My husband grew up in the same small town outside of Boston where his mother had been born and raised. Both sets of grandparents also lived in the town so family gatherings were common and frequent.

Part of the reason the two sets of grandparents got along so famously was their shared love of the cocktail hour.* And though only a child, my husband loved the cocktail hour, too. He particularly loved it at the house of his maternal grandparents, Oma and Opa.

Part of the reason was because he adored Opa who taught him how to fish and how to split wood. Another part of the reason was because Oma always put out a very special cheese for cocktail hour. My husband loved this cheese and he would wend his way through the throng of adults in their wool trousers and taffeta skirts until he arrived at the low coffee table that had the soft, orange cheese he loved.

Years went by. His grandparents passed on. Cocktail parties fell out of vogue. My husband left Boston in pursuit of a different kind of life. Still, when he thought back on his childhood he had many fond memories, especially of that cheese his grandmother would serve on a round, crystal tray. What the hell was it?

When he went to France, land of the 365 cheeses, he tried repeatedly to identify that mysterious cheese, but to no avail.

When he traveled to Scotland, he again failed to solve the mystery of the soft, orange cheese.

And then, one night as he conscientiously followed a recipe for chile con quesa that one of his carpenter buddies had given him, he opened up the rectangular package of cheese?and lo, the revelation was at hand.

His Oma?s special cheese? Velveeta.

*Of course I could insert jokes here about WASPs and their love of alcohol, but I?m already playing it to the edge even sharing this anecdote?if T happens to read this post he may just slap me with a charge of blog misdemeanor.

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