"My Cheddar Is Better"

By Jerry Zezima

I have never been a big cheese, even in my own house, but my house is now home to a big cheese — a box of Vermont cheddar — which recently arrived on my doorstep thanks to a lovely lady with big brown eyes, long lashes and a beefy figure.

She is none other than Snookums the cow.

I learned about Snookums after seeing an ad in the Old Farmer’s Almanac for a Massachusetts company called Rent Mother Nature, which allows humans to lease sheep, goats and, of course, cows and buy the wool blanket or the cheese that a chosen animal helps to produce.

Because I love cheddar and went to college in Vermont, which in the 1970s had more cows than people, I got the cheese ball rolling by going to the company’s website (RentMotherNature.com) and seeing that I could lease any number of things, animate or inanimate, including trees (apple, cocoa, coffee, grapefruit, maple, peach, pecan, pistachio or tangerine) and the aforementioned farm animals.

I decided to lease a cow because I could milk this for all it was worth, which amounted to $54.95.

And I could choose from a bevy of bovines: Angel, Crumpet, Eliza, Prudence, Tallulah and, the one I picked, Snookums. She’s the most beautiful, has the best name and is easy to take care of, mainly because she lives more than 300 miles away.

I would also get a personalized, gold-embossed cow lease, plus a gift card. In addition, I’d get what the company said were “fun, newsy progress reports describing the process of cheese-making and the latest ‘moos’ from the herd.”

And I would get, in four weeks, three 8-ounce bars of cheddar — made exclusively from milk given by Snookums.

I couldn’t be cowed into rejecting this fabulous offer, so I called Rent Mother Nature and spoke with owner Richard Hill, who told me that Snookums is a Jersey cow who lives on a small family farm in Vermont.

“Could I speak with her?” I asked.

“From what I understand,” Richard said, “she’s kind of shy. Besides, she’s probably out in the pasture and there’s no cellphone service.”

“How about the farmer?” I wondered. “Is he in the dell?”

“He might be,” Richard replied. “And he’s the extreme Yankee taciturn type, so he probably wouldn’t want to talk with you anyway.”

“What’s your favorite product?” I inquired.

“I love the goat cheese,” Richard said. “But I’ve tried everything. I get a peach tree lease every year.”

“How about the cow cheese?” I asked.

“That’s good, too,” he answered. “And it’s one of our most popular products. I’m sure Snookums will do a great job on yours.”

The following week, I got my cow lease in the mail. It read, in part: “This is to certify that Jerry Zezima, Lease No. 14921-1, is a lessee of a Rent Mother Nature Vermont Jersey cow.”

The lease was signed by — you guessed it — Snookums.

No, sorry, I mean Richard Hill.

Three weeks later, a box was delivered to my door. I brought the box inside and eagerly opened it to discover, nestled among a bunch of styrofoam packing peanuts and four small cold packs, the promised three bars of cheddar cheese.

“I can’t wait to try it!” I told my wife, Sue, as I got a knife, cut a slice and took a bite.

“How is it?” she asked.

I sighed contentedly and replied, “Heavenly. It’s thick and rich.”

Then I cut a piece for Sue, who let the taste settle on her tongue before saying, “It’s a bit heavy, but it’s delicious. I really like it.”

So, on a visit a couple of days later, did our two daughters and their husbands.

“Snookums really delivered,” I said. “Her cheese is an udder delight.”

Copyright 2023 by Jerry Zezima

"The Heat Is On"

By Jerry Zezima

I never thought I was hot stuff — especially when I look in the mirror to shave, a reflection that leaves me cold — but I sure am hot stuff now.

That’s because I have just tried the world’s hottest sauce. And I can proudly say, with some difficulty due to a scorched tongue, that I resisted the urge to call 911 so the fire department could extinguish an inferno that nearly sent smoke billowing from my mouth.

The sauce is made by the PuckerButt Pepper Co. of Fort Mill, South Carolina. The company’s owner, president and self-proclaimed “mad scientist,” Smokin’ Ed Currie, has developed and grown Pepper X, a volcanic veggie that was recently certified by Guinness World Records as the world’s hottest chili pepper.

It is the key ingredient in the torrid product, known as Gator Sauce, which could turn the cold-blooded reptile hot-blooded. And that’s no croc.

Anyway, my good buddy Hank Richert, who lives a short drive from the PuckerButt store, alerted me to Pepper X. Since my wife, Sue, and I would soon be seeing Hank and his wife, Angela, he promised to bring a bottle of the stuff for me to try.

Sue loves hot, spicy food. I’m rather cool to it, so I was not the ideal candidate to sample a sauce that could turn my otherwise empty skull into Mount Vesuvius.

For a pep (short for pepper) talk, I called PuckerButt and spoke with Smokin’ Ed’s wife, Linda, who admitted that she doesn’t have a high heat tolerance.

“I can’t eat the hot stuff,” she said. “I go for the mild sauces. Ed is the one who can tolerate hot stuff better than most people. And he does all the cooking. I don’t touch the peppers. I don’t even let him cook in the kitchen. He has to cook in the factory or at the farm where he grows the peppers. But he’s a card. And a genius. We have a lot of fun. I’ll soon be 62 and he just turned 60. We’re not spring chickens.”

