14/11: Slice of life
So our lovely daughter has developed one of those periodic medical issues young children occasionally have. I was on paediatrician duty this time ‘round, took her in.
On the way back, waiting for the pharmacy people to do their thing, it occurs to me she and I will need lunch shortly; appointment was earlyish; there hasn’t been time to pack one for her yet. So we stroll to the local awesome deli place (the previously mentioned Nicastro’s), I get some of that roast beef I so love (the little one loves it too), a small brick of 10-year old cheddar…
The little one is gazing into the cheese cooler with evident interest. Nicastro’s has something like 300 cheeses in their fridge, from all around the world. Durned impressive. You’d die of cholesterol poisoning exploring them all. But you’d die happy.
I ask if she wants something. She points to a gouda, says please.
I warn her it’s a six-year old, might be sharper than she’s used to. But the woman working the counter offers to let her taste it.
Our lovely daughter is game, likes it. The cheese is older than she is, but sure, whatever; she’s had a hard morning. I ask ‘em to slice off an inch or so.
We get to the cash. And the price is…
Twenty-three bucks for that particular slice, thank you very much.
Daddy barely manages to restrain himself from giving a very curmudgeonly speech. If I had allowed it myself, however, I expect it would have gone, roughly:
‘Ya know, when I was a boy, I got an awful lot of peanut butter in my lunches…’
Anyway. I said no such thing. And the gouda is damned good stuff.
So our daughter has good taste, at least. Expensive, but good.
On the way back, waiting for the pharmacy people to do their thing, it occurs to me she and I will need lunch shortly; appointment was earlyish; there hasn’t been time to pack one for her yet. So we stroll to the local awesome deli place (the previously mentioned Nicastro’s), I get some of that roast beef I so love (the little one loves it too), a small brick of 10-year old cheddar…
The little one is gazing into the cheese cooler with evident interest. Nicastro’s has something like 300 cheeses in their fridge, from all around the world. Durned impressive. You’d die of cholesterol poisoning exploring them all. But you’d die happy.
I ask if she wants something. She points to a gouda, says please.
I warn her it’s a six-year old, might be sharper than she’s used to. But the woman working the counter offers to let her taste it.
Our lovely daughter is game, likes it. The cheese is older than she is, but sure, whatever; she’s had a hard morning. I ask ‘em to slice off an inch or so.
We get to the cash. And the price is…
Twenty-three bucks for that particular slice, thank you very much.
Daddy barely manages to restrain himself from giving a very curmudgeonly speech. If I had allowed it myself, however, I expect it would have gone, roughly:
‘Ya know, when I was a boy, I got an awful lot of peanut butter in my lunches…’
Anyway. I said no such thing. And the gouda is damned good stuff.
So our daughter has good taste, at least. Expensive, but good.
Holly wrote:
And since I don’t believe in the cholesterol myth, these days I buy my own double-digit cheese! There’s a similar imported-goodies grocer in my new town full of European cheeses, candies, jellies, preserves, biscuits et al. There’s also a very fine organic grocer where you can spend obscene amounts of money on gourmet olives and homemade hummus. Mmmm, hummus.