LJ Idol Week 3: Smile
I never did buy into the idea that the moon was made of cheese. After all, everyone knows cheese originates from milk which is produced from the udder of a cow. And hey, (diddle diddle) cows don’t really jump over the moon. Thus, the chance that the moon actually consisted of cheese-like material was slim. Skim even. This I learned early on. Knowing these facts,however, did not curb my fascination with cheese.
And fascination it was. The allure of this processed curdling substance began during a week-long stay with my grandparents the summer of my Kindergarten year. Living on the outskirts of Chicago, they decided it was time to venture into the city for my first zoo experience. And an experience it was. By the time it was all over, we were hungrier than a pod of Milton Bradley’s hippos. Only hippos don’t eat minestrone soup from local Italian diners. And we did.
When the bowl filled with thick hot liquid mixed with unidentifiable vegetables was placed in front of me, I did not know what to do. I was supposed to eat this? Luckily, my disbelief turned into astonishment when a second bowl was placed on the table, filled with powdery white crumbles that I later discovered to be Parmesan cheese. Spoonful at a time, I splashed, not sprinkled, the dairy particles into my soup.
I was flabbergasted to see that these once firm particles were disappearing into the soup. A science experiment at its finest, I continued to schlung the moo by-product into my meal until it no longer dissolved and piled instead. At this point, both my grandparents noticed the molehill turning into a mountain and could do nothing but turn it into a Kodak moment.
“Say cheese.”
And fascination it was. The allure of this processed curdling substance began during a week-long stay with my grandparents the summer of my Kindergarten year. Living on the outskirts of Chicago, they decided it was time to venture into the city for my first zoo experience. And an experience it was. By the time it was all over, we were hungrier than a pod of Milton Bradley’s hippos. Only hippos don’t eat minestrone soup from local Italian diners. And we did.
When the bowl filled with thick hot liquid mixed with unidentifiable vegetables was placed in front of me, I did not know what to do. I was supposed to eat this? Luckily, my disbelief turned into astonishment when a second bowl was placed on the table, filled with powdery white crumbles that I later discovered to be Parmesan cheese. Spoonful at a time, I splashed, not sprinkled, the dairy particles into my soup.
I was flabbergasted to see that these once firm particles were disappearing into the soup. A science experiment at its finest, I continued to schlung the moo by-product into my meal until it no longer dissolved and piled instead. At this point, both my grandparents noticed the molehill turning into a mountain and could do nothing but turn it into a Kodak moment.
“Say cheese.”