’t tell Mum!”

Lactose intolerance is one of the great injustices of my existence. I love cheese. Blue. Cheddar. Bocconcini. Brie. Ricotta. I love cheese… but I suffer. On occasion, I forget about my allergy and spoil myself. Sadly, the guilt is instantly written on my face – quite literally. Large quantities of cheese, amongst many other unsightly side-effects, make the outer-edges of my nostrils turn bright pink.

This phenomenon has made my parents into cheese psychics: you’ve been eating cheese again haven’t you Louise. And there is no denying it.

Consequently, cheese has become a narcotic of sorts: instantly pleasurable and endlessly alluring. Today was an enormous test of strengths. My friend Andy introduced me to Neil’s Yard – the greatest cheese shop in London.

He warned me before entering, “Now, they are going to offer you samples. Say yes to everything because the cheese is fantastic.” So the trap was set. Starting with a fresh mozzarella, followed by a cheddar (described by the enthusiastic sales assistant as ‘a cheese to be eaten by men who win wars’) and finishing with a ‘stinking pope’ (which tastes much better than it sounds), every mouthful was so delightful that I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry out of pleasure; a pleasure unrequited. I love cheese, but it hates me.

Mum, you’ll be pleased to know that for the first time, I resisted. Besides samples, which I can hardly be blamed for because they were placed directly into my palm, I left empty handed.

(Thankfully, with a very large ocean between us, she can't check my nose for proof.)