“Son, go get me some eatin’ cheese.”
I craned my neck backwards of the armrest of the couch and fixed one eye on my father. “What’d you call it?”
“Eatin’ cheese. I want some cheese to gnaw on, an’ I know your mother went to the store jus’ yestiday.”
“Yeah, that. What the hell is eatin’ cheese, dad? All cheese is meant to be ‘et.”
“No that ain’t true, there’s eatin’ cheese and then there’s cookin’ cheese.”
“Cookin… you mean shredded cheese, pop?”
“Yeah, that’s cheese you cook with.”
“Pop that’s ridiculous, I’ve seen you eat shredded cheese outta the package with both hands. All cheese is meant to be eaten. You wouldn’t say ‘Bring me some welding-cheese’ would you?”
My father sighed, and pointed to the Kitchen. Grumbling, I pulled myself out of the Dave-sized imprint in the couch and padded to the kitchen to fix a nosh plate.
“Bring some pickles and a couple beers while yer up!” he hollered from the living room.