“Here’s your hairnet,” he said, throwing me what looked like a handful of old hosiery.

“You’re adorable.” I laughed and began to turn away once more when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Put on the hairnet, and the smock, and the boots, and meet me back here in five minutes.”

I blinked back at him. “You’re kidding.”

“You better get a move on,” he warned, not at all kidding. But just when I was about to tell him where he could stick his paddle, I saw the twinkle in his eye.

Country boy tries to show the city girl she can’t cut the mustard. Hmph.

I snatched the smock, and the boots, and the godforsaken hairnet, and met his challenging gaze with a toss of my hair. I’d call his bluff, no problem. “Should I take everything off and just wear the smock, or . . . ?” I looked at him innocently, opening the top button on my fitted black oxford.

“Over your clothes is fine,” he replied through clenched teeth.

I heard the women over by the tub giggle.

“Be right back,” I sang out, heading for the restroom. Inside, I stared at the hairnet.

I’d better get to take home some cheddar . . .

It turns out I look fucking fantastic in a hairnet. I piled all my hair up on top of my head, popped the net on, but off to the side in a jaunty fashion, touched up my siren-red lipstick, and I was ready to paddle some cheddar. I plodded out in my shapeless smock and Oscar’s boots, with a grand smile, and was pleased when I saw him scan the length of my leg now visible beneath the smock.

I had, in fact, taken off the clothes underneath. Because I was hot . . .

“Okay, Caveman, show me how you make your wares,” I announced, rolling up my sleeves and trying to take the paddle away from him.

“Not so fast. You’ll watch first, then you can go to work on that tub over there.”

“Whatever,” I replied, playing along. I stood off to the side with Oscar and watched as the three women worked on the first trough.

“So when the milk is the right temperature, they add the rennet. In this tub over here, they’ve already done that. See how when she slices into it, it almost looks like it’s set up a bit? Now it’s ready for the next step.”

“Which is?” I asked, conscious of his elbow touching mine. He was, too, because he bumped me with his.

“Remember Little Miss Muffet?”

“I should probably tell you now that if you’re going to call a spider over to sit down beside me, you’re also going to want to hold tight to your balls, because—”

“Good lord, woman,” he interrupted, furrowing his brow—while also surreptitiously dropping his hands protectively. “What the hell kind of fairy tales did you read when you were a kid? They’re separating the curds from the whey.”

“Oh! Sure, sure, that part.” I sighed, relaxing back once more. And as we watched, the woman walked up and down the length of the tub, pulling along a steel contraption that almost looked a little like a small handheld rake, except with only a few teeth. Almost immediately, you could see that when it cut into the jiggly white mass, tiny pieces began to form, suddenly floating in a sea of yellowish-white liquid.

I wasn’t aware that I was crinkling my nose until he bumped me once more with his elbow. “What’s the matter, not quite what you were expecting?”

“No.” I sniffed. “It’s quite interesting. Very much so.” It looked disgusting. And now that it looked disgusting, I became aware of a somewhat strange odor in the air. It wasn’t rancid or spoiled; the place was spotless, for goodness’ sake. But there was a definite . . . funk. Funk I liked, especially when I was enjoying a really good piece of Maytag blue at the end of a long day with a few figs and some honey. But this funk was all around me, and I wasn’t really liking it.

“Okay, your turn!” Oscar said, tugging me by the elbow to the untouched third tub, obviously my introduction to the world of cheese making.

“Fabulous,” I said, smiling wide as I approached the milky-white substance. Not at all what cheese making had represented in my head for so many years. Where were the artfully scarred wooden tables, the crooked yet charming slate floor, the barn cats cleaning their faces prettily in the window while waiting for a bowlful of cream?

Not here. But Oscar was still smiling, and looked so proud. “Go ahead, see if it’s ready. If it is, when you slice into it, it’ll give, but it won’t be mushy. You’ll be able to make a clean slice, but it’ll still fall back on itself,” Oscar said, handing me a little curved spatula.

“Fabulous,” I repeated, the smell stronger here. I’d once gone to Coney Island when I was a kid and eaten three Nathan’s hot dogs followed by a tall glass of milk. Two spins on the Wonder Wheel later and I’d honked it all up. I wasn’t really a fan of hot dogs or milk after that, and this . . . precheese . . . had a similar warm smell. But when I looked over at Oscar, he seemed curious to see what I’d do, so I tried to remember what they’d done at the tub we’d just watched.

Initially, before slicing it, she’d poked it. So I poked it. It jiggled slightly. I poked it again. Same thing. It sort of sprang back, almost like a panna cotta or flan texture.

Now I never wanted either of those desserts again.

I started to poke it a third time, when Oscar leaned in behind me, and with his mouth right beneath my ear, and my hairnet, said, “Are you going to poke it all day, or are you going to do something with it?”

Stifling every witty retort I had flying through my brain in that instant, I took a deep breath and stuck in my little spatula. He was right, it wasn’t mushy, and a clean slice fell back from the blade.