Hi, my name is Charisse, and I’m a blue cheese addict.
Now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, let me explain.
I’ve never been a fancy kind of cheese girl. I’m more of a classic cheese girl. American, usually. Swiss, occasionally. And parmesan only on my spaghetti. But recently, something has changed. I’ve become addicted to blue cheese, and I’m not exactly sure what to do about it.
To better understand my predicament, let’s take a closer look at my most recent blue cheese incidents:
Blue Cheese Incident #1, Friday:
The weekend started out with an innocent trip to the supermarket where my eyes came to rest on the olive bar (another one of my addictions). A closer inspection revealed green olives stuffed with blue cheese. I filled up a container and spent the rest of the night stuffing myself with stuffed olives.
Blue Cheese Incident #2, Saturday:
A spontaneous late-afternoon trip to Hooters (not the classiest joint, I know) to catch the end of the UCLA basketball game should’ve resulted in a beer or two and maybe an appetizer. However, as soon as my eyes fell on the blue cheese burger staring up at me from the menu, I couldn’t resist. One container of blue cheese olives and a blue cheese burger later, I vowed it was the end.
Blue Cheese Incident #3, Sunday:
After four hours of shopping on an empty stomach, I found myself sitting at a table at the Outback. I looked over the menu, decided on a steak, chose my two sides (mashed potatoes and green beans), and was feeling pretty darn pleased with myself. Then, the waitress came.
“You can also choose from the soups and salads for your sides,” she informed me.
“Oh, ok, what kind of salads do you have?” I asked.
“We have a ceaser salad, a blue cheese and pecan salad….”
I didn’t even listen to the rest of the options. Instead, I miserably ordered the blue cheese salad and hung my head in shame.
So, I say again, my name is Charisse, and I’m a blue cheese addict.
Hold me accountable?