Well, I hope all you lads and lasses are having a very happy St. Valentine’s Day, especially those of you in the states, who are hopefully about to enjoy a tasty supper in pleasant company. Here supper is well past, so after doing dishes I’m going to crawl in bed with my current book (no, it’s not Modern Parasitology) and leave the partying to other time zones.

I went out to the world-famous Portobello market today for a bit of a grand day out, and discovered not only lots of antique surveying equipment, maps, skeleton clocks, and books (which was exciting enough), but a Normandie cheesemonger. It’s small, with very polite vendors, and everything is written in French. As someone who speaks just enough French to make jokes about potatoes*, I hung back a yard or so while trying to figure out which cheese was which from what the other customers were saying. It didn’t help too much, and the only non-English cheese I recognized was Bleu Average. It was going to be brie or bleu in any case, so I joined the queue and asked for about 300g of bleu cheese. It turns out that this is the kind of place where, in one corner of a metre-long case, there are seven different types of bleu cheese. I was treated to an explanation of the sharpness and consistency of each, and came home with this wonderful, creamy sharp goatsmilk bleu. Tomorrow I’ll get some crackers, and then I can die happy.

*c’est la vie, c’est la guerre, c’est la pomme de terre, in case you were wondering.

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