When are we going to talk about Velveeta? I was just online visiting the Kraft Foods Interactive Kitchen, and I noticed some really cool recipes using Velveeta. Like one called "Golden Sauce". Also, Velveeta has other uses, such as: my dad used a block of Velveeta to teach our dog, Pepsi, to sit & shake. And when are we going to talk about QUESO? Oh my god, there's something called Cheese Fudge and you can make it with Velveeta. Things are looking up. lka
Sooner or later, the gods of gouda will deliver a cheese that I don't like, but it hasn't happened yet. This youthful goat gouda is more light-hearted than its 2- or 4‑year cousins, the sorts with the sneaky creamy-slash-salty bite that roots you to your chair like you're James Bond in Moonraker, stuck in the centrifuge, face contorting. The two-month is a more playful cheese. It's lighter, less serious, and fresher. If cheeses were relatives, you'd ask the 2- and 4‑year goudas for advice in matters of the heart, but you'd take the two-month to a bar because it would help you meet girls. This particular gouda is just goaty enough to be satisfying when eaten with a Fuji apple after a short evening run and, like its elder cousins, it should always be washed down with dark beer.
This occupied Rainbow's special little Cheese-of-the-Day table a while ago, and I still feel conflicted about it. I tasted it and I liked it enough to buy a brick of it. But when I ate a slice on Ryvita, I noticed that it has a somewhat disconcerting nose, and a weird, gummy texture. Still, it intrigued me, like a girl who somehow isn't my type but has some enchanting quality that makes me wonder what the hell my type is, and what, for that matter, attraction is, and why the universe seems so random when it comes to these things. So I've nibbled at the Vasterbotten for three weeks now, and still there's over half the brick left. So I'm wondering whether I should just call the whole thing off, just end it all RIGHT NOW. Is anyone listening to me out there? Is there any rhyme or reason to any of this? I JUST WANT SOME KIND OF SIGN. Are you there, God?
Upon first tasting this cheese at Rainbow, I ignored the posted rules and REUSED my tasting toothpick five times. Okay, nine, maybe ten times. This nutty, salty cheese was made to be eaten with something green. Kale works, and so do green beans. Am I reserving a spot in my safe room's mini-fridge for a wedge of the Moose? Maybe. It depends on how well it melts in a quesadilla.
News flash: Parmesan cheese is not just for sprinkling on pizza. While its tasteless, soulless paremsan cousins became condiments, Reggianno kept its feet on the ground and its head in the game. Namely, it kept its taste and texture real, so real, in fact, that people who sprinkle it on pizza should be thrown in fucking jail. Seriously. It should be eaten alone. Okay, maybe on a light cracker; maybe with a touch of olive oil, but it should always — ALWAYS — be eaten late at night, in a dark kitchen, after a long evening out.
Don't bogart the Fog, my friend. On the evolutionary ladder of cream cheese, this kind Northern Californian nug is the most highly evolved, a hairless biped with ESP among mass-market subspecies with brow ridges and saggital crests. Pay special attention to the stripe of green that accentuates the creamy white body like piping on a tracksuit.
It's flaky, but full of life, like a good yoga teacher. It's also salty, which makes it more like a good yoga teacher from New York. Added bonuses: it's got a very distinguised dark orange color, and it's very stylishly packaged in a simple black rind. A handy accessory in the evening.
Rainbow won't carry it because it has "preservatives" in the rind. Perhaps these preservatives are the secret to its excellent taste. This cheese is best eaten on Beckman's 3‑seed sourdough while watching SportsCenter on Saturday morning. Also good with Miller High Life, but what cheese isn't?