They’re a cheesy bunch, my kids.
All three. Cheese goes on everything.
“Too much, daddy,” Elise would say as I grated it on top of her spaghetti or stuffed it in her burrito or slapped slices of it on her sandwich when she was little.
Translation: “heap it on, pop!”
These kids are the cheesiest. Cheese goes on cheese, even.
I mean, it’s dairy. It’s good for you. I love it too.
“That’s too much cheese.”
Nope, it just doesn’t feel natural coming off the fingers. Feels like a Rockies fan rooting for the dodgers. Un.natural.
It goes by quickly, a block of cheese. As I prepared a spaghetti dinner for my three cheeseavores, they surfaced constantly at the stove top, mouths agape, eyes googly, and the only way to fend them off was to drop another chunk of cheese in their hungry beaks, and watch your fingers.
By the time I’d grated the rest of the block to pile on their seashell noodles, I noticed something odd about the cheese wrapper: It was kid-ravaged empty.
“Girls,” I declared, holding the cheese carcass up to the light for inspection. “We just polished off an entire block of cheese.”
Cheers went up.
Not polite cheers, mind you. But the big, bad headlines kind of cheers. The Dewey beats Truman kind. Giants win the pennant. Stock market falls. Again.
They danced and celebrated over the defeated cheese block like Ewoks around C-3PO.
They danced and celebrated not only their victory over the cheese, but over the dad whose discipline more resembles Swiss cheese than Cheddar.
This sort of ravaging and mutiny could happen only on a dad’s watch.
It’s not easy being cheesy.