I greedily claimed free WhatsApp food, but now I’m overwhelmed with the touch of cheese | Brigitte Delaney

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Last week, on my neighborhood WhatsApp group, someone was handing out 90 slices of cheese: “Would anyone like sliced ​​cheese? Or do you know someone I can donate it to? Leftovers from a school reception? »

Yes! Me! I would like the rest of the cheese! It was strange. I needed a lot of cheese for the weekend, and on Friday morning a neighbor had some to offer.

This weekend I was throwing a party for about 50 people and making about 100 sandwiches. I had ordered roast chicken, bread and avocados but not the cheese.

All day I told people about this modern miracle.

Brigid Delaney and WhatsApp cheese. Photo: provided

“I need a lot of cheese, then suddenly it popped up on WhatsApp, like I had manifest this!”

That afternoon, I retrieved the cheese and heard its origin story. It was leftover cheese from an elementary school camp, and due to certain health and safety laws, even if it was properly sealed, they couldn’t reuse it at school. A student’s father saved him from going in the trash, but his family had a dairy intolerance. It was later distributed on WhatsApp.

I was delighted of my good fortune and felt virtuous to save the cheese from the trash. Not only did I have free cheese, but I was fighting against waste and participating in the circular economy. It was a glimpse of a more sustainable future… A The Future of Marxist Cheese where it was each according to his ability, each according to his need. (Or as the French utopian Étienne-Gabriel Morelly proposed in his Code of Nature of 1755: “Nothing in society shall belong to anyone, either as personal possession or as capital goods, except those things which the person has an immediate use, either for its needs, its pleasures or its daily work.

Some people were unhappy with the cheese – but its best before date was December 2023!

🚩🚩🚩 I’m worried about the free cheese.

— Beverley Wang (@beverleywang) September 15, 2022

Could the free cheese end up causing illness and death among my immediate family and dozens of friends? Probably not, but I’ll find out soon.

*

I arrived on the scene just before the party and my mother had already resumed making the sandwiches. She had organized a production line with three others: buttering, deboning, seasoning, shredding the lettuce and assembling.

I stayed at the end, doing nothing. Then suddenly it hit me. Nooooooooooo!!!!!! I had left the cheese at home! Home was 25 minutes away. I had to come back for the cheese! The guests were coming, they had to be fed. They had to have the cheese relocated!

The assembly line was concentrated, they worked in silence, the sandwiches piled up. My mother was responsible and spoke with authority. “Forget the cheese. We don’t have time to go back and get it.

“But but …”

“Nope.”

That night, I came home from the party and opened the fridge. There sat the huge cheese bar. It looked like a lightsaber made out of toilet paper. It was a bit long and heavy. I could use it to bludgeon a house invader over the head, I suppose.

Far from looking like an incredible stroke of luck – a bonus – the cheese had now become a burden. What was I going to do with 90 pieces of cheese? My fridge stinks. This would take up valuable real estate in the middle shelf. I didn’t even really like that kind of cheese. It wasn’t candle enough for a cheese platter, and not more like halloumi. It was prole cheese.

I had to get rid of it somehow. A friend suggested I try giving it away again on the original WhatsApp thread, where I had so eagerly requested it in the first place. Another suggested I return it to the people who gave it to me, put it in their mailbox, and then run away. But I couldn’t do that. Once you have the cheese, you have to pass it on to new people.

It was like cheese was “it” – the awful, filthy thing in children’s cat games. Nobody wants to be this. People run away from you screaming. You are alone (or more correctly according to the nursery rhyme “The cheese is alone, the cheese is alone, huh, the happy, the cheese is alone”).

Junk cheese (cheese that is alone) has dark connotations in the world of children.

In Diary of a Wimpy Kid there is a scene where there is a large piece of cheese on the ground in the school yard. Nobody knew how he got there – he appeared “mysteriously”. A child says: “No one knew who it belonged to, no one touched it. Nobody threw it away. So there he sat, becoming grosser and more powerful day by day. Like my cheese!

Then one day, a kid named Darren Walsh “made the biggest mistake of his life.” He touched the cheese. He now had the “cheese touch”. The children ran away from him screaming. He has become an outcast. The only way to get rid of the cheesy touch was to pass it on to someone else.

Have I been involved in a situation of touching adult cheese, bought in bulk?

I believe him.

But one day, when I go to a friend’s house, and he’s distracted, I’m going to pull out the 90 slices of cheese that I hid in my backpack, and put the cheese in their fridge. And they will have the touch of cheese.

You were warned.



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