I used to love cheeses of every kind,
a slice of brie squelching from the corners,
cheddar pieces spread with golden honey,
sometimes a blue one at Christmas time too.
In France how I loved melted cheese fondue,
bits of stale bread dipped in pans of fromage.
With the contents dry and nearly all gone,
that’s when a crust forms to make a new taste.
In Switzerland my favourite was raclette,
a special machine used to melt Gruyère
covers potatoes in a thick white cloak,
with Parma ham, dried, pink and delicious.
In Italy a piece of Parmesan,
cut into swirls and added to salads,
or perhaps finely grated as toppings
for pasta like spaghetti, penne too.
Elsewhere the staple diet of pizza,
Thin crust, deep pan, or folded calzone,
I ate them with olives and salami,
Four seasons, four cheeses, all pizza types.
Then one day I found cheeses don’t love me,
Not cow cheese, which cuts variety down.
Goat, sheep, buffalo will now have to do,
One day I had a hot goat’s cheese raclette.
[This is a Featured Poem from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]
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