Brie de meaux. My eyes darted to the familiar smooth disk, attracted by the powdery shell encasing a viscous center of creamy goodness, reminding me of laughter around the family table, the crunch of baguettes trickling a trail of crumbs across the red plaid tablecloth. I felt grounded by its simplicity, a reminder of my cultural roots. Yet sometimes the comfort of home and tradition, the safe space of a soft cheese, does not satisfy my craving for adventure. 

Crottin de Chavignol. My tastebuds yelped a strong, "No!" while courage pressed a hard, "Take a bite!" to the crumbling sample driving itself into my reluctant mouth. A sudden accent of nutty creaminess shattered my assumptions that all goat cheese is nose-curling. Each goat cheese variety comes from the same origin, yet their distinct life stories create different characters and qualities. I thought about this, standing in the market with a father who lives in London, grandparents who live in France, cousins from Morocco, and an Ecuadorian-American mother at home in the United States, waiting for my return, reflecting on the far-reaching origins of my own blood. 

Bleu. The most unpleasant, boundary-pushing experiences are the most rewarding. Smelling the pungent chunks of blue mold, my feet staggered and I suppressed a gag. Following the lead of other experienced cheese-eaters, my tongue gingerly reached for the bite as my head desperately pulled away. Curious to understand why this flavor repulsed, yet excited, me, I placed my euros in the artisan's hand, asking for more. By overcoming my hesitation and venturing into the unknown, new discoveries were made possible, and fear was conquered.