I’m having thoughts, and schemes, and also various layers of exhaustion. It’s ok, it’s not you, it’s me. It might be best for me to pull over and stop this intro before the delirium becomes strangely contagious and you don’t want to read about…
The young turophile walked into the tiny Italian restaurant. A lovely aroma filled the air, and the young man was filled with the hope that this restaurant, tiny though it was, would be the one that fulfilled his culinary ambitions. He cautiously strode to an empty table in a corner of the dimly lit room, fully aware that as promising as this restaurant seemed from the outside, one simple test remained, and failure meant instant disappointment. And then it came, as he hurriedly scanned the menu, ignoring the flowing script and elegant speech. Alas, this lovely menu proclaimed to all his deepest fears and deflated his hopes in an instant: The seven-cheese lasagna included mozzarella. Devastated, the man cried in disdain, giving voice to the pain which understood by all turophiles.
“Mozzarella?! Mozzarella???!!!!!!! Mozzarella is not a CHEESE! Mozzarella is merely a lactic fermentation!”
Short, and tangy. Or something.
turophile / TUR – o – file / a connoisseur of cheese : a cheese fancier