Baby E. still has the occasional spit-up, and thus he and A. and I all smell like stinky cheese most of the day.
Oh, and this is hilarious to me. When I was younger I discovered an abiding love for stinky cheeses. Serious stinkers like Stilton or Camembert (or anything on this creamy marbly delicious-sounding list) took longer to grow on me, but I was young and a slightly picky eater. If a cheese was sharp and solid and pungently sour, I was there. But I wasn’t too choosy about cheese quality. My favorite meal was plain pasta and parmesan cheese, microwaved until the cheese solidified into flat plaster with the surface texture of plastic wrap. I would’ve eaten this clogging crap for every meal if my family hadn’t protested.
“It stinks.” (My sister. True.)
“It smells like vomit.” (My brother. Also true.)
“Maybe you could put some vegetables on it.” (My mother. Oh, Mom. Thanks for giving me time.)
“I’ll have some of that.” (My father, authority on nearly all things stinky, including Limburger, pickled anything, and sardines. Also, he didn’t really say this, because even he had standards.)
Long story short: when I smell my own little Magister Illyrio’s stinky cheese breath, I get ravenously hungry. So I snuggle him close and pretend to eat his cheeks and try not to actually take a bite.
ICYMI: Actual Job: Cheese Librarian