Why Does Cheese Taste So Good Standing Up?

Why does cheese taste so good standing up?

Is it the altitude? Or the location?

There’s probably some exotic cuisine out there that should only be consumed below sea level or up a mountain.

But I doubt it tastes half as good as a naughty chunk of Cathedral City that just happens to fall into your kisser at precisely six feet high in the middle of the kitchen.

I nearly caved today. But what happened may turn out to be my greatest victory.

It’s lunchtime.

I’m making sandwiches for the kids.

My son wants ham. He only likes the cheap stuff. No temptation there. It’s not on my banned list and this stuff looks like it’s made from arseholes.

But my other boy wants cheese.

‘You sure about that, son?’

I’m trying to dissuade him.

‘You’ve had a lot of cheese recently.’

He hasn’t.

I have.

‘How about a lovely tuna bap? Or Daddy could rustle up some toast?’

Apart from the fact you don’t ‘rustle up’ toast, I’ve not offered him a suitable alternative. He wants cheese.

And so do I.

More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

I start making the sandwich. Normally I’d grab the cheese first and get the party started with a few cheeky slices for my face.

But instead I butter the bread and grab a plate.

I’m saving the cheese till the last minute.

The headline act.

The main event.

I open the fridge.

Lights flash. Fanfare plays. Paparazzi snap.

The cheese glides out in slow motion like it’s headlining a Vegas show.

I slide the medium strength cheddar out of the packet. It lies back on the chopping board. Staring at me. Waiting.

I take a deep breath and grab the knife. For a second I consider slicing it without looking before deciding that would be a great way to lose a finger. Before dismissing that idea completely, I reason that would at least give me a head-start on my weight loss journey.

Instead I cut the required pieces as quickly as I can and throw them onto the buttered bread, slamming the other slice down on top like a casino croupier.

Done.

I’m almost home free.

But then, disaster strikes.

A rogue crumb has rolled onto the kitchen surface. It’s so tiny and the sandwich is already full.

No room at the inn.

What will become of this destitute crumb?

In a quite unprecedented move, I pick up the little crumb and march over to the bin. I open the lid and stare at this meagre nugget of cheesy temptation before dropping it into the rubbish and out of my life.

And now, many hours laster? I feel rather smug. Disgustingly so, actually.

(As much as smugness is unlikeable in others, it’s a remarkably fine feeling to experience yourself.)

But mainly, I feel hungry. So I’m off to bed before I do something I regret.

Back tomorrow…

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