Fromage-a-Phobia

The Attack of the Killer Cheeses!

Everyone has a certain food they don’t like, and for me that food happens to be cheese. I not only dislike the taste of cheese, I hate the look, smell, and feel of the greasy, gooey, god-awful stuff.

I call it “Fromage-a-Phobia.”

These are days of great tolerance in America. It’s perfectly acceptable to be an atheist, a socialist, or even a fan of ABBA.

But it’s not OK to hate cheese.

“So glad you could join us tonight” said Len Farbman the evening I dined at his home. “In honor of the occasion, Sheila has cooked her No. 1 specialty.  Ready, honey?”

“Here it comes!” called Sheila Farbman, foul smell preceding her as she emerged through the kitchen doors.

“It’s my very special Chicken a la Cheese, combining Parmesan, Muenster, and Limburger cheese blended in a tangy sauce!” exclaimed Sheila.

"Oh, my, how nice,” I sputtered. “But you see, I’m awfully sorry. I’m afraid I don’t eat cheese.”

“That’s crazy - everybody likes cheese!” croaked Farbman.

“Gee, I’m really, really sorry,” I stammered, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the toxic cheese fumes pervading the room. “I just don’t like cheese.”

“You’ll like this!” insisted unfazed Sheila as she cut a world-class size piece of Chicken a la Cheese and plopped it squarely on my plate. Cheese strings connected to the serving dish trailed the piece all the way over to my plate, a good foot and a half in length.

How truly appetizing, that quality of cooked cheese to behave like silly putty!

I really don’t know how I survived the evening though I suppose the ten minute gagging fit may inhibit future dinner invitations to the Farbman abode. Which is fine, because the prospect that I might be served cheese ice cream absolutely terrifies me.

I have a dream! 

I dream of a day when cheese-haters no longer face discrimination and oppression.  A day when we may proudly and freely and right out loud proclaim:

"I hate goddamn pizza!"

Until then, I search for others like me.

There!  Over there:  That woman at the seminar buffet, performing an emergency cheesectomy on a pre-made sandwich, delicately extricating that most execrable substance from its foul and unnatural points of forced contact with the edible meat, lettuce, and tomato. 

I approach, faint of breath but heart pounding with excitement.

“You too?” I murmur, looking nervously away.

“Yes,” she whispers, “I hate the damn stuff!  But please, I’m married.  I have children.”

“I’m discrete. Meet me clandestinely for lunch this week. 

I want to not eat cheese with you! 

Fortunately for those like us there is one true haven. One oasis of sanity and liberation from noxious cheese fumes and obnoxious cheese lovers.

There are Asian restaurants.

And no one, except for maybe the Farbmans, has yet to find a way to make General Tso’s Cheddar.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The above drawing by Brian Peters, 1988. 

That's me running from all the terrifying cheeses. 
I have nightmares just like that.