The cheese in question was cut from a small round of St. Marcellin, a pungent cow's milk cheese from the Rhone-Alps area of France. We had feasted on some last summer and when I saw it the other day it brought back memories of our lovely trip. I just had to buy it, even though I suspected that it might not measure up.
I noticed it only today, realizing I probably should have eaten it days ago. When I unwrapped it and handed it over to Izzy, his immediate response was, "This smells like poop." Of course that would have deterred me from sampling but no, not my intrepid child. He held the small triangle in his hands and insisted on a tiny taste. The tiny taste turned into a full bite and in seconds he had devoured his piece and was asking for another.
Wait. What does that mean? Poop tastes good? Or it didn't really smell like poop. I hoped for the latter. I had no choice but to taste for myself. It lacked the luscious buttery texture of our Parisian cheese but the flavor vaguely resembled the French version. And I am happy to report, it didn't smell like poop to me.
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