We may be ruined for good.
All by a quiet, unassuming wedge of tender Gouda--Belgian Gouda--I might add, hand-picked in a little cheese shop on the quiet Dutch side of St. Martin Island in the Lesser Antilles.
It was part of a wheel purchased there by a friend, who well knows his way around cheese. We happily accepted his quarter-round gift and began tasting with irresistible nibbles here and there, but finally succumbed to throwing up or hands and having it for dinner next to crisp, sweet apples and nutty whole-grain crackers. For dinner!
And all I can say is my, my, my!
I could talk about depth and complexity of flavor, about smoothness balancing the fine edge of sharpness, about how you know, when you have it in your mouth, that this is the real deal, and it would all be true. This cheese makes the standard Kraft Mild Cheddar seem brassy, contrived, and a bit cheesy, not unlike a woman wearing gaudy costume earrings and too much bubble-gum pink lipstick.
Our wedge is dwindling fast, and I'm concerned for us all. Kraft has never dealt us a bad turn, but after this Gouda, I just don't think we can go back.
St. Martin is a bit far from here, but I'm sure we can figure something out.
