Val Thevictorian has a bone to pick with the cheese man at Walmart. Surely Walmart has a cheese man, right? Cheese doesn’t just roll itself in there on its uniwheel, shred itself, and jump into a plastic bag. It gets processed elsewhere, and it gets delivered to Walmart. Somebody checks off the shipment, and decides where that cheese will go. Perhaps into the cooler to await restocking. Perhaps into a freezer to preserve it until there’s a hue and cry for shredded mozzarella. Perhaps onto a loading dock in the August dog days to sit, sweating, until somebody notices the cheese is steaming, then clandestinely shoves into a cooler until restocking time. Gotta move that cheese first.
VAL GOT SOME BAD CHEESE!
Don’t go blaming Val. She has bought this product before, with no problem. A brand name, even. A 50-pound bag of shredded mozzarella. It’s great for slapping onto homemade pizza, into nachos, onto pasta, and topping garlic cheese bread. Which brings us to last night, 'round about dinner time.
I had the chicken tortellini boiling, the sauce simmering, my minced-garlic-infused butter already spread upon the French bread slices (at Thevictorian household, cultures are often mingled), awaiting the sprinkling of garlic salt. The oven was hot for those tasty morsels. As I pried open the Ziploc top of that industrial size bag of shredded mozzarella that I had just bought last weekend, I spied a tiny green speck. About the size of a pencil eraser.
THAT FREAKIN’ CHEESE HAD A USE BY DATE OF NOVEMBER 14! IN 2015!
What’s a woman to do, her meal simmering and bubbling and her Pony salivating at the thought of that garlic cheese bread? Okay. The Pony likes his garlic cheese bread without cheese. Just like he used to prefer his burger without meat. But Hick and I were ready for some delicious garlic cheese bread to accompany our tortellini.
Yes. I put the cheese on the bread. NOT THE GREEN PART! The part way on the other side of the 100-pound package. (Heh, heh. I said 100-pound package!) Let the record show that I crumbled those shreds apart to spread evenly on the bread, and no speck of green was seen. Besides, it was going to melt under the working heating element in the oven anyway. I stashed the rest of that cheese in the trash. What Hick didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And if it did, pathologists searching the homestead for the agent of death would find it.
Hey! Maybe when I have that grand opening of my proposed handbasket factory, I can serve up some tasty garlic cheese bread. For free!
I know your mouth is waterin’.