Switzerland, next to Lindt Chocolate factory, in a small little house is where some of my childhood was spent. Right after those years in the west of Africa. Where the black continent was impoverished, and especially the poorest country of all, Sierra Leone, Rueschlikon sported several Millionaires. Contrasts between those two places abounded, but one thing that certainly grabbed my attention early on was the food inaccessible to me in Freetown: Cheese. Switzerland and its cheese mountains. How delectable they were piling up. Edible gold to me. I looooooove cheese, holey cheeses and stinky cheeses and slimey cheeses and mouldy cheeses and blue cheeses, melted, ground, liquid.
Raclette, fondue, piled on Spaghetti, on toast, on baguette. Any color, yellow, orange, blue, blackish. Cheese has a permanent residency in my heart. Jesus, my hubby, cheese. That order. Kind of… I believe Jesus is actually found in cheese, as it serves as a reminder of His perfection. My husband hates cheese. Caused me to cut down and loose weight, Still, nothing comes between our love. I guess, if Jesus were to come own from heaven and inform me its either Cheese or Him, I would have to consider for a few moments. Or mourn. Thing is, I can still pronounce Jesus like Cheeesus, like a particularly cute girl in my church always does. So, I would have a piece of cheese with me, always. After all, He says, “I am with you until the end of days”. That pretty much sums up my relationship with Chees, I mean Cheesus, oh, Jesus. And cheese.
Don’t take that away from my palette, and all will be well. I promise. Otherwise, I won’t guarantee for anything.