Thanksgiving Cheese

We had a very successful Thanksgiving, thanks to two recipes from The Wall Street Journal, which is working hard to improve its arts and leisure coverage (we can still hear its starchy editors straining their pinstripes as they try to be Times imitators, but we've been enjoying its enthusiastic food articles).

We used the turkey recipe and, even without the right kind of pot, we managed to make a moist, flavorful bird (with a short stop for giblet eating along the way that was not clear from the recipe if we were supposed to do or not). We also made the Thai-style sweet potato, which was delish, although not quite coconutty or cinammon-flavored enough for me. There's always next year. I also murdered an adorable Halloween pumpkin (see picture) to make pies.

That's Bartleby you see up there and he is really the one with the best Thanksgiving story. What am I thankful for about Bartleby? Everything, but this Thanksgiving he really keyed in to what the holiday is all about: buying very special, expensive cheese.

I bought some Humboldt Fog and some Pleasant Ridge Reserve from the new, extremely upscale Kroger, with a Murray's Cheese Shop, that just opened in our ever more upscale mall. Don't talk to me about recession! The entire mall has been packed for the last two months and that Kroger is going day and night. Anyway, the special, expensive cheese was wrapped in paper.

Bartleby has never seen cheese that is wrapped in paper or bought it from a cheese counter. He was crazy to try the cheese. For an entire day he asked about the cheese and I told him he had to wait until Thanksgiving. While I was getting dressed to take him somewhere (probably to distract him from the cheese), I heard some rummaging in the fridge, but didn't care to go look. A few minutes later, he came to my room and said,
"Mommy, I almost did something unacceptable."
"What's that?" I asked, thinking the worst, obviously.
"I almost opened the Thanksgiving cheese," he said, to my surprise.
"The really special expensive cheese?" I asked, just to be sure.
"Yes."
"But you didn't."
"I almost opened it, but I didn't."
"I guess you really want to try that cheese?"
"Yes."
"Well," I said, "If we're going to do this, let's do it right. Let's go taste cheese."

So we went into the kitchen, I poured myself some wine and Bartleby some juice, let Bartleby unwrap the cheeses and cut him small pieces. He asked what the black stuff was on the Humboldt Fog. "Chocolate," I lied. How do you explain mold to a three year old? He tasted the Pleasant Ridge Reserve.
I asked, "Do you like them."
"Not so much," he said, then "Can I have a cookie?" without missing a beat.

When I finally served the cheese, he was excited to see it out on the table, but all he said was, "I want a cheese stick."