Say Cheese

I know My Big Fat Greek Wedding was a huge hit. And I know the movie has inspired a new series. Michael Constantine was hilarious as the Greek father, who proudly asked anyone and everyone to give him a word, any word, and he would prove to you that it was derived from a Greek word. And he would mutter that the Greeks were building the Parthenon while the rest of the world was still banging rocks together to make fire.

But this is going too far.

Now it seems that Feta cheese is about to become exclusively a product of Greece. Kind of like how Champagne must be a product of France, specifically the Champagne region of France, while everything else is sparking wine.

Give me a break.

I mean, I finally got my family to try the stuff – which is one of my favorite cheeses in the world. And now it has to go all pretentious on me. I had to tell them that it was a Mediterranean cream cheese – not telling them that it was made from sheep's milk. If they thought it came from anything other than a cow, forget it.

So the cheese that's made in Israel, the delicious, buttery kosher Feta, has to be called, what? Methode Fetish? And the really sharp-tasting Bulgarian cheese would be . . . Feta-like?

So, what's next? Cheddar cheese has to come from Cheddar, England? Baked Alaska has to be made in Juno or Anchorage? French toast has to come from Paris or Calais? You can only get a New York state in Manhattan? You can't get a country fried steak inside the city limits? Washington apples can only come from Washington? No, wait. That last one is true.

I mean, it's hard enough to keep track of all these different kinds of cheese. From Stilton to Halloumi to Kasseri to Gruyere to Edam. It's enough to make one Bleu.

More soon.

Ward, I'm worried about the Beaver

Now that I think about it, television has totally screwed up my life.

I grew up wanting Donna Stone to be my mother, although there were times when Laura Petrie would have been awfully fun. Then there were times when I wanted to move in, lock, stock and barrel, to live with Jim Anderson on Father Knows Best.

All of that led, inevitably, to my total dissatisfaction with real life. Unfortunately, one never learns.

When I grew up and started thinking about relationships, my ideal mate would have been equal parts Della Street, Laura Petrie, Samantha Stevens and Honey West (Hey, a guy's got to have a fantasy life!).

Now that reality has totally sunken my battleship, I have to confess to still keeping a few role models in the life partner department.

I mean, it's not that I'm looking for something outstandingly romantic. No Hart to Hart for me. No Remington Steele mystery, either.

Actually, the kind of relationship I want, as portrayed on television, would be the Taylors from Home Improvement. Not that I'm that awful with tools and make everything explode. Not at all. But I do want to be able to laugh with someone. And have that romantic spark that comes out in playful ways.

There's something incredibly sexy about being able to laugh with a partner. Just so long as there's no pointing involved, of course.

Is that too much to ask?

More soon.