Ricotta, mozzarella
melting in our mouths.
"How much money?" we ask.
"No money," the man smiles,
"You woman eat for free."
This poem was inspired by yesterday's outing to Arthur Avenue. We ladies were picking up several pounds of ricotta and mozzarella from the cheese shop my great-grandmother shopped at for year after year. She always picked up her ricotta for special occasions there because cheese anywhere else "just wasn't the same." I think our delight over cheese (along with questions and anecdotes) must have delighted the cheese-man, because he gave us a huge slab of ricotta to eat on the way and a mozzarella in the shape of a pig for my little sister. When we asked how much we owed him for our 3-4 pounds of cheese, he told us he'd "called his manager" and there was no charge for us. We almost cried, we were so touched by his sweetness.
