I have been sent away to Seattle, bereft of home, hearth, an my honey. Life is empty, life is drear. I took part in the computer geek activities that took the first portion of the day, and had a couple hours to kill. Nothing called to me, nothing sang my name soft and low, so I walked through the cold rains where none knew me and all eyes were filled with suspicion as I passed. I went down and north, then down and south, and north again.
Until I came to Beecher’s Handmade Cheese.
I had no need of cheese, but the glamorous and brilliant-edged Libby, daughter of my soul, once worked there, building her mighty cheese-making arms and honing her magnificent tourist-cutting grin (both thumbs up, of course). I had my own grin, and the tourists were wary of me. I walked around the place, viewing it from all angles, considering the ways of it, how it changed the environment by laying as it did. I thought of cheese that came my way, and stories of the thankless anguish of a cheesemaker’s life, and how things taste better with a bit of good cheese sprinkled over — or how life is better with a bit of a cheesemaker in it.
I pressed my hands and face to the window, hoping that one of the captive cheesemakers within would display their mighty thews or favor me with a well-cheddared grin, but was disappointed and had to make do with being chased off by the proprieter.
Thanks, Libby — I needed the grin. How you did that from so far away is beyond me.
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry