WALKING ACROSS the plaza Friday heading to the coffee shop, I was unaware that soon I’d be hauling cheese.
No sooner had I sat down with my café Americano negro and opened my Kindle to Charlemagne than my child bride walked up and deposited a bag with a container of cream and a half-kilo of cheese on my table.
Please take this home, she said.
She was heading to the gym.
One of the many things you’re warned about on visiting Mexico is not to eat the cheese. Isn’t pasteurized, they say, or something like that. I pay it no mind.
If someone puts a tasty cheese in front of me, I eat it, no questions asked, and it has not killed me yet.
This is named queso fresco — fresh cheese — and it’s my favorite. We recently found a butcher shop in a bad neighborhood that sells great queso fresco.
When I got home, I took a photo for you. Half a kilo is a big hunk of cheese, and it will last us a while.
Till I got it home it wasn’t even refrigerated.
I am fearless.