A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.

Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

Cheese is milk's leap toward immortality.

To me, life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demi-glace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living.

What happens to the hole when the cheese is gone?