Cheese

I once went on a cheese hiatus.

It was a ploy to cut calories--if I just stop putting cheese on all those things that I thought needed it, the number of calories that I could cut would be immeasurable (especially since I was then eating about a cow's worth of the stuff). I taught myself to season and prepare meals in different, just as tasty, ways. Rather than smother broccoli in Velveeta, I'd cook it in balsamic vinegar. And I revamped my spaghetti sauce to include lots of vegetables instead of relying on grated Parmesan for that extra kick. I invented an aversion to cheese--if I could convince myself that I don't like it, then I wouldn't crave it and would not, therefore, eat it so often.

Somewhere along the way, I created an aversion to cheesy behavior as well. Amid Princess fantasies and homemaker hopes, I decided to wise up, take a deep breath of this fresh LA air, and denounce all things romantic, cute, charming, comforting, suave, sensitive, etc. On any given, generic day, anything "awww"-worthy makes me want to yak. I don't like animals or super-sappy songs. I haven't touched my go-to romantic comedies in ages. I deal with relational mushiness in much the same way as I deal with the edible variety--obliterate it in the garbage disposal and wash it down the sink. A self-imposed aversion therapy of sorts.

But, like Justine always says, "everything in moderation"--be it diets, relationship doctrine, life choices, or whatever. And every now and then, a little cheese is nice.

From a long-ago love: "And what's the temperature in Cali right now? That's the only way to know how comfortable you are...."

Or on those classy, kind of expensive but worth the splurge crackers, accompanied by a glass of nostalgically German wine.