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Popular wisdom says that you don’t understand what love is until you’ve felt it. Though I don’t feel this describes my relationship with cheese, it applies to how it is received. When I say that I love cheese, people assume I’m being careless with the word, slumping on a hyperbole crutch and not listening to enough Louis C.K. Eight minutes later, they utter the inevitable “Wow, you really do love cheese,” after waking up from a glassy-eyed daydream during which I obliviously waxed poetic about how the best cheeses have crystals.

Yes, crystals. (We’ll talk.)

It’s not that cheese is my misunderstood bad boy and the world can’t fathom our love. It’s more like The Cube House or any well-executed/evil advertisement for teenagers – you have to be on the inside to really get it.

I hope that’s why you’re here: A place where grocery-store marble and Mimolette have equal rights to the same mouth, where what’s in the dairy drawer influences entire meals and crackers are never required – because you really do love cheese, too.

(And puns. If you missed the neon-flashing endorsement for verbal cheese as well as physical, please revisit the URL.)

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