“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.

“Looks like it’s ready to go,” I said, handing it back to him and starting to turn for the door.

“Whoa whoa whoa, city girl, we’ve still got a ton of work to do,” he called.

“We do?” I asked, silently begging for fresh air, any air, any air sans funk.

“Unless you’re too soft to do a country day’s work,” he said, his voice literally dripping with challenge.

I turned on my heel and marched straight back to him, poking my spatula in his chest. “Bring it, Caveman,” I whispered, then stuck my empty hand straight out to the side. Picking up her cue perfectly, one of the other women tossed a rake thingie and I caught it in midair.

I worked hard that day. I raked cheese, I salted, I paddled, I pounded, I flipped, I shaped, and I hooped. I washed rinds, flipped rounds, scraped mold, injected mold, rotated molds, and damn near threw up about a hundred times. And through it all, sassing and teasing me, but also educating me, was Oscar. He knew every aspect of his little cheese world, and he was free with both knowledge and comebacks.

I laughed my ass off all day, but I must admit, nothing smelled as good as the clean fresh air at the end of the day, when he finally let me go outside to scruff around a bit.

“Sweet, sweet air, let me eat you,” I shouted, running past him when he finally pronounced it was quitting time.

“You’ll get used to the funk,” he teased, taking off his own hairnet (which looked almost as good on him as it did on me) and scratched at his hair, extra curly after cooking under the nylon all day.

“I wouldn’t count on it. I’ll be lucky to ever eat Comté again! You may have ruined me.” I sighed, sucking in big gulps of the fresh air. I was feeling a little queasy. Cheese making was long, backbreaking work, and I’d never take it for granted again.