Blocks of feta make pasta better. Smooth
like butter when paired with
sundried tomato tang.
Baked camembert oozing, spilling,
ripe for dunking, dripping, thick
crusty bread. Night in alone. Indulgence.
Cheddar bubbling under the grill,
Dad’s comforting toast sprinkled
with chili flakes.
Lasagne browned to a gentle crunch –
then melted, stringy goo.
Ricotta bulging out of cannoli pipes
fresh from the cart in the shopping
mall. Favourite Floridian holiday.
Ricotta reappearing alongside spinach.
Maybe chicken. Maybe cannoli and cannelloni.
Ricotta, with more purposes than
it ought to have.
Cheesy chips with gravy in Manchester.
With bacon, jalapeños, spring onions
across the pond.
Apparently few people like goats’.
A good old cheese sandwich, Red Leicester.
Café panini glue.
Continental breakfast at the hotel.
Potato skins shared between two.
Brie and stilton on the cheeseboard
at the work Christmas do.
Mozzarella circles evenly distributed
on pizza. Eat-in or take-out romance.
Mozzarella sticks for starters dipped
in marinara sauce.
Cheese slices on the American burger.
Cheddar blocks on the ends of toothpicks
at the buffet. Child’s play.
Cream cheese triangles on toast.
Strings in lunchboxes. Babybel.
Cheesecake, New York style, all the styles.
Parmesan grated over spaghetti.
Am I forgetting any?
Sam Rose is a three-time cancer survivor and this has set up home in a corner of her brain. No amount of shooing will usher it from its campsite, so she flings words at it in the hopes of keeping it pacified. She is the editor of Peeking Cat Literary.