The Mystery of Cheesies

By Randy Harward, 5-16-06

Great moments in childhood: you're outside playing with your friends and the Transformers, Matchbox cars, plastic dinosaurs and rolls of caps have all lost their magic. Old enough to know better, yet still possessing of a childlike sense of wonder, you turn to the lawn for stimulation. Past the dandelions, the piles of poo, the dandelions, the cool rocks--and trumping even spare change and the four-leaf clover in terms of value (edibility edges out elfin luck and Pac-Man credits), were the little pink buttons hiding among patches of weeds at the edge of the lawn, the base of the tree. Cheesies.

"You can eat these," said cheesy vets to neophytes, playing Eve to Adam, plucking it from its place on the plant and offering a taste. Tentatively (in most cases--some of us would pop a potato bug like it was a Milk Dud), we took a bite.

Though called cheesies, they didn't taste like cheese. But they were good, slightly crisp, not at all bitter (like grass). In fact, it may even have been flavorless. The best part, though, was for the first time, aside from when we learned to sneak from the cookie jar or spent allowance on Slurpees or Sixlets, we found our own food. No parent or grandparent or corporate clown provided this nourishment; we found it ourselves. And since it fits the loose definition of vegetable, we could also brag on the fact that it was (assuming a stomach ache wasn't forthcoming) good for us. Organic.

Funny, though, that those of us who remember cheesies--at least those whom I've encountered--have no idea what they really are. I recall them fondly and, upon encountering some in my buddy's backyard, still ate them without hesitation. However, as an adult--and a father--I'm suddenly dying to know exactly what I ate. An extensive WebFerret search also revealed nothing. Now I appeal to you, New West readers: does anyone know what exactly is a cheesy? [End of article]