The brine is what makes it so delicious. Massive white chunky blocks crumbling in salty brine, that’s my idea of a wild Friday night now. Fuck the salad, give me that aqcuatic tub of cubic joy. Where did it come from? Did it fly in from a different country? Who cares. All I care about in this dark and unforgiving world is a beautiful bite of feta. I can deal with the elections and the death toll inching ever higher if I could be left alone in the corner of my room, perched on top of my windowsill, watching the birds narrowly escape the claws of Mr. Tubbs the downstairs cat, with some goats cheese. It doesn’t matter if there are no olives or bread on offer, I can use my fingers instead of the fork to fish it out. The ones at the bottom are the best, as they’ve retained the salt for the longest time. I look forward to the end of the tub for this very reason.
And why did no one tell me feta was also cheese from the goat? Is it goat or goat’s? I feel like goat cheese is the noun, the simple noun, of being cheese from the goat. But then we call it goats or goat’s: and I’m like, whose line is it anyway? And why did no one tell me feta was also cheese from the goat? Why does my stomach curdle and vomit with quote-unquote goat cheese but then it’s fine with feta? Must be the brine.