The Happiness Challenge: Day 7

Mmmmm. Vienna Sausage. Happiness.

JUST KIDDING. But wasn't that fun? I sincerely hope no one lost their lunch. If so, let me know. I'll send you a Chick-fil-A gift card.

Confession: Once upon a day, I did love Vienna Sausage. Nasty meat in a can. Shudder. Actually, if I could get past the smell, I might eat one today, but I like to think my culinary choices are more refined now. I mean, no flat water around here, you know? Sparkling for me. Which goes well with cheese. Specifically, Parmesan cheese.


No, no, not that stuff! (Although it's delicious too.) This stuff:


Remember the foil cardboard container before Kraft got all fancy? Anyway. I eat this stuff by the spoonful. Like, I shake out a mound of cheese onto a spoon and shove it in my mouth. It is delicious and I love it and I will not quit it. When I was little, my family referred to the fake Parmesan like this as "stinky cheese." I spent a lot of time at my grandmother's house, and she's the only person who would let me shake an obscene amount of cheese into a tiny paper cup (like you use for mouthwash or water in the bathroom), grab a spoon, and call it an after-school snack.

I grew up (I suppose that's somewhat debatable), but I still eat a lot of stinky cheese. I let my friends Brooke and Katie B. in on my dirty little secret one day at lunch, probably at Davenport's or some other pizza joint, because I thought we were close enough that I was safe. I think they were a little horrified at first—I should tell you that my method for eating this cheese is either a. by pouring cheese onto my plate and eating it with my index finger (stop judging me) or b. by pouring cheese onto my plate and eating it with my fork—so perhaps that's where the incredulous looks were born. But they adjusted and we continued eating lunch together—sometimes one of them would laugh and ask our waiter to go ahead and bring me my own cheese shaker. (Lunches came to a sad and abrupt halt when B. packed up her stuff and moved across the country to California. Rude.)

Now, whenever I make a new friend and we inevitably end up lunching or brunching or munching (sorry, but "dinner" would've ruined my flow) some place where there's pizza-grade Parmesan, I have to warn them, risk total humiliation, because there's no way I'm not going to shake out a tiny mountain of cheese and dig right in with my fork.

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