Little white vans race into our village every day selling linen, frozen food, vegetables, yummy cakes and crusty fresh bread. This morning though I discovered another van I will get hooked on. The cheese lady.
Now then, I am the only one in our family who really likes cheese. The last local cheese I bought from a festival was a round of strong smelling, strong tasting goats cheese. I had to eat it all myself. It took so long to eat it followed us round from Portugal to France. Now I am cheeseless.
My neighbour Maria, who speaks French, was waiting on her doorstep this morning. When she mentioned she was waiting for a cheese van I was beside myself with enthusiasm and raced in for my purse. I poked my head out the window, listening for the sound of the horn. The van approached, wickedly silent. The dog barked, warning me.
Maria had chosen a round of hard cheese. She pointed to a large, creamy looking cheese at the front. “Very fresh”, she said in French. “It was made this morning”. My heart stopped with delight. I glanced at the hard, goats cheeses, then back at the soft one. Would it be too strong? Too stinky? Would I end up throwing it away or trailing it round Europe with me determined to finish the damn thing. I bought it, a small bucketful for 7 euros. Raced upstairs. Found some crackers and cheese. Aah. It was creamy, like mozerella. Not strong tasting, a little bland even due to its freshness. A dab of jam with it. Some fresh coffee. This is the life. Bring it on, sunshine.