For days, I had been wandering around the house muttering 'I can smell something'. It had become an obsession. I first suspected the drains, then Sam's trainers, then my own BO. I finally noticed that the smell seemed strongest in our utility room, so I went to investigate.
At last the light dawned: there, inside the fridge, in its box, wrapped in grease-proof paper, wrapped in a plastic bag
and then placed inside another box, was a fine slab of Pont L'Eveque, the first strike weapon of the French cheese armaments division. The insidious pong had penetrated its five containment barriers.
Without further ado, we did the only sensible thing, and had it for lunch. What a fine cheese!
One funny thing though. I am a lover of the stinky, runny french cheese, but I have never found anything that they go with (apart from bread and crackers). I am left with the conclusion that they are a thoroughbred: meant to be savoured in solitary splendour.
Without further ado, we did the only sensible thing, and had it for lunch. What a fine cheese!
One funny thing though. I am a lover of the stinky, runny french cheese, but I have never found anything that they go with (apart from bread and crackers). I am left with the conclusion that they are a thoroughbred: meant to be savoured in solitary splendour.
