It has recently come to my attention that my opinions on cheese are absolute trash.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s not for lack of trying. In fact, at one point in my life, I considered myself something of a (self-proclaimed) cheese connoisseur.
Having a French brother-in-law has many perks, one of which being that you can claim to be an expert on all things French simply by association.
I knew about macarons, pain au chocolat, and Orangina long before they were a blip on any food trend analyst’s radar, and I relished the (imagined) feeling of sophistication and empowerment these insights gave me amongst my then-social circle of giggly, 19-year old girls and flamboyant gay men. I fancied myself a trendsetter, and spent hours daydreaming about the illustrious career I’d have as a food writer for Saveur or National Geographic, working remotely from various French estates and lavender…
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