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susanstinsonI'm feeling fond of those on my friendslist who have an affinity for dairy products: folks like ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anarqueso and gordonzola -- and also, perhaps, amarama (I'm not sure about her feelings for dairy products, but I'm solid on the fondness). Also, fattest, of Creamy Goodness (band and zine) fame, and I suspect grapesoda of having an appreciation of dairy, too.
It's not cheese, but one of my novels, Martha Moody, set in the late nineteenth century, used butter as metaphor throughout the book. I feel like putting up, at least for a little while, some small tastes of that:
I raised my bowl and pulled the tablecloth off with a flourish. The butter was pale yellow and sweating a little, smooth and blank and whole in the bottom of the bowl. I held it out to her, and said, "Could I supply you with butter?"
I wanted to make my own money. I wanted to see more of Martha. Miss Alice gave milk that churned up sweet, and I was patient and attentive to the rising cream.
Martha took the bowl from my hands and set it down on the counter. Without saying a word, she walked down the aisle and came back with a knife and a loaf of bread. She stood next to the cash register and cut a thick slice, then slid the knife into my softened butter and spread it on the bread. She closed her eyes and took a bite. I watched her taste my wares.
She nodded her head. "It's good. Can you bring it in quarter pound balls?" She opened her eyes.
"Yes." There were gold crumbs on her breasts.
She offered me fifty cents a pound, a very good price, then she cut a slice from the loaf for me. I held it in my hand while she leaned across the counter with the butter knife. She made a slow swipe across the bread, then her knife slipped, and she buttered my wrist.
I stood in the road and licked the slick spot after I walked out of Moody's store. I left the rest of the butter with her.
anarqueso and gordonzola -- and also, perhaps, amarama (I'm not sure about her feelings for dairy products, but I'm solid on the fondness). Also, fattest, of Creamy Goodness (band and zine) fame, and I suspect grapesoda of having an appreciation of dairy, too. It's not cheese, but one of my novels, Martha Moody, set in the late nineteenth century, used butter as metaphor throughout the book. I feel like putting up, at least for a little while, some small tastes of that:
I raised my bowl and pulled the tablecloth off with a flourish. The butter was pale yellow and sweating a little, smooth and blank and whole in the bottom of the bowl. I held it out to her, and said, "Could I supply you with butter?"
I wanted to make my own money. I wanted to see more of Martha. Miss Alice gave milk that churned up sweet, and I was patient and attentive to the rising cream.
Martha took the bowl from my hands and set it down on the counter. Without saying a word, she walked down the aisle and came back with a knife and a loaf of bread. She stood next to the cash register and cut a thick slice, then slid the knife into my softened butter and spread it on the bread. She closed her eyes and took a bite. I watched her taste my wares.
She nodded her head. "It's good. Can you bring it in quarter pound balls?" She opened her eyes.
"Yes." There were gold crumbs on her breasts.
She offered me fifty cents a pound, a very good price, then she cut a slice from the loaf for me. I held it in my hand while she leaned across the counter with the butter knife. She made a slow swipe across the bread, then her knife slipped, and she buttered my wrist.
I stood in the road and licked the slick spot after I walked out of Moody's store. I left the rest of the butter with her.