ABSTRACT
With bread and cheese and kisses for daily fare, life is held to be perfect by the poet. Nor is cheese without its poetry to comfort the hater of pure prose. Once the "glory of fair Sicily", there must ever linger about it sweet echoes of Sicilian song sung under the wild olives and beneath the elms, where Theocritus "watched the visionary flocks". Did not "a great white cream-cheese" buy that wondrous bowl, the "miracle of varied work"? Perhaps because cheese has been relegated to the last course at midday breakfast or at dinner, has it lost much of its charm for the heedless. Test the cheese within with sensitive finger, and value it according to its softness, for an unripe Camembert that crumbles at touch of the knife is deadlier far than all the seven deadly sins. But let the sandwich be made of brown bread and mix butter and mustard and anchovies with the cheese.
