For those of you who share my intense yearning for cheese, you'll be glad to know that cheese isn't just a culinary delight, it's a symbol of one's wealth and power (as is, I suppose, using pretentious, impersonal, objective pronouns such as "one's"). According to this article by San Francisco magazine:
Clearly, then, I need an illegal cheese dealer. Not just for the cheese itself, but for the power and status associated with it. With a dealer, one day the following passage could, with some luck, dreams, and hard work, apropos to me:
“Illegal cheese is a status symbol,” says Jesse. “If you can bring a fresh raw milk brie or camembert to the table, it says something about your wealth and mobility.” I need to be saying things about my wealth and mobility. I need to speak loudly and carry some strong cheese. I need a dealer.
Those with the right connections get invited to illegal-cheese parties, like one recently thrown by a San Francisco lawyer who agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity. He tells me he smuggled a wheel of époisses on his way back from vacationing in Vienna. He wrapped the cheese tightly in plastic, buried it in his checked luggage, and invited his 20 most important friends over for an illicit-cheese party. “People looked at me a little differently after that,” he says. “There was more respect—a little bit of a ‘He’s not just a lawyer, he’s a wild cheese smuggler’ type of thing.”So, if anyone has any illegal cheese they'd like to hook me up with, you know how to reach me. I'd love to be referred to as "not just a lawyer, [but] a wild cheese smuggler."*
*I am not, of course, asking for illegal cheese contributions nor connections to underground, cheese-smuggling ruffians. As much as I love cheese, I love the law more, and would never defile my good name for a marvelous piece of brie. Would I?