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Fromage

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Home smells like cheese. Parmesan is sprinkled lightly on the hardwood floor and shredded mozzarella sits in clumps atop the fridge. Ends of sharp cheddar in great slabs, rests in the dish drainer. The gray tabby cat bats around a mottled ball of feta and slices of Colby hang on the hooks for pots and pans. In the morning the ice covered thermometer reads negative ten and I look to the woodstove for warmth, watching a skillet of Muenster sizzle as it melts. Yoghurt cheese greases up the pages of my law book while Tombe de Chevre has crusted over all the knives, leaving dark green herbs at the edges of my mouth. A wheel of Gouda is shoved between Joy of Cooking and Moosewood Cookbook; I grab a volume and scroll through the pages. Cheesecake is on page three sixteen and the stainless steel mixing bowls are in the cabinet next to the broom with string cheese squished into the bristles.





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