Las Vegas

The cheese house is just like Las Vegas. Well, Las Vegas sans dancing girls and flashing lights. Follow the analogy with me for just a moment and I believe that you will see that this is not a flippant statement, but a well thought out comparison.

The cheese house has no windows to the outside world. Many an evening I have left the cheese house on what I thought to be a rainy day, only to witness the most captivating sunset imaginable, slipping over the ridge. While Vegas keeps the window population low to ensure time lost in long hours of gambling, I believe that the architect of the cheese house had his employees in mind while at the drafting table. Surely less work would get done if we were gazing out the transparent glass, pining for the days when we spent hours swinging from trees and catching frogs in a babbling brook, believing tales that the Moses Kill derived it's name from a horrific murder of a man named Moses. No, more gambling and more cheese making occur when you are unaware of the hours passing and the weather being missed.

Secondly, and perhaps less obvious to the layperson, is the rush one gets while placing a bet or adding enzymes to a vat of milk. The impending doom of a botched attempt mixed ever so slightly with the glory of potential success produces a special kind of feeling in your gut that is not altogether unlike indigestion.

The comparison can be brought to an end with the motto known to all in the cheese house: "What's said in the cheese house, stays in the the cheese house!" That is, until now.

In the midst of my quarter-life crisis, which is perhaps a notion invented by a generation bent on complaining about everything, I find infinite wisdom and experience in the cheese house. So, forgetting the love-life that crashed and burned or the career that more than derailed, I share musings from the cheese house. For as the cheese ages to it's perfection, perhaps I will age to mine.