My father is the king of corny jokes. So much like the orange dust on a Cheeto, his cheesy nature inevitably rubbed off on me. At work, my program ideas always have a cheese-factor and all of my jokes are on a third grade level. Someday I plan on torturing my children by naming them “Colby Jack” or “Pepper Jack” if it’s a girl. Being cheesy isn’t a guilty pleasure, it’s genetic.
My preschool teacher nicknamed me “Macaroni” and in college, I inherited the name “Mallory Cheese” from my best friend, Paris. I have been known to polish off a bowl of queso by myself… and I refuse to apologize for it.
To me, cheese is sustenance. Cheese feeds my belly, and by making people laugh, it feeds my soul.