This Thursday past, I had an appointment to go to with my orthopedist, so I left work and went home for a bit of lunch before I went to the purgatory known as a doctor’s waiting room.
I heated up some canned soup and made a grilled cheese sandwich. Due to a recent ridiculous foray into the cheese area of Whole Foods, I walked away with raw milk, cave-aged Emmenthaler cheese. It sounded exciting, and for eight bucks for a sizable block, it had better be.
Well, I guess the cave-aged technique doesn’t sit well with my stomach. Since I’m lactose-intolerant, I can tolerate a certain amount of cheese, so I wasn’t worried about the amount in a grilled cheese sandwich much. So it was surprising that I couldn’t finish either the soup or the sandwich.
And then… it began.
My stomach made rumbling similar to what might have been heard on the streets of Pompeii moments before disaster. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t eat. I just wanted to curl up until my stomach was done rioting against me. I had to call the doctor’s office and let them know I wasn’t going to be able to make it. So I called and left a message, and yes, I did mention I made a poor cheese choice for lunch that day.
Within the hour, I got a call back from one of the staff members in charge of the appointments. She called me back quickly, not to reschedule, but to relate her *own* bad experience with what she deemed some “stinky cheese” at a wine tasting event. She told me, “Oh, I completely understand! That cheese was so good, but I did not feel good the next day!”
So, Kat from the doctor’s office and I bonded over the phone with our cheese-eating mishaps. It’s just one of those ways food can bring strangers closer together.