Who Stole My Cheese Quotes

Once upon a time I'd left Los Angeles and been swallowed down the throat of a life in which my sole loyalty was to my tongue. My belly. Myself. My mother called me selfish and so selfish I became. From nineteen to twenty-five I was a mouth, sating. For myself I made three-day braises and chose the most marbled meats, I played loose with butter and cream. My arteries were young, my life pooling before me, and I lapped, luxurious, from it. I drank, smoked, flew cheap red-eyes around Europe, I lived in thrilling shitholes, I found pills that made nights pass in a blink or expanded time to a soap bubble, floating, luminous, warm. Time seemed infinite, then. I begged famous chefs for the chance to learn from them. I entered competitions and placed in a few. I volunteered to work brunch, turn artichokes, clean the grease trap. I flung my body at all of it: the smoke and singe of the grill station, a duck's breast split open like a geode, two hundred oysters shucked in the walk-in, sex in the walk-in, drunken rides around Paris on a rickety motorcycle and no helmet, a white truffle I stole and shaved in secret over a bowl of Kraft mac n' cheese for me, just me, as my body strummed the high taut selfish song of youth. On my twenty-fifth birthday I served black-market fugu to my guests, the neurotoxin stinging sweetly on my lips as I waited to see if I would, by eating, die. At that age I believed I knew what death was: a thrill, like brushing by a friend who might become a lover.

He had a rough idea where he was going, since Rylann had previously mentioned that she lived in Roscoe Village. At the stoplight at Belmont Avenue, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. The beauty of text messaging, he realized, was in its simplicity. He didn’t have to try to explain things, nor did he have to attempt to parse through all the banter in an attempt to figure out what she might be thinking. Instead, he could keep things short and sweet. I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU. He hit send. To kill time while he waited for her response, he drove in the direction of his sister’s wine shop, figuring he could always drop in and harass Jordan about something. This time, however, she beat him to the punch. “So who’s the brunette bombshell?” Jordan asked as soon as he walked into the shop and took a seat at the main bar. Damn. He’d forgotten about the stupid Scene and Heard column. Kyle helped himself to a cracker and some Brie cheese sitting on the bar. “I’m going to say…Angelina Jolie. Actually, no—Megan Fox.” “Megan Fox is, like, twenty-five.” “And this is a problem why, exactly?” Jordan slapped his hand as he reached for more crackers. “Those are for customers.” She put her hand on her hip. “You know, after reading the Scene and Heard column, I’d kind of hoped it was Rylann they were talking about. And that maybe, just maybe, my ne’er-do-well twin had decided to stop playing around and finally pursue a woman of quality.” He stole another cracker. “Now, that would be something.” She shook her head. “Why do I bother? You know, one day you’re going to wake up and…” Kyle’s cell phone buzzed, and he tuned out the rest of Jordan’s lecture—he could probably repeat the whole thing word for word by now—as he checked the incoming message. It was from Rylann, her response as short and sweet as his original text. 3418 CORNELIA, #3. He had her address. With a smile, he looked up and interrupted his sister. “That’s great, Jordo. Hey, by any chance do you have any bottles of that India Ink cabernet lying around?” She stopped midrant and stared at him. “I’m sure I do. Why, what made you think of that?” Then her face broke into a wide grin. “Wait a second…that was the wine Rylann talked about when she was here. She said it was one of her favorites.” “Did she? Funny coincidence.” Jordan put her hand over her heart. “Oh my God, you’re trying to impress her. That is so cute.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Kyle scoffed. “I just thought, since I’ve heard such good things about the wine, that I would give it a shot.” Jordan gave him a look, cutting through all the bullshit. “Kyle. She’s going to love it.” Okay, whatever. Maybe he was trying to impress Rylann a little. “You don’t think it’s too much? Like I’m trying too hard?” Jordan put her hand over her heart again. “Oh. It’s like watching Bambi take his first steps.” “Jordo…” he growled warningly. With a smile, she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “It’s perfect. Trust me.

I’ve brought sandwiches.” He indicated a brown paper bag. “Let’s play a game.” Startled, we looked each other in the eye. We both swallowed hard. I cleared my throat and asked, “What’s the game?” “If I’ve managed to bring your favorite sandwich, you meet me again tomorrow.” “I like cheese,” I said cautiously. I was afraid of him producing turkey and cranberry, my most hated. “What kind of cheese?” he asked. “Any kind.” “Go on. Be specific.” “Mozzarella.” “I got you mozzarella and tomato.” “That’s my favorite,” I said, almost fearfully. “How did you know?” “Because I know you,” he said. “I know you.” “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, pressing my hand over my eyes. This was way too heavy. “And,” he added, almost breezily, “I bought eight sandwiches. One was bound to be something you like . . . but just because I made sure I was right doesn’t mean it wasn’t meant to be. Either way, it means you’ve

I’ve brought sandwiches.” He indicated a brown paper bag. “Let’s play a game.” Startled, we looked each other in the eye. We both swallowed hard. I cleared my throat and asked, “What’s the game?” “If I’ve managed to bring your favorite sandwich, you meet me again tomorrow.” “I like cheese,” I said cautiously. I was afraid of him producing turkey and cranberry, my most hated. “What kind of cheese?” he asked. “Any kind.” “Go on. Be specific.” “Mozzarella.” “I got you mozzarella and tomato.” “That’s my favorite,” I said, almost fearfully. “How did you know?” “Because I know you,” he said. “I know you.” “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, pressing my hand over my eyes. This was way too heavy. “And,” he added, almost breezily, “I bought eight sandwiches. One was bound to be something you like . . . but just because I made sure I was right doesn’t mean it wasn’t meant to be. Either way, it means you’ve got to meet me again tomorrow.

And in my dad’s lap, there I am: a baby, eyes closed, bald as a butter bean. In that moment, I could have turned out to be anything. I didn’t have to be a kid who snuck cheese out of the refrigerator, a teenager who stole sandwiches at school, a college kid who drank way too much beer, a young man who quit running and jumping, a middle-aged guy who caused pain and worry for the people who loved him. I could have been better. I want to reach back into that photo and tell that little baby to live a different life. But as my friend Thomas Lake once wrote: Time is a dark blue river, and it rolls one way.