This is saying something as I am a slow eater to begin with, due to several reasons I am aware of because my college roommate and I spent way more time than necessary dissecting the reasons for my sssllloooow rate of food consumption, because that's just what you do in college, I guess, but not to worry: I'm not going to take you through the whole thing. Bad enough I've forced Derek to listen to our detailed findings.
But with cheese? It's even worse. If I'm eating it plain, a hefty block in one hand and some fruit in the other (Ooooh, heaven. Hello, saliva pooling in my mouth, even now), I will take as long as I please, thank you very much, because I am not a savage. This is cheese, friends. I was devoted to Madonna's Like A Prayer album as a kid, and continued to love that freak right up until she declared that she doesn't eat cheese. Even as a child I recognized that some things are sacred, and certain delicious dairy products are one of them. If there is a cheese gene, I have it and have passed it to Adelaide, who loved cheese so much as a baby that she would lose her ever-loving mind if the word was said within her range of hearing and we did not have an offering of cheese to throw at her from a safe distance (I am only barely exaggerating), to the extent that I started to call it queso in her presence, which worked for right around six days. I recently made the mistake of letting her try some of the havarti cheese I was nibbling on whilst the children were eating the more homely colby jack (don't get me wrong, I love even peasant cheese), and she was so smitten that she now asks for it on a daily basis. The asiago is currently hidden in the back of the cheese drawer (because of course we have a cheese drawer) in the fridge, away from her voracious eyes.
So for the next couple months I will stop and take time to enjoy the spring vocal concert and the havarti and the soccer games and the aged white cheddar. And I will do so as slowly as I want.