every bite of food has a story

No matter what I do, I cannot seem to take a bite of food and not taste a story.

When the Chef ordered this cheese for the restaurant the first time, I couldn't stop taking little nibbles. The tangy rind, the oozing smooth layer closest to that rind, and the flaky white center, standing firm. Buche de Maitre Seguin is a beautiful cheese.

Try it crumbled on top of butter leaf lettuce salads, with avocado and champagne vinaigrette. Salad never felt so decadent on the tongue.

I swear, I was just going to post this photo, with no story, no words. Just a photo. That was the plan.

And then, yesterday, after I dropped the Chef off at the restaurant, and gave him a dozen kisses, plus ten more, I walked into the sunshine. And then, I turned around and went back in. The car needed a check-up. I was on my way to the mechanics, where the car would sit in the secret cave for the next few hours. I would write in a nearby coffee shop until nearly five.

Now, here's the problem. If you have to eat gluten-free, and you are in a coffee shop for more than half an hour, you are trapped into hunger. With a few rare exceptions in Seattle, I cannot go into any coffee shop and find something to eat. Muffins, scones, cookies, pizza bread, brioche, little baguettes, and olive oil crackers — they all contain gluten. There is coffee, and bottled water, and tea. But even some herbal teas have malt flavoring in them. Essentially, it's a steady stream of foam and caffeine, with nothing to take the edge off the gnawing in the stomach.

I turned to the Chef and told him of my dilemma. "Do you have some almonds I can have?" (I had not planned ahead.)
His eyes went wide, and his face took on that naughty delight he loves to live in. He raised a finger, to say, "Give me a minute."
I went out into the restaurant to take some more photos.

A minute later, he handed me a white to-go box, folded up and closed. He watched me open it. I sensed his smile when I squealed. Inside? A few pieces of pâte, with a dab of mustard. Pickled ramps. Kalamata olives. And three small rounds of this Buche de Maitre Seguin.

I threw my arms around him, of course. No one has ever packed me such a brown-bag lunch as this.

Every time I taste this cheese now, I will think of this story.