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Abstract

rican husband to French cheese – not that it is a hard thing to achieve. Every time we are at my parents’, after they go to sleep we like to sneak to the kitchen and eat their cheese.We eat French portions in France, so he tends to get hungry before bed. The first time, we went down to scavenge the fridge and fill the hunger void. He opened the fridge. One full shelf of yogurt. Underneath, salads and other ready-to-eat meals. A few leftovers. Some veggies. And cheese.To this day, when we visit, my parents stock up on cheese. Not beer, wine, or chocolates. Cheese.I miss it. I miss French food. I miss my French diet, sweet breakfast, and fresh produce almost every day. And I miss the variety of cheese.Every time we go groceries, I have to stop by the cheese. The normal place, and the fancy place. I’m a bit masochistic.There was this Camembert looking at me. Président, a French brand! I thought I would be safe. I picked it up, as excited as a kid on Christmas. A French Camembert in the middle of nowhere, United States. If it’s not a metaphor for my life, I don’t know what is.I turned it upside down, ready to read more about it. I wish I had never seen what I saw that day. It still haunts me.Made In The Uni

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ted States.Sorry, what?I’ve been lied to. Used. This Camembert was click-bait. French-bait. America, I shouldn’t have let my guard down.I didn’t buy it. Instead, I went to my husband and openly complained. I was ashamed as a customer. It’s not the manager I wanted to see, but the president of Président. I had been betrayed.It’s been months, but I can’t help myself. Every time, I have to turn the Camembert upside down, hoping to read something new.I know, it’s insane. America will close its borders before a real unpasteurized Camembert set box in the country. As long as an American citizen lives, no Camembert will survive under the Stars and Stripes banner.But as long as I live in the US, I will turn over every cheese I lay an eye on until I finally find my holy grail.Made In France.With love. And milk.Thank you for reading. <a href="https://alex-rosado.medium.com/membership">Join Medium</a> to support me and many other writers. This is an affiliate link: a part of your subscription will be distributed to me, at no extra cost for you. You can also <a href="https://www.buymeacoffee.com/alexrosadowrite">buy me a coffee</a>.</article></body>

Pardon my French

Not Every Cheese Is Camembert

It’s important to read the small lines on the back.

So many French clichés in one picture! (Polina Kovaleva via Pexels)

Nothing gets me going more than picking up cheese in the United States. Whatever the supermarket, it always disappoints.

See, I’m French. French French. I like cheese. I add cheese to almost every dish. Being lactose intolerant never stopped me. Cheese I must have.

When I moved to the United States, I knew things were never going to be the same. In France, we have an aisle dedicated to cheese in the supermarkets. Even if you go to an outdoor market, there will always be at least one cheese vendor.

Cheese is a way of life.

I converted my American husband to French cheese – not that it is a hard thing to achieve. Every time we are at my parents’, after they go to sleep we like to sneak to the kitchen and eat their cheese.

We eat French portions in France, so he tends to get hungry before bed. The first time, we went down to scavenge the fridge and fill the hunger void. He opened the fridge. One full shelf of yogurt. Underneath, salads and other ready-to-eat meals. A few leftovers. Some veggies. And cheese.

To this day, when we visit, my parents stock up on cheese. Not beer, wine, or chocolates. Cheese.

I miss it. I miss French food. I miss my French diet, sweet breakfast, and fresh produce almost every day. And I miss the variety of cheese.

Every time we go groceries, I have to stop by the cheese. The normal place, and the fancy place. I’m a bit masochistic.

There was this Camembert looking at me. Président, a French brand! I thought I would be safe. I picked it up, as excited as a kid on Christmas. A French Camembert in the middle of nowhere, United States. If it’s not a metaphor for my life, I don’t know what is.

I turned it upside down, ready to read more about it. I wish I had never seen what I saw that day. It still haunts me.

Made In The United States.

Sorry, what?

I’ve been lied to. Used. This Camembert was click-bait. French-bait. America, I shouldn’t have let my guard down.

I didn’t buy it. Instead, I went to my husband and openly complained. I was ashamed as a customer. It’s not the manager I wanted to see, but the president of Président. I had been betrayed.

It’s been months, but I can’t help myself. Every time, I have to turn the Camembert upside down, hoping to read something new.

I know, it’s insane. America will close its borders before a real unpasteurized Camembert set box in the country. As long as an American citizen lives, no Camembert will survive under the Stars and Stripes banner.

But as long as I live in the US, I will turn over every cheese I lay an eye on until I finally find my holy grail.

Made In France.

With love. And milk.

Thank you for reading. Join Medium to support me and many other writers. This is an affiliate link: a part of your subscription will be distributed to me, at no extra cost for you. You can also buy me a coffee.