It’s Easy, Just Get Cheesy

Loretta Cibo opens her suitcase. “Okay, let’s go over our equipment. Pepto Bismal, Alka-Seltzer, Ex-Lax.”

“Check,” Sam, her husband, replies. “I got some barf bags just in case.”

“Hide those. I don’t want to look like an amateur.”

Sam and Loretta believe their quaint general store in Leap Frog, Idaho is a culinary treasure that needs a unique product or two to become everyone’s favorite food store.

Entering the crowded convention hall, Sam and Loretta are instantly overwhelmed by more than fifty extravagant booths displaying their exotic wares.

“Uffda, this place is like a foodie version of Sodom and Gomorrah,” Sam says.

“We’re here to explore new types of exotic foods that’ll have people from out of state eating out of our hands,” Loretta replies. “You’re the one who wanted to get into carrying gourmet items in the store.”

Sam’s features screw into a sour frown as he samples garlic-flavored caviar on a cracker.

“Carrying is different from eating,” he urps. “How about we go get a Royale with Cheese?”

“Very funny. I saw ‘Pulp Fiction’ with you, remember? That’s just French for Big Mac.”

Sam’s doubts crest as he looks at the “Liston’s Luscious Liver” booth featuring a three-foot high volcano made from liver pate.

“Maybe we’re in over our heads,” he says. “Maybe we should start with something simple like serving truffles or apple bacon.”

The couple stops at the “Worms R’ Us” booth. They are greeted by an Aussie with an accent thicker than Crocodile Dundee who is wearing a broad-brimmed rawhide leather hat, string vest, and a recently whitened smile.

“Care for a sample? How about a witchetty grub?”

Before Sam can say no, Loretta hoists one in her mouth.

“What’s it taste like?” Sam asks.

“Tastes just like chicken,” Loretta replies.

The brightly colored ribbons, pinatas, and the salesman’s native costumes pull Loretta to the “Mucho Gusto Gordito” booth.

“This type of food might appeal to the town’s increasing Hispanic population,” Loretta comments.

“Yeah, all three of them,” Sam replies, chomping down on a tiny green pepper.

The juice in the pepper instantly numbs Sam’s taste buds. Within seconds, Sam feels as if a five-alarm fire is raging in his mouth.

Jumping up and down, Sam points at his mouth, barely able to gasp out, “Cerveza! Cerveza!”

Turning to Loretta, Sam notices she is holding a small plate full of saltines. He takes one, inhaling it.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, hon,” Loretta says. “I put Mucho Gusto Number Eleven Jalapeno Paste on them.”

“We used to only go up to ten,” the sales associate says proudly.

Sam downs three beers and a sleeve of unadorned saltines before his vision and taste buds return to normal. The couple moves on to the next display, “Wright’s Wasp Crackers.”

Loretta tears into one of the samples.

“It’s like a biscuit filled with crunchy wasps instead of chocolate chips,” she comments.

Loretta clutches at her cheek.

“OW!”

The salesperson, a woman dressed in a wasp costume says, “Our quality control guys do a great job removing the stingers. Sometimes a few get left in.”

“Let’s move on to ‘Sweetie’s Sweets,’” Loretta suggests.

Loretta gets Sam to try a chocolate-covered grasshopper.

“Crunchy, like a potato chip,” she says.

“Yeah, with legs,” Sam replies.

“Just proves you can put chocolate on anything, and it’ll be good.”

“Great. Let’s start selling chocolate-covered roadkill.”

When they move onto the “Legz Lounge” display, Loretta purposely neglects to tell Sam what the samples are, popping one of the fried delights in his mouth.

“Now this is more like it. Crunchy, buttery, and it takes just like chicken. What are they?” he asks, eating another.

“Frog’s legs,” Loretta replies.

Quincy Trout spots Sam and Loretta walking toward his “Quincy’s Quality Quisine” booth. He pats his rust-colored hair and balances his signature bow tie, figuring the couple will easily succumb to his charm.

With her silky hair tied in a bun, Loretta’s simple dress, lack of makeup, and naive smile further label her a Midwesterner. Sam’s clammy complexion, bald dome, granny glasses, and Sears and Roebuck suit make him look like he stepped out of the “American Gothic” painting.

“Yep, real rubes,” Quincy says to himself. “How about a bite of Southern Fried Rattlesnake, folks?”

“Tastes just like chicken, right?” Sam asks.

“Oh, so you’ve had it before?”

“Look, we run a small store in Idaho. We’re thinking of bringing in special products like Hush Puppies, Frito Pie, and Bloomin’ Onions to attract more customers and tourists,” Sam says. “We want something different, but not too exotic.”

Sam glances at the next booth, which is decorated with colorful messages in Japanese. The salesman, wearing a kimono robe and a white headband with red lettering reading, “Mothra Munchies!” hands an eager Generation X’er a bowl. The tall slacker paddles it down, his spoon clinking against the now-empty bowl.

“That stuff looks interesting,” Sam comments.

“It’s Bird’s Nest Soup, an Asian delicacy,” Quincy replies. “It’s made from the nest of the swiftlet bird. They make their nests out of their own saliva. They usually build their nests on cliffs, which makes getting at them really dangerous.”

The young man’s face turns blue, and he grabs at his throat, gasping for air. He falls backward, his hands still wrapped around his throat.

Smiling at the gathering crowd, the Bird’s Nest salesman covers the young man with a Mothra Munchies banner.

“You have to be careful with Bird’s Nest soup,” Quincy comments. “If it’s not cooked right, it can be lethal.”

“Maybe we should look into something simpler,” Loretta says.

“Do you have any donkey cheese?” Sam asks.

“Donkey Cheese? I have goat’s head cheese. Mick Jagger really likes it. I have cow lips, Rocky Mountain Oysters, Haggis. How about some tuna eyeballs?” Quincy asks, holding up a package.

Sam steps back. “No, thanks. I can’t eat something that stares back at me.”

“How about some Casu Marzu cheese, from Italy? It’s also known as ‘maggot cheese.’ It’s for a discerning palate, like yours.”

“What makes it so special?” Sam asks.

“It’s got live maggots in it to enhance the flavor. Sometimes they jump, so you’ll have to keep an eye on them before you take a bite. They can live in your stomach and burrow into your intestines.”

“That’s not a great selling point.”

Quincy reviews his rows of samples.

“Well, what do you know? I have exactly what you asked for,” he says, holding up a brick of donkey cheese.

“Wow, it’s for real. I thought it was a myth. I didn’t know you could milk a donkey,” Sam says.

“The way they react to it, they don’t know it either,” Quincy replies. “Plus, it has to be done three times a day or they stop producing milk. It’s so difficult to make donkey cheese it’s only produced in one place in the world - the Zasavica Special Nature Reserve in Serbia.”

“I heard it’s really good for you,” Sam says. “We have some folks in Leap Frog who are really into staying healthy.”

“Donkey cheese is rich in vitamins and minerals. It’s believed to slow down the aging process. Cleopatra swore by it.”

Lifting the glass covering the cheese, Quincy cuts several slices for Sam and Loretta.

“Heaven,” Sam says, savoring the cheese’s sweet, creamy flavor.

“Is it expensive?” Loretta asks.

“It’s the most expensive cheese in the world, about a thousand dollars a pound. You see, they only have a hundred donkeys there. The Reserve was intended as a place to keep Balkan donkeys from going extinct, so they don’t have enough animals there to mass-produce cheese. It costs a hundred thousand dollars a year just to run the place.”

“What if they had more donkeys?” Sam asks.

“I see those wheels spinning around in your head,” Loretta says.

Sam pulls his wife aside. “More donkeys. More cheese.”

“You heard what it costs to run the farm the way it is. You’d need hundreds of donkeys to mass produce the cheese, not to mention the cost of exporting it.”

“You’re right. It was a nice dream, though.”

Loretta takes another bite of the cheese.

“You know, this is so good, maybe we should carry a little bit of it. What do you think, hon?”

Loretta turns to where her husband had just been standing.

“Sam?”

Sam surveys his surroundings. He is surrounded by hundreds of donkeys eating, playing, and mating in a large field. A ramshackle fence pens the creatures in, keeping them from reaching a narrow, rutty, dusty road. Across the road is a humble house with walls made from sod and a thatched roof.

A pungent, caustic smell invades Sam’s lungs. He gags, covering his mouth.

“You should move from there,” a woman calls out. “The mules will get angry and start kicking you.”

“…Manure… I smell manure…,” Sam says as he looks down at his feet.

A thick brown ooze covers his shoes. Slowly pulling his shoes out of what he hopes is mud, Sam walks toward the woman.

The young woman, her crinkled expression protected from the sun by a kerchief, carries a basket. She wears a worn billowy skirt and a mud-spattered apron.

“I am glad you left the field. The Burgermeister believes donkey manure promotes disease.”

“You take your advice from a guy who works at Burger King?” Sam asks.

The woman looks at him queerly.

“Anyway, I’m here about your donkeys. I was told you only had a hundred. It looks like you have twice as many.”

“Are you an angel?” the woman asks.

“What?”

“You appeared out of nowhere. You wear such strange clothing.”

“I guess I am an angel, so to speak. I’m Sam Cibo, and I’m here to help you. I own a store in Leap Frog…”

“A what, where?”

“A place of business in Leap Frog, Idaho. You know, in the United States.”

“United state?” The woman asks. “I thought the angels dwelled in heaven. How far is Leap Frog from Belgrade?”

“Pretty far…Across the Atlantic,” Sam replies as he watches a wagon pulled by two oxen crawl down the road. “I’ve been a little discombobulated since I had a taste of donkey cheese at the Exotic Foods Convention. I guess I left Loretta, wandered onto a tour bus, and ended up at one of the Amish farms. Where am I?”

“Zasavica.”

“And the year?”

“Why the year of our Lord 1580, of course.”

Sam wobbles, nearly fainting.

“Are you unwell, angel?”

“I must be dreaming. Just in case I’m not, I’d like to propose an agreement between me, you, and your donkeys. If you can produce two pounds of donkey cheese each month, I’ll reward you handsomely in gold.”

The woman drops to one knee. Clutching Sam’s hand, she kisses it.

“My name is Drazenka. You have answered my family’s prayers, sweet angel.”

“First, though, I must sample a piece of your donkey cheese to ensure its quality. And if I’m lucky, it’ll send me back home to Loretta.”

Sam looks around the convention hall, smiling.

Loretta taps him on the shoulder.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

“Zasavica. In 1580.”

Loretta grabs him by his shoulders.

“You didn’t eat the duck embryos, did you? Not only are they gross, but I heard too many can cause temporary insanity.”

“I’m serious. That slice of donkey cheese I ate sent me back in time to 1580.”

Loretta waves her hands in disbelief. “If you wanted to sneak out for a Big Mac, all you had to do was tell me, because you’re really terrible at lying.”

“I just made a deal to get two pounds of donkey cheese per month from a farmer’s wife for just pennies.”

“Really? And how do you propose to get the cheese from Zasavica in 1580 to Leap Frog in 2023?”

“It’s easy. We just get cheesy.”

  Belching loudly, Loretta rolls over in bed, immediately clutching her aching stomach.

“You okay, hon?” Sam asks.

“If there’s something beyond sick as a dog, I’ve found it.”

“You hugged the porcelain throne for a long time last night. I told you to be careful and not eat too many of those crawfish on a stick.”

Loretta’s bleary vision comes into focus.

“You’re already dressed? I’m impressed.”

“I’m going to Zasavica, the place I told you about that has the donkey cheese.”

“Did I have too much wine last night, or did you claim to have visited the past?” Loretta asks, struggling into a sitting position.

“Yes, 1850,” Sam replies. Heading to the refrigerator he shows his wife a hunk of donkey cheese.

“You rest up. I’ll meet you later,” he says, biting into the cheese.

“Wait…What?” Loretta mumbles.

Sam disappears, the wad of cheese hitting the carpet.

Sam looks at his surroundings. The field he is standing in is empty and decimated. Large bomb craters, ruined trees, scorched grass, and a noxious haze of gunpowder are all that remains of the landscape. The posts from the nearby wooden fence are scattered and broken. The narrow, rutty, road is overcome with crimson-colored mud stained with blood. Across the road is a wrecked, humble home, its stone walls crushed, and its wooden roof caved in.

A pungent, caustic smell invades Sam’s lungs. He gags, covering his mouth. It smells like death.

“You should get out of there, friend,” an old man says hoarsely. “It is not safe to stand in the field like that. You make too good a target for the artillery gunners.”

“Where is Drazenka?”

“Drazenka? There is no one here by that name. I am Zoran. I have lived here all my days. There are no women here. Not anymore. Not since the war.”

“War? What war are you talking about?”

“The one throughout Europe, and the world. Have you been hiding in a monastery or something?”

“What year is this?”

“1916.”

“…The Great War…,” Sam mutters.

“It has not been great so far,” Zoran replies.

“It’s all random…” Sam says.

“What is?”

“Where and when I travel to. I’ve got to get out of here! Where’s the donkey cheese?”

“Donkey cheese? We have not been able to make any since the army took our donkeys away two years ago.”

“What? I need donkey cheese to get back to where I live, back to my wife.”

Zoran casts a doubting eye in Sam’s direction.

“Are you shell-shocked?”

“I’m not a soldier. I’m a time traveler,” Sam admits. “The cheese serves as my fuel. It takes me from place to place.”

Zoran scoffs at Sam. “You had me going, friend. Traveling through time. Cheese instead of petrol. HA! You have had too much wine.”

“It’s true! I need to get home,” Sam blubbers.

Zoran rubs his scruffy beard. “Well, this may make me a bigger ass than a donkey, but I believe that you believe you can travel through time. I have kept a very small amount of donkey cheese to celebrate when the war is over, but I am open to trade. That is an unusual clock on your wrist.”

“You could say it’s ahead of its time.”

“I will take it, along with your ring.”

“But it’s my wedding ring. It’s very special to me and my wife.”

“You mean the wife you will never see again if you do not get a piece of donkey cheese?”

Sam bounds off the elevator, relieved to be back in the present and anxious to see Loretta.

Opening the hotel room door, Sam yells, “I’m home, hon! You won’t believe what happened!”

Sam catches a glimpse of a note propped up in front of the television.

Hi Sam!

I know I gave you a hard time when you said the donkey cheese sent you back in time. A wonderful thing happened today! I went back to the convention and sampled some Limburger cheese. POOF! I was transported to the Duchy of Limburg, in Belgium, in the fifteenth century! After I convinced the locals not to burn me as a witch because of the clothes I was wearing, I made a deal with them to sell Limburger in our store. Since the guilder isn’t as strong as the dollar, we’ll make twice as much money!

I ate the last of the donkey cheese. It didn’t transport me through time, so I ate some more Limburger. I couldn’t wait to catch up to you in 1850 to tell you about the news in person. Quincy told me earlier there won’t be any donkey cheese around for at least another six months, but I told him not to worry because you’ll be bringing plenty back from Zasavica.

See you soon, hon,

Loretta