“Could I put the hot sauce on chicken?” I wondered.

“Ask Ed,” Linda said.

So I did.

“Yes, it’s good on chicken, but I love it on scrambled eggs,” he told me.

“Your wife called you a genius,” I said.

“My wife calls me a lot of things,” said Ed, who also developed the Carolina Reaper, the pepper that since 2013 had held the record as the world’s hottest.

“Why did you develop Pepper X?” I inquired.

“To top myself,” Ed said. “Nobody else had done it, so I figured that after 10 years, I would come up with an even hotter pepper.”

He added that Pepper X has been measured at 2.69 million Scoville Heat Units, making it the world’s hottest.

“I wanted to shake things up in the pepper world,” said Ed, adding that citric acid is the best thing for tempering the blazing effects of Pepper X.

“Should I put a lemon slice next to my scrambled eggs?” I asked.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Ed replied. “Good luck!”

A few days later, when Sue and I saw the Richerts, who hadn’t tried the hot sauce, Hank handed me a bottle of the stuff.

“Wear asbestos underwear,” he warned me.

“And make sure Sue is with you,” Angela added. “You might need immediate medical attention.”

The following Saturday morning, I cooked my usual weekend breakfast: scrambled eggs with link sausages, toast and a glass of orange juice. I also cut a fresh lemon into slices and placed one next to my dish.

I donned a pair of clear industrial vinyl gloves and opened my bottle of hot sauce. I put a drop on my eggs, lifted a forkful to my mouth, took a deep breath, shoved it in, chewed and swallowed.

Nothing happened for about two seconds. Then, an explosion ripped through my palate. My tongue throbbed, my eyes watered and my whole mouth felt like it was on fire.

“How is it?” asked Sue, who sat next to me at the kitchen table.

“Ugh, ack, orf!” I stammered.

Then I grabbed the lemon slice, pressed it against my lips and sucked it dry. The juice did its job. The three-alarm blaze was extinguished.

My tongue tingled, but I survived.

“I’m hot stuff,” I assured Sue. “And I didn’t even need asbestos underwear.”

Copyright 2023 by Jerry Zezima

"Just Like Young Times"

By Jerry Zezima

As a baby boomer who was bad at math in high school, I have calculated that 70 is the new 60. Using the new math, 70 is the new 50. And for grandparents, 70 is the new 10.

That was the consensus at a fabulous 70th birthday party for members of the Stamford Catholic High School Class of 1971, which was held at Zody’s 19th Hole, a popular restaurant in our hometown of Stamford, Connecticut.

I am the baby of the bunch, physically and mentally, because I won’t hit the big 7-Oh until January. But I partied anyway because I am a kid at both heart and head, the latter of which has retained precious little of what I learned in high school, where I was the class clown.

At the party, it was evident that some things haven’t changed.

“You look wonderful,” one classmate told me. “What’s your secret?”

“I eat like a horse, drink like a fish and get absolutely no exercise,” I replied. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Your complexion glows,” someone else said. “What do you use on your skin?”

“Turtle Wax,” I answered. “Why waste it on my car?”

It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that everyone at the party looked wonderful. And it wasn’t astigmatism — or the wine — talking.

“Our kids are getting old but we’re still young,” I told a fellow father. “I feel sorry for them, but what are you going to do?”

Naturally, the subject of grandkids came up.

“Do you spoil your grandchildren?” a grandmother asked me.

“No,” I said. “That’s my wife’s job. My job is to corrupt them.”

My wife, Sue, also a member of the Class of ’71, was the youngest-looking and most beautiful woman at the party. And not just because she hasn’t turned 70, although it will happen this month.

The highlight was seeing our dear friends Hank and Angela Richert, who drove up from the Carolinas for the weekend. Hank was in our class. He also was my roommate in college and was the best man at our wedding. And I was the best man at his wedding to Angela, who didn’t go to Catholic High and is a couple of years younger than the rest of us. She looked beautiful, too.

Angela told Hank that she would give him a year’s worth of anything he wants for his 70th birthday, which he celebrated in August. So far, they have gone on a cruise. And their two sons have given Hank, a race-car fan, an “extreme experience” at the Charlotte Motor Speedway, where he can actually drive on a track.

“Most guys our age creep along with their left blinker on,” I said.

“I won’t be doing that,” Hank assured me.

Of course, there were stories about pranks pulled back in the day. Like the time I asked a nun if she had to shave her head like Curly of the Three Stooges so she could fit into the veil of her habit.

“I was in the principal’s office so often,” I recalled, “he could have charged me rent.”

The party was a smash. The food was delicious. And the festivities ended with a big birthday cake.

“Are there 70 candles?” I wondered.

“If so,” said Hank, “we may have to call the fire department.”

Then we all sang “Happy Birthday” to ourselves.

I’m surprised my voice didn’t clear the room.

Sue even got a centerpiece with a “70” sign sticking up from between the flowers.

Fittingly, 70 people signed up for the party.

“Seventy for 70,” I remarked. “That’s one for each year. Who said I’m bad at math?”

Copyright 2023 by Jerry Zezima