This past weekend was my mother-in-law’s birthday. She and her husband hosted a party at their house. We drove there in Tuesday, and back on Sunday. It takes approximately 8 hours driving, which can be hellish when the kids start screaming over insignificant problems.

At the party, there were about 70 guests plus a 8-person live band. Of the 78 people, I knew less than 10. Strangely, at parties, unless the number is zero, I feel more comfortable with a smaller rather than larger number of known folks.

Most of the action took place in the backyard. There were several tables, the music stage, lawn games (none of the septuagenarians seemed interested in these), and a drink station.

In the middle of the hubbub, a woman pulled me aside and introduced herself. She was a longtime friend of the family, she mentioned. Then she leaned closer and said:

I heard you don’t like cheese

I knew exactly what she was saying, but she felt the need to elaborate.

We’ve made special enchiladas without cheese for you. They are over there [pointed to some random table]. They do not have any cheese on them. Since, you know, you don’t like cheese.

Then it was my turn to clarify:

I do like cheese. I just don’t like cheese on everything.

The thing is, every single time my wife’s father cooks something, he puts cheese on it. Even simple garden salads end up with cheese sprinkled on them.

I always thought this great country had three obsessions: hamburgers, guns, and Disneyland… but we need add cheese to the list (or on top of them).