Yes, you heard it right. Mark and I are fighting over cheese. It started very innocently, with us discovering a small artisan cheese maker who has a stall at Truro Farmer’s Market every Saturday.

We are not big cheese eaters, but Mark loves his cheddar—preferably so old it crumbles like dust. I like blue cheese and camembert, so we decided to give it a try and bought a few special editions. You should have heard this man talking about his cheese with such pride and enthusiasm, almost as if he’d discovered a cure for cancer or something of similar value.

Whether it was his enthusiastic oration on the caves where his cheese matured or our adventurous natures that pushed us to try new things, but we bought several cheeses from him, not knowing it would start a war in the house.

Because his cheese is so good.

I swear I didn’t intend to eat the special one Mark bought for himself, but I felt the yen and wanted to nibble a crumb, and somehow, it just disappeared. I offered him mine, but he threw a pout, and trust me, if you have never dealt with a 50-year-old dude pouting about his cheese, you don’t know what you are missing.

Next Saturday, we went back to the cheese stall, and he told the cheese maker his sad story about the thieving spouse who ate his cheddar. It was so touching that I thought both of them shed tears of manliness over my betrayal. So, as revenge, I bought him the most expensive special edition cheddar, so full of crystals it crunches between the teeth. Now Mark is guarding it for dear life, and I’m not allowed to eat, touch, or even looking at it is frowned upon.

However, today, I had a headache, and he came to me with a slice of cheese because he heard that the tryptophan in cheese can help with the pain.

And that’s how I know he’s a keeper and that despite our silent war, he still loves me more than his cheese.