July 23, 2009

Goat Cheese Goodness

Tagging along with a local chapter of some slow-food movement, last weekend the boyfriend and I went on a tour of a local goat cheese farm run by two old lesbians. But that’s not my story. My story happens at the potluck lunch the group held at a park afterward.

Well, I guess my story begins at the park, before the tour, where we checked in and got updated directions to bypass the construction. It was a bunch of middle-to-older-aged couples for the most part, with a few small children tagging along.

I ran to the bathroom in the park pavilion before we left, since I knew that it was a cheese factory run out of a garage and wouldn’t be set up with public restrooms. There was already one of the middle-aged men in there with the same idea as I had, and he was gregarious.

I don’t get small talk between strangers in public urinals. If it was a gay bar and he was cute, sure, but this was a public park with a large playground, and he didn’t seem to be a Republican politician. (Aw snap!)

I responded to his questions--Did I have a ride? Have I been on any other tours? What did I think of goat cheese?—with noncommittal one word answers. There was a divider, thankfully. He finished slightly before I did, and dawdled at the sink waiting for me. His hands were super dry by the time he finished and held the door open for me on the way out.

We were set up in a different tour group, so I didn’t really see him while we were at the farm. Occasionally I thought I saw him checking me out from across the hill, or on the other side of the barn, but I didn’t really pay it any mind.

I mean, he was of average cuteness and older than I would go for, probably mid-to-late thirties, certainly passable for HWP, short sleeve button up dark blue shirt, ill-fitting khakis, short brown hair with the beginnings of a bald spot at the crown of his head. He was nothing special, not worth a second look if I was walking down the street and saw him. But I’m a Leo, and I like being checked out, and it sort of improved my mood. At most it was the occasional furtive glance, easily chalked up to my imagination.

It was a great tour, and the boyfriend was busy the entire time with his camera affixed to his eye, taking photos of everything: the goats, the barn they built when they bought the land, the buckets the ladies used to carry the milk down the hill to the garage they had refurbished for cheese production, the overexcited dog who enjoyed herding the dogs a lot more that she should have. The whole trip was adorable; the only downside was judging by their use of pronouns when recounting the history of how they got into the goat cheese business, they haven’t been a couple for the past five years, but continue to make cheese together.

And the cheese. Oh, what glorious chevre. So creamy and soft and spreadable and addictive.

Afterward, we were one of the first ones back to the park (the boyfriend is a speed demon behind the wheel) and while he was busy setting up the kale salad and roasted red pepper dip we brought, I made my way back to the restroom, only lo and behold to find my secret admirer at the other urinal.

I walked up to do my business, and he glanced over, made eye contact, smiled, and went back to staring at the wall above the flush handle. No conversation this time, but he seemed antsy, and it sounded like he was tapping his foot. He was breathing loudly and heavily.

I finished up, zipped up, and flushed, and as I headed to the sink, out of nowhere he said “W--wait.”

I turned and noticed his right arm moving rapidly, eyes clenched shut, mouth half agape. His breathing stopped and a few seconds later he exhaled in one huge sigh, shuddering. He turned and looked me dead in the eyes and said “Thanks” with a sheepish smile.

Well well my my. That was certainly a first.

I made a face, eyebrows raised, eyes swerving side to side, forced smile, and got out of there lickety-split. He walked out of the restrooms about a minute later and walked directly to a car, against which was a younger, mousy-looking woman leaning against the hood, and she was either was carrying weight awkwardly or had a small baby bump. They got in the car and drove away.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.