To Cheese or Not to Cheese, Is It Really a Question?

Ben Franklin, in his delightfully witty Poor Richard's Almanac writes that "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." And, becoming more immersed in English culture, I'm realizing the verity of this claim. However, I would suggest one small yet crucial amendment to his assertion: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, yet beer is nowhere near as wonderful as cheese." Other than peanut butter and jelly (jam, for the Brits) sandwiches, eating most any type of cheese brings me comfort and happiness in ways that never cease to amaze. To be sure, I don't appreciate all of them: bleu, swiss, gorgonzola, and sometimes parmesan are simply too much for this American palette. Yet, gift me with a slice of cheddar, or colby jack, or brie, or mozzarella on a cracker (Triscuit's roasted garlic, especially, if you were wondering) with a dollop of dijon mustard and, like giving a dog a good back scratch, you've made a friend for life.

Almost needless to say, stumbling upon this shop in Oxford's Covered Market quite literally caused my mouth to drop open, stopping in my tracks in the midst of scurrying shoppers clamoring for the wares of the place, any doubts I had about Divine intervention immediately evaporated:

The first time I stopped by the Oxford Cheese Company, I didn't try, or buy, any of their offererings, for I was struck mute and dumb by its magnificence. However, returning last friday with renewed focus I set out to buy a wedge of brie for a dinner with a few friends. After the coureous cheesier (like chocolatier? What is the name of the profession for one who harvests cheese? A dairyer? A derrier?) selected a wedge well-suited for four diners, forgiving my inability to convert pounds into grams, I asked to try a few samples from the other blocks. The applewood-smoked gouda was absolutely astounding. The chili-laced cheddar was eternally exquisite...and firey! I wanted to stay until I had sampled each chunk (except the aforementioned displeasing flavors) yet also did not want to outstay my welcome, or take the opportunity for delight from others, no doubt lingering in the shadows ogling the blocks, waiting to muster the courage to step into the exposing flourescent light and take part in the mystery that is eating cheese.

That night, we enjoyed our brie, our gouda, with french baguettes, sliced granny smith apples, red and white wine, pieces of nitrite-loaded ham, and Americana folk music, stories, laughs, and smiles. It was a night to remember, mixed with both European and American culture, and we were all better for it, not in the least because of that dairy delight.

pARTying

This past Saturday I partied. There, I said it. Mom, Dad, younger brother, I hope you are reading.

Walk past a certain suite on campus and you will see a few dozen wine bottles lined up on the windowsill. Before rushing to the nearest RA, however, look closer and see that the wine bottles are, indeed, Welch’s brand ® sparkling grape juice. Still made from grapes, with 100% less alcohol! These are remnants of parties past, obelisks reminding of many a laugh and song sung, a dance move dropped, and possibly a tear shed. Wait, sadness? No, art!

Recently, I have had the privilege of attending a unique type of party on campus with some good friends of mine, who, in their individuality, share an appreciation for many kinds of art. Our conversations often touch on music, movies, books, or other media that elicit enjoyment. From the bold, seemingly pretentious idea of incorporating aesthetic appreciation with the delight that is simply sitting around and talking with friends comes the birth of “art parties.”

Tongues firmly planted in cheek, wine glasses are brought out, filled, and, keeping proper etiquette in mind, toasted. Scarves, sport coats, accents, ties, heels, and other tasteful accoutrements are donned, though the merit of fake glasses, worn in an attempt to broadcast sophistication, is questionable. Cheese and crackers travel about the room, carried restaurant waitress-style by the hostess (a party has yet to occur in a male place of residence) and one might hear such utterances as, “Darling, I love what you’ve done with the place. The bunked beds are absolutely brilliant and inventive!”

The guests find comfortable seats after the greetings and small talk wind down and the needle of the turntable runs out of track on the record. Most have a book, a folded piece of paper, or a song at their fingertips. The art-sharing portion of the party commences, generally, with a volunteer willing to break the murmuring with a poem or excerpt of their own creation or that of an admired artist.

Despite the not-so-subtle mockery of art elitists, the guests of the party give respect and attention to the art shared or performed. They have circled around a grand piano, sat enthralled at an enthusiastic performance of a slam poem, and pensively reflected upon a somber monologue or prose passage. They do not shy away from stark, honest pieces and receive whatever is presented openly. Each piece is a unique, wonderful, shared moment, individually significant and something neat to be shared. Applause, or snapping, depending on the mood, abounds after each work as the performer bows and resumes his, or her, seat among the others in the room, glad to have been able to contribute to the lovely atmosphere. There is certainly a balance of somber as well as hilarious pieces. A spicy Latino interpretation of one of Juliet’s monologues by a theatre major led to a laugh or three.

I have questioned the nature of a “party,” when a gathering of people turns into a “party,” when one is officially “partying,” how many hugs or high-fives or drinks it takes to achieve the state of “partying,” and it is becoming clear to me that to “party” is simply to enjoy the company of others, having fun as a group. For some, alcohol and pyramids of plastic cups seems to be a necessity. For others and myself, shared art provides all the entertainment and enjoyment we could ask for.

(originally published Fall '08 in Illinois Wesleyan's Newspaper, The Argus)