The cheesehead I received from Borden was way beyond a Packers Cheesehead – it was a practical cheesehead. A multi-use cheesehead.
It was a cheesehead made to be employed in big game scenarios. Which is what we had last week in the Super Bowl.
It pained me to cut into this masterpiece. How could I “tastefully” not eat/cut, yet display?
“Do I HAVE to cut it up?”
And I don’t mean to be “cheesy.”
I found no answers, so I did both.
I love cheese and am a self-admitted “cheese whore.”
I will eat cheese of all kinds, from Muenster to Brie, to raspberry goat, to Swiss aka “swizzle“, until it is all gone. Anywhere. EVERY. TIME. My track record indicates this.
There will be no “saving for later,” a lie fake cheeseheads tell themselves, and others.
This cheesehead is to be tastefully, and respectfully, POUNDED.
9 LBS of cheese in my home equals lots of cardio and a week of not eating solid food for your boy Paulie E.
In my wisdom as an adult, the only thing I could think to do was deploy the cheesehead on the youth who entered my home on that fateful Sunday where Tom Brady asserted himself as, historically, the biggest cheese in NFL history.
Their metabolisms are faster, I surmised, internally – which is where most of the cheese still resides a week later.
And, for the rest of our lives.
But it doesn’t matter. My pleasure centers were PEGGED all week as I casually strolled to the fridge on many a late evening, with no particular directive.
Yet, all trips ending in overconsumption of the cheese.
This was the first time I ever melted cheese in a crock pot like a “big boy.”
And I DEF KILLED IT.
I love the Super Bowl. Like, LOVE it.
Throw a “bowl” at me on the spee-zot and I can tell you where I was, what I was doing at the exact time. In my life and the party I was at, Holmes.
Which is how I now feel about a melted “bowl” of Borden’s, supreme cheese king for cheese fiends, and weird cheese scenes, to the extreme.
If someone would have brought a bottle of wine (impossible, they were all thirteen y.o.), I woulda turned the spot into a presentation on European Exploration, like my boy Rick Steves, bruh.
“This here is Wisconsin, kids.” As I EXTENDED a pointer at a map on the wall, class in sesh,
“No it isn’t Europe, technically. Thank you for noting, Jonathan.”
I get into it.
Which is how the cheese got into me.
Do yourself a flavor and buy a Borden’s cheesehead for your next in-house big event.
Wait a minute – maybe that’s WHY they sent it to me – so I die!
There’s a lot more embarrassing ways to die, for sure.
So I’ll take this with a grain of salt – and a HUGE chunk of cheese, washed down by a stiff bevvy, to be sure.
Thank you, Borden.
Hit ’em up, they def want to “here” from you:
Instagram – Borden_Cheese