Iowa Prairie Breeze
Peter wants only to make the finest Artisan Farmhouse cheese possible. Early every morning he rises to walk the fields, picking out that day’s lushest grass, sprinkled with sweet wild flowers. He leads his Guernseys to that spot, cajoles them to eat. Unfortunately, they often prove the old adage about leading a horse to water also applies to cows and pasture. It breaks his heart to see them munching on mullein.
Like Chagall’s goats, Anna’s were uncommunicative, staring blankly into space as if they heard violins. Putting a spin on, Anna names the cheese Ewephoria.
Andrew cannot believe one of his guests has committed such a faux pas. Mon dieu! C’est terrible! There on the cheeseboard lies a crust of Brie as if it were an inedible over-baked pie crust. Someone has pointed the Brie!
Henry was a cheese purist. His wife would say snob. No cracker should skew the texture. No flavoring taint a cheese’s taste. She laid a trap with a Mango-Ginger Stilton, luscious and smooth as cheesecake. Henry nibbled and succumbed. Soon he was sneaking Jalapeno Havarti into the house. His wife’s taste then turned to the mature hard Cave Aged Gruyere.
At Least It Isn’t Limburger
In the airline’s overhead bin, the souvenir Manchego from La Mancha began to warm. Christina notices her seat mates beginning to sniff. Joining in she echoes, “What is that smell?”
lives in West Michigan. She is nourished by many poets as well as the verdant countryside. Her writing has been published in Heron Tree, 3rd Wednesday, Bear River Review, Peninsula Poets, and elsewhere